by Sykes, V. K.
“What hit home?” Taylor managed to grind out, her blood pounding so hard that she thought her arteries might burst.
“How completely fucked up the Locke trade was, of course,” the GM snarled, swiveling in his chair to stare out the window. “I should have known better than to let you talk me into something so damn risky. All your statistical crap doesn’t guarantee a thing when it comes right down to it, because Locke’s obviously damaged goods. No wonder Ridge was so happy to dump his ass on me.”
Damaged goods.
As much as she didn’t want to, Taylor could hardly disagree with that brutal description. Something was terribly wrong with Ryan and, even worse, he refused to do what needed to be done to deal with it.
“Dave, look, we had no way of knowing something like this would happen.” She tried to inject some steel into her response so she wouldn’t sound overly defensive, or even intimidated. “Locke’s arm is fine. The problem’s entirely in his head and it’s only just happened. He was okay in Clearwater, remember?”
Dembinski spun the chair back around and glowered at her. “In his head?” he scoffed. “Yeah, because his head’s up his ass. You and Ault tell me he’s blaming it on the crap going on with his daughter, but, Christ, who doesn’t have problems with one kid or another? If players start tanking every time one of their little darlings gets a boo-boo, we’d be in deep shit.”
Taylor shook her head. “I don’t think it stems from worry over his daughter. That’s certainly aggravated the situation, but it’s not the whole reason he can’t throw straight anymore.”
“Yeah? Okay, you’re the hotshot,” he shot back sarcastically, “what’s your theory?”
Taylor couldn’t help recoiling at his harsh tone. Dembinski had never spoken to her in such an abrasive manner, one that felt much like a slap in the face. He must be getting so much heat over the Locke trade that he wanted to offload as much of it as he could on her.
Taylor uncrossed her legs and inched forward in her chair, tugging her skirt as she moved. Because she’d had a hunch that this was going to be a tough day at the office—and one where she’d have to do something Ryan would hate her for—she’d decided to wear the black power suit she only brought out for special meetings. Whether it made her feel one bit more professional and self-confident today remained doubtful, though.
“My theory,” she said with as much firmness as she could muster, “is that the guy’s suffering from the same kind of syndrome that hit Blass, Ankiel, Sax, Wohlers and all those other guys who suddenly couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Out of the blue, you wake up one day and it’s like you’ve never thrown a ball before in your life. I think that’s what’s happened to Locke.”
“Are you serious?” Dembinski’s brows pinched together. “Because that’s one hell of a long shot. A lot rarer than a perfect game.”
“Yes, but you know it happens. Sometimes they recover, and sometimes they don’t.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dembinski swore under his breath. “He comes down with this right after we trade for him? What are the fucking odds?”
Taylor spread her hands, feeling helpless. What could she say? Bad luck times a million.
Dembinski snorted. “I talked to Ridge. He denied any knowledge of why it’s happening, other than stuff we already knew. But having a weakening arm is one thing. Throwing like a blind man on meth is another.”
“It’s got nothing to do with the state of his arm, weakening or otherwise,” Taylor responded, letting her tone get sharp. “It’s psychological. And it’s not a product of anxiety over his daughter or anything like that. At least not as far as I’m concerned.”
“Have you talked to him about this?” Her boss narrowed his eyes at Taylor. “About your theory? You two still talk, don’t you?”
Damn. Why did he always bring that up? Every time, it made her nerves jangle like wind chimes in a nor’easter. What could she say? She didn’t want to have to lie to Dembinski, but how would it look if she’d talked to Ryan before sharing her theory with her boss?
“I don’t think Locke’s the kind of player who would take kindly to someone saying the problem was just in his head.” She ended with exaggerated air quotes, hoping her boss would accept the dodge.
Dembinski stared at her silently. She swallowed hard, praying he’d drop the personal inquisition.
The GM finally nodded. “Well, Jack told the guy last night that he’s not starting again until he shows signs of turning this thing around. He’ll pinch hit, but that’s it. I’m thinking we should get him into a few sessions with Kidd before we hit the road Friday night.”
Dr. Richard Kidd was one of the sports psychologists the Patriots used to assist players in need of help or guidance. Taylor had only met him once, a brief encounter at the team office in January when Dembinski had introduced the two of them. She knew nothing about his experience in dealing with the kind of affliction plaguing Ryan, but suspected he had little if any.
She knew that now was the time to come out with her idea about Dr. Farley in New York. What would be the point in wasting time with Kidd? That would only infuriate Ryan. Yes, he would be mad as hell at her if Dembinski tried to force him to see Farley, but the most important thing for all their sakes was for Ryan to get past this problem and back to a productive career.
“Does Kidd have any experience with this sort of a thing?” she ventured. “I only know of one or two people who’ve had any real success helping athletes overcome it.”
Her boss rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you’re just a fount of knowledge, aren’t you? And the answer to your question is that I have no fucking idea whether Kidd’s ever dealt with what you say Locke has. But he’s our guy, and we should give him the chance. He’s great about freeing up his time when we tell him it’s important. He’ll probably agree to see Locke tomorrow if I call him myself.”
Taylor flinched again at Dembinski’s aggressive tone and stiff body language. It was going to be hard to argue with him on this—Dembinski tended to get dug in once he’d come up with an idea—but she felt like it was now or never. Kidd wouldn’t be able to solve the problem. All it would do was make it even more unlikely that Ryan would agree to see Dr. Farley later.
“I don’t know of any examples where team psychologists like Dr. Kidd have had success in getting players past this kind of problem,” she said. She leaned forward, placing an arm on his desk and holding his gaze. “I’ve studied the cases, Dave, and was directly involved with Kevin Saint when I was with the Dragons. There are only a couple of doctors that have helped. The one in New York, Dr. Paul Farley, would be my recommendation. He pretty much cured Saint after a few visits to New York and some follow-up calls.”
Dembinski raked a hand through his hair, ending up by scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, I’d heard Saint had that kind of problem, but I don’t think it was nearly as bad as Locke’s.”
He was right. Saint, a catcher, had to triple pump every time before throwing the ball back to the pitcher. At one point, it was serious enough that he’d stand up and walk four or five paces toward the mound before making a soft toss.
“No, it wasn’t. But he acknowledged that it would have gotten worse if he hadn’t seen Farley. And that’s what I think has to happen with Locke. If we wait and hope Kidd will help, I’m convinced the problem will just get worse.”
Dembinski snorted, as he always did when he was frustrated. “I suppose you might be right. I’ll talk to Jack and get his input. If he agrees, I’ll want you to set something up with this Farley guy as soon as he can see Locke. Like tomorrow, if possible.”
Taylor should have been relieved that Dembinski had so readily accepted her recommendation, and part of her definitely was. But another part of her was worried half to death about what Ryan’s reaction would be when the GM or Ault ordered him to see Farley.
“Sure, I can call him,” she said, getting up from her chair. “When will you talk to Locke?”
Dembinski chuckled. “Me t
alk to Locke? I don’t think so, Taylor. This baby is your idea. You should be the one to give him the news.” He looked like he was almost enjoying her obvious discomfort, the jerk. “I’m sure he’ll be very appreciative,” he said in a smug tone.
Taylor swallowed past the huge lump that had suddenly coalesced in her throat. She tried not to think that Dembinski was being vindictive or mean. Maybe it was just his style to put his underlings in difficult situations to test their mettle. Though she felt as if her stomach might lurch right up out of her throat, she forced a smile.
“Well, that should be a ton of fun. Thanks, Dave,” she said sarcastically.
That occasioned a self-satisfied grin from her boss. “In the meantime, I suggest you get your ass back to your drawing board and see if you can come up with any brilliant ideas about finding someone we can get to replace Locke. Because I’m sure as hell not going to spend the whole season with that fucking Cruz as my first baseman if this psychology shit doesn’t work and we have to dump Locke.” He waved a hand to indicate the meeting was over.
His threat of cutting Ryan loose floored Taylor, even though the horrifying possibility had already crossed her mind more than once. She forced herself to nod but couldn’t seem to come up with any words.
“Locke is looking more and more like a fucking rotten mistake,” Dembinski said, “and I sure as hell can’t afford another one. The ownership won’t stand for it, and neither will the fans.”
She managed another nod. “I’ll deal with it. I promise.”
“You’d better, because neither of us can afford another one.”
* * *
RYAN POUNDED DOWN the running path, his tee shirt already soaking as he sweated under the brilliant April sun. Normally, he ran early in the morning, but today it was nearly eleven by the time he finally pushed himself out of bed and swallowed a couple of extra strength Advil. His muscles, stiff from his brand new bed—he’d finally started sleeping in his new Society Hill apartment—vied with his head as to which ached more. He’d never been a big drinker and he was sure as hell in a different league from the other guys, who looked no worse for wear when the six of them finally called it a night at Angelo’s. Ryan, on the other hand, staggered to a cab for the short trip home, wisely leaving his car in the lot across the street from the bar. He’d pick it up after the run.
Leaving Kelly Drive, he crossed the Falls Bridge and headed back up the other side of the Schuykill River toward the Art Museum where he’d started. The loop would take him about eight miles. When he passed Boathouse Row near the end, he was pretty sure he’d see some rowing crews working out on the glimmering river, a peaceful sight he never failed to enjoy.
He was just starting to get himself in the zone—the place where his mind essentially blanked and he would be temporarily freed from the pain and humiliation of getting benched by the manager. As tough as it had been to hear Ault’s words, how could he fault the guy? He and everybody else knew Ryan Locke had become a liability to the Patriots.
The guys had done their best last night to make him feel less shitty about himself, but the morning had brought his failure back into even starker focus. Later today, when he got to the Patriots’ locker room, he knew it would feel a hundred percent different from previous games. Then he was the starting first baseman. Now he was just a tag-on. A bench filler. A guy in a pristine uniform who would probably do nothing to contribute to his team other than cheer his teammates on. And he would cheer all right. He’d cheer and slap high fives like crazy, even if he was dying inside.
He`d had some low points in his career, but nothing had felt quite as bad as this.
As he navigated the path around the big bend in the river and caught sight of Fairmount Park in the distance, his cell phone jarred him out of his introspection. He eased to a stop and pulled it out of his shorts pocket.
Devon.
“What’s up, honey?” His heart started to race even faster, and he was sure he must sound absolutely winded to his daughter. “I’m out for a run—that’s why I’m puffing a little.”
It was one of the reasons, anyway. The other was the fact that they hadn’t talked in days. She’d been ducking his calls, responding only once with a curt voice mail when she knew he’d be in the middle of a game and unable to answer.
“Did the school call you yet?” Her voice had that breathy, higher-pitched tone that always indicated she was nervous.
Damn. This is not happening.
“No, they didn’t,” Ryan said in as level a voice as he could manage. “Call me about what?”
“Oh, they said it was to give you a heads up about the disciplinary hearing before you get a letter by courier. They have to give you at least five days notice and advise you of our rights under the stupid school disciplinary code. They said I should speak to you before they call, the arrogant jerks.”
God, where did my little girl go?
Ryan stifled a curse as he wiped his forearm across his brow to stop the sweat from dripping into his eyes. “Just tell me,” he ground out. “What did you do to warrant a disciplinary hearing?”
“Not much, and I only did it because they just wouldn’t stop,” Devon said, with a little waver in her voice. “I warned those bitches three times, but they wouldn’t listen. So, I had to do something, right? Dad, you were the one who taught me I should always stand up for myself. So, I couldn’t just sit there and let them get away with that crap forever, could I?”
Ryan told himself to try to cool down and breathe deeply, so maybe the top of his head wouldn’t blow right off.
Devon barely took a breath before continuing. “Look, I told you to get me out of here, but you wouldn’t take me seriously. Nobody takes me seriously. But maybe now they will.”
Jesus, what the hell did she do?
At least it didn’t sound like the cops were involved, so he figured that was a blessing, at least. A disciplinary hearing was no small thing, though. As far as he could tell, it was usually preliminary to a suspension or, God forbid, even an expulsion.
“Tell me you didn’t hurt those girls, Dev. Not that,” he said as he walked along the path. Runners and cyclists were blowing by him, but he barely noticed.
She blew out a sigh. “Not really. It was mostly just some shoving and grabbing. I didn’t use my skills. I wanted to hurt those idiots, but I used my head. Heck, I don’t need to go to jail.” She gave a nervous little laugh.
Her skills were highly developed for a girl her age. Deadly, even. Based on what he’d seen in her martial arts tournaments, he figured Devon could fight her way out of a pack of a dozen mean girls and leave nothing but pure destruction in her wake. He was just thankful it apparently hadn’t come to anything like that.
“But the shoving and grabbing was serious enough to warrant a disciplinary hearing?” Ryan ground out.
“Yeah, in their eyes, I guess.” Her voice was getting harder now. “They’ll probably boot me out, but who cares? I’m getting out of this prison camp, anyway. I’m not going to go through their stupid disciplinary hearing, so what does it matter?”
“You’re damn right you’re going to the hearing,” Ryan snapped. “And so am I. There have to be consequences, Devon. You took matters into your own hands, when the right thing would have been to go to the school authorities and let them deal with those girls. I told you that, but you wouldn’t listen. So, now you’ve got to face the consequences.”
“Why can’t you just let me come to Philadelphia and be with you?” Devon said in a suddenly pleading voice. She’d always had the ability to switch gears or ratchet up emotions in a heartbeat. It was the only way she was like her mother. “Put me in public school for the rest of the year, or let me start over somewhere better next September. You can’t leave me here, Dad. You just can’t. I won’t stay in this place another day. I’m getting on the train to Philadelphia this afternoon, and don’t even try to tell me not to.”
“When did all this happen?” he asked, trying his best to ignore
her dramatics.
“The…fight…was yesterday,” she said with a sniffle. “And I was marched into the Dean’s Office first thing this morning. The bitches’ parents were obviously on the school’s case last night, if not before.”
“Listen, Dev, I want to think about everything you’ve said, and I need to hear from the school. I definitely want you here for the weekend, but if you’re not suspended, you should keep on going to class until the hearing.”
“Uh-uh. No way,” she said.
“Look, give me a bit of time to absorb this, okay?” Ryan snapped. Hearing the harshness of his voice, he lowered the volume. Yelling at Devon would only do more harm. “I promise I’ll get back to you tomorrow. I know it’s hard, but try to relax if you can. Put on your headphones and zone out.”
Devon remained silent for several long seconds. “Okay, tomorrow, then. But I’m not kidding, Dad,” she said, her sniffles apparently having vanished. “Either I come to Philadelphia and stay with you, or I take Metro North straight into New York. Because I’d rather be on the street there than stay another day in this little corner of hell.”
Now it was blackmail.
Ryan felt like the bottom was falling out of his world. Sure, kids sometimes threatened their parents with the kind of dire consequences Devon had just laid on him, but his daughter was no ordinary kid. Ryan calculated the chances that she’d make good on her threat at no less than fifty-fifty.
And he didn’t like those odds one damn bit.
“I hear you,” he ground out. “But I’m not going to make my decision based on threats, sweetheart. It’s my job to try to do what’s right for you, and that’s what I’m always going to do, no matter what.”
“Please, Dad.” Another sniffle.
“Just hang on, honey, and take care of yourself. I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise.”