by Sykes, V. K.
Taylor nodded, letting herself ease out of her aggressive stance. “I hear you, boss. And I’m sorry for not being more direct with you. I know I’ll have to earn your trust again, if you’ll let me, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that happens. I can promise you that as long as Ryan and I are seeing each other, I’ll never be involved in anything to do with his status. And I won’t reveal anything to him that could be construed as confidential, especially anything you and I have discussed. In fact, I’ll avoid any and all discussion of player personnel issues with him.”
“Shit. You’re making this goddamn hard for me, kid.” He eyed her, looking almost morose. “I want to trust you, because I want you to succeed. Hell, I need you to succeed. I put my ass on the fucking line when I hired you, as you well know.”
When she started to respond to that, he cut her off. “And I did it because I think you’re the best in baseball at what you do, and I’d hate like hell to see you using those skills to help some other team whip our ass. So, yeah, excuse me for getting so pissed off when things went off track.”
Taylor felt almost dizzy with relief. “I don’t want to go anywhere else unless you give me no choice. The Patriots have always been the team of my heart. And this is my dream job.”
He shot her a skeptical look. “Even when you’re willing to blow it up over some man?”
No, not just over some man. But over Ryan Locke? Yes.
It was more than that, though—it was about being happy in all parts of her life, not just at work. “Yes, Dave—if it has to come to that.”
Dembinski snorted. “Jesus, you must really be in love with the bastard.”
She gave him a self-deprecating shrug. “Well, I think you might be right about that.”
31
“THANK YOU, DEVON. The panel will make its decision by Friday and inform you of the results by telephone.” The chair of Edenwood’s disciplinary panel, a severely dressed woman with gray hair, revealed nothing with either her eyes or her body language. “Since you are not currently in residence,” she added in a sharper tone, eyeballing Devon with a hint of disapproval.
The three members of the panel rose from their seats on the other side of the wide boardroom table, and Ryan gave Devon’s hand a squeeze. His daughter’s ordeal was finally over. Though she’d handled herself admirably in the face of what Ryan had felt were almost certainly lies and exaggerations from the two girls Devon had been accused of assaulting, Ryan could see how hard the two-hour hearing had been on her—not to mention the days leading up to it. He was proud of her for standing up and sincerely acknowledging that she’d been wrong to retaliate.
Devon had been on the verge of tears more than once throughout the hearing. That uncharacteristically emotional reaction had to reflect her anxiety over whether or not the outcome would prejudice her late admission into Friends School. Ryan had never seen her so on edge.
Ryan gently tugged her up from her seat. “Let’s get out of here, honey. We’ll have a great dinner in Manhattan tonight, and then you can shop or sight-see tomorrow while I’m with Dr. Farley.”
He’d spent an hour with the doctor early this morning at his upper west side office before driving up to Westchester County with Devon. For a first encounter with Farley—who had turned out to be a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology, not a shrink—he figured it had gone well enough. The guy actually made some sense on first impression, and hadn’t pushed him with a lot of heavy duty psychoanalysis, for which Ryan was profoundly grateful.
“Melissa and Regan are such liars, Dad. You saw that, right?” Devon said, her eyes still a little moist. “Everybody in school knows they are. I didn’t do half the things they said I did. You believe me, don’t you?”
Ryan hugged her tight. “Of course I do. And I’m guessing that those folks on the panel believe you, too. They didn’t seem impressed by that pair’s Facebook antics, that’s for sure.”
Devon pulled her head back from his chest. “Really? I couldn’t tell a thing. The three of them looked all pinched and uncomfortable, like maybe they had hemorrhoids or something.” She managed a little smile.
Ryan chuckled. The panel members had seemed distinctly on edge, probably because Melissa Conway’s and Regan Dodd’s parents were staring daggers at them. No doubt both the Conways and the Dodds were pillars of the community, or big donors to the school, or both. But he swore he caught a few glimpses of skeptical reactions on the part of at least two of the panel members when Melissa and Regan were recounting the events in question—rather shakily, he thought.
He put his arm around Devon’s shoulders and ushered her out of the boardroom and through the lobby of the main building’s administration wing. “They’re going to need to impose some kind of discipline, though. They can’t give you a free pass.”
“Yeah, I know,” Devon said. “I deserve it. No matter what those two morons did, I shouldn’t have…well, you know.”
Ryan loosened his tie—God, he hated wearing ties—and shucked off his suit coat. In the heat of the late afternoon sun, they strolled toward the visitor parking area. It was setting up to be a perfect evening for baseball tonight in Philly as the Patriots took on the Washington Nationals. But here he was in New York, trying to get his head—or whatever the hell it was that was wrong with him—fixed up enough so he could get back on the field where he belonged.
It sucked like hell not to play, but Ryan no longer had any doubt that he’d made the right decision when he insisted on going on the disabled list so he could get treated by Farley. If he didn’t figure out what was wrong with him, the rest of his career would probably be measured in months or even weeks, not the years that he needed to ensure Devon’s future.
Like him, Devon had done the right thing, too, and he was proud of her. She’d always been courageous, sometimes even shading over into recklessness. This time she’d shown another kind of courage, one even more important—the courage to face up to mistakes and live with the consequences.
“You got that right,” he said. “But whatever happens here, and whatever happens with Friends School, we’ll face it together and we’ll be fine. God willing, we’ll have a great life in Philadelphia.”
And, God willing, you and me and Taylor will be together.
Devon snuggled into him as they walked. “I love you, Dad, even though I don’t show it much. I hope you know that.”
“I love you, too, Dev.” Ryan had believed his daughter during the hearing, and he believed her now. And in that moment, all the pain of the past month didn’t amount to a damn hill of beans.
* * *
RAMIRO CRUZ. NICE guy. Reliable glove man. Total dog when he had a bat in his hands.
Taylor inhaled a deep breath after Cruz struck out with runners on first and third, ending the eighth. Though there was still an inning to play, it wasn’t looking good for the Patriots. They’d have to keep the Nationals from scoring in the top of the ninth, then get at least two runs in the bottom of the inning. Cruz could have made it a lot closer with a hit.
Still, a loss in tonight’s game would barely be a bump in the road for her now—not after Ryan’s calls the past couple of days. The hearing at Edenwood over with, he’d said he’d been able to focus on his sessions with Dr. Farley, and he’d certainly sounded positive about it. Though she didn’t entirely get what Ryan was telling her about imagining and visualizing alternatives, what Farley was talking about made sense. She figured that must be the key to the doctor’s success—making the players see what they were doing in some kind of completely different light.
As for Devon, more follow-up with Taylor’s contacts at Friends Select School had revealed that Devon’s test scores and grades had been received and viewed positively. The only remaining hurdle was the outcome of the Edenwood disciplinary process. The fact that Ryan had come away from the hearing with an optimistic feeling had left Taylor even more buoyant about Devon’s prospects for admission to Friends.
Dembinski came back into t
he GM’s suite after stepping out briefly to do a radio interview. He and Taylor had been alone in the room tonight since the fifth inning, something that rarely happened. Still finding it a little uncomfortable to be around her boss, she hadn’t welcomed that development, but she wasn’t about to run away from him, either. He’d sense that and lose respect for her.
“That whiff sucked, but we can’t really expect much more from Cruz,” Dembinski said as he thumped down into the chair beside her, yanking the knot of his tie loose. He would have seen the strikeout on one of the monitors in the stadium’s media center. “The guy’s always been a backup, and we shouldn’t even hope for more than backup performance.” He picked up his can of Diet Coke and took a swallow.
Taylor raised an eyebrow. “My, you’re being rather charitable this evening.”
“Mainly because you told me Locke’s feeling good about that doctor. Still, two more weeks of having to watch Cruz out there hacking away at the plate—I don’t know that my stomach can handle it.” He turned to look at her instead of down onto the field. “Of course, it’s only going to be two weeks if Locke really does solve his problem.”
“He will.” Taylor figured that if other players could overcome that kind of throwing disease, a hard-working guy like Ryan—a guy desperate for a secure future for his daughter and himself—would certainly succeed, too. At least she was going to keep praying with all her heart and soul every night that he would.
“If he does, he’s got you to thank for it.”
Wow, that sounds like an actual compliment.
Given Dembinski’s apparently magnanimous mood, Taylor decided to try to press her luck. “Would now be a good time to ask if I might be let out of the doghouse someday soon?”
Her jest was completely at odds with her true level of anxiety. Maybe it was too soon to be talking about it, even in a joking tone, but she hated ignoring the elephant in the room.
What came out of the GM’s mouth next was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. “Let’s just say there might be a little light starting to creep in under the door.”
Taylor mentally sighed in relief. What Dembinski had said was pretty much an admission that he was indeed beginning the process of forgiving her.
“That’s a start,” she said, giving him a smile. She’d make him believe in her again—she just needed a fighting chance.
“Taylor, like I said the other day, I hired you because you’re the best at what you do, and because this team needs you. I need you. But don’t for a minute think that means you aren’t replaceable.”
A classic back-handed compliment from the boss.
Taylor couldn’t help flinching even though Dembinski had simply stated the obvious. While she had a big enough ego to agree with him that her skills with analytics were probably unmatched at this point in time, she also knew there were young hotshots interning right now with a couple of teams—guys that would give at least one arm to have her job.
The answer she badly wanted give him was we’re all replaceable, Dave. But she wisely bit back the words. “Yes, I do get that,” she said in a quiet voice instead.
Dembinski tipped the Diet Coke up, drained it then tossed it in a long arc toward a blue recycle bin. It bounced off the rim noisily and rolled behind the wet bar.
“You’re going to have to make me trust you again, Taylor. If Locke makes it back—and I damn well hope he does—and if you two are still together, I’m going to be suspicious until I no longer have a reason to be. That’s just the way it is, so you can either deal with it or look for another job. I don’t want to have to lose you, but I’m not going to put up with having to wonder whether there’s a direct pipeline between one of my key staff members and one of my players. So,” he paused just long enough to inhale deeply, “you’ll just have to get used to some skepticism, because that’s the way it’s going to be around here for a while.” He paused again. “Even after you’re officially let out of the doghouse.”
Taylor could live with that. In fact, she could see his point of view. Maybe she’d even feel the same way if she were sitting in his chair.
She made firm eye contact before speaking. “Sounds fair to me, Dave. And I promise I won’t let you down.”
32
Three weeks later, Allentown, PA
THE CRISP, NORTHERLY breeze snapped at his uniform as Ryan crouched deep in the base path, almost at the edge of the outfield grass and much closer to the foul line than usual. The bench had given him a signal to position himself for the ball to be pulled hard to the right side of the diamond. With a runners on first and second, the last thing his manager wanted was to allow a ball to shoot down the line and into the corner for a two-run double that would instantly tie the game.
The Allentown stadium was jammed to capacity with over ten thousand noisy, dedicated Triple A baseball fans. In some ways, this was baseball at its best—in an intimate setting where the fans didn’t have to re-mortgage their houses to take in a game—and Ryan had happily bathed in the enthusiasm that had greeted his arrival there on a rehab assignment. Triple A fans loved to see major leaguers, and they’d cheered their lungs out every time he came up to the plate in the first game. Given that he’d only recently come into the Patriots’ system, he hadn’t expected such a positive reception.
But after only three games, Ryan already itched to be called back up to the big team. He finally felt like he could play like a real major leaguer again—all thanks to two weeks of daily sessions with Dr. Farley. The techniques the doctor had imparted had served him well so far. Would he be able to keep up the success he’d had at Allentown when he got back to Philadelphia and faced big league game situations again?
He hoped like hell the answer was yes.
Philadelphia.
God, how he missed being with the Patriots. But most of all, of course, he missed Taylor and Devon. Though he’d talked to both of them every day while he was in New York, he’d only been back to Philly once since he started seeing Farley. The doctor hadn’t insisted on such a rigorous schedule, and in fact had told him they could do phone consultations in between regular visits. But Ryan knew deep down inside that he needed to get away completely and focus on getting his head straight.
So, for two weeks, he’d spent an hour or more with Dr. Farley and then trained and trained some more, working his body into its best physical shape in years. He discovered the punishing joy of early morning, five-mile runs on the winding paths of Central Park, and had spent afternoons at a gym near his upper west side hotel working with a trainer on building even more strength and flexibility into his body. Though there had been more times than he could count when he wanted to chuck the whole thing and race back to the comfort of Taylor’s arms, he’d beaten back that coward’s response on every occasion. Day by day, both the mental and physical pain he’d been suffering had ebbed away, and by the time his fifteen days on the disabled list had expired, he felt ready for the next challenge.
Still, though it was only a minor league game tonight, the pressure wouldn’t let up. One bad error might be enough for the Patriots to keep him down on the farm team indefinitely. Screwing up a throw at this point would deliver a body slam to his confidence, which had the potential to mess with everything he’d accomplished with Farley.
After a brief conference on the mound with the pitching coach, the young Allentown hurler had been ordered to keep the ball away from the tough, left-handed Louisville batter at the plate. The goal was to force the hitter to poke the ball weakly to the left side or up the middle. But the pitcher was young and raw, and it didn’t quite work out that way. On his second pitch, he made a classic rookie mistake, hanging a curveball tantalizingly over the plate. The batter took a vicious cut and ripped a low rocket to the right side between first and second base.
Reacting with pure instinct, Ryan rolled back and to his right, shooting out his arm to backhand the ball on the first hop. His momentum carried him into a fall, though, and he had to tuck his glove protectiv
ely against his chest as he tumbled to the dirt. By the time he got to his feet, the batter was in a foot race with the pitcher to see who could get to the bag first.
In the fraction of a second it took to cock his arm, Ryan had already visualized walking off the field to high-fives from his teammates. Without even being aware of the mechanics of his throw, he sent the ball smoking forward on a perfect line, leading the pitcher by half a step. When the pitcher snagged the ball, his foot touching the bag just before the runner’s, Ryan felt a jolt of confidence that he was finally back on track.
No double pumps. No butterfly tosses. No stomach-churning self-doubt.
He’d never believed in miracles, but he was starting to. Though this particular miracle might have come straight from heaven, the messenger had been the best woman he’d ever known—Taylor Page. She’d risked so much with her dogged determination to get him past his stubborn refusal to seek help. She’d helped heal a breach between him and his daughter, giving Devon the kind of support and friendship she needed at a critical point in her life. Time and again, Taylor had put everything on the line to be not only a lover to Ryan, but a true and loyal friend to both him and Devon.
Whatever happened from now on, there was one thing Ryan knew without a shred of doubt—he needed Taylor in his life, and in Devon’s, too.
* * *
WHEN TAYLOR TOLD the Allentown general manager that she wanted to surprise Ryan by meeting him as he left the clubhouse, he’d insisted on posting a security guard to keep an eye on her as she waited near the dark, narrow exit to the player parking area. She’d been more or less open about her relationship with Ryan, and even Dembinski had acknowledged it through a dumb but harmless joke as they watched from the team’s modest suite atop the stadium. Still, she couldn’t help but feel the familiar, nervous flutters in her stomach when she thought of what she planned to do.