by Meghan Quinn
“It was right down the goddamn middle. You froze.”
I did not fucking freeze.
Growing more irritated by the second, I say, “Unless you have something important to say, spare me the lecture.”
“After your apology to the water cooler—”
“You know about that?”
“It was my idea. The front office ate it up. You can thank me later.”
What the actual fuck? “I’m going to murder you.”
“I prefer flowers,” he says in his signature smart-ass tone. The man is a genius when it comes to contracts and deals, but he has about zero bedside manner—the reason I wanted him as my agent. I don’t need to be coddled; I like the cold, hard truth.
Which is what he delivers.
“Listen, you want to stay in Chicago, right?”
“Yes,” I groan. I need to be near Chicago, close to my sister.
My parents had me when they were in their late forties. It was a very unexpected pregnancy and kind of a miracle since they were trying for so many years. And then a few short years later, when they were knees and elbows deep in three-year-old temper tantrums, they had my sister. She was even more of a surprise, and then she was diagnosed with spina bifida and spent her life on forearm crutches. Despite the difficulties we faced, my parents gave us one of the best childhoods we could’ve asked for, but they could only take care of us for so long . . .
“And your contract is up at the end of the year. That’s if they don’t trade you during the All-Star break. Catchers don’t last long in the big leagues—we both know that, so we need to make the most of what you have left in you. Meaning, you need to get your shit together and start acting like a decent human being.”
“I am a decent fucking human being. I just don’t televise it like every other dick out there.”
It’s true. I’m not much for showboating or being in the limelight. I don’t need the recognition from the media to know that I’m doing a good thing. I just do it on my own because that’s what I was taught, because I feel like I owe it to my upbringing, to my sister, Dawn.
But apparently my surly attitude, quick temper, and rough-around-the-edges look doesn’t bode well for my image, painting me as the least-liked player in baseball.
The nickname wouldn’t be so bad if I were able to control my temper rather than snapping bats over my leg and screaming swear words loud enough for the upper deck to hear. But handling my rage, the anger boiling inside me, it’s been a daily struggle, because when you actually hate yourself, there’s not much you can do to control lashing out every chance you get.
“I know you don’t display it, but you need to start. The team needs you to show some humanity, some good qualities, or else you can kiss your starting spot on the Bobbies goodbye. I was talking to Joel and he was saying Ralph is over having to coach you. He wants you out. Retired or traded is what he said.”
Of course he fucking does, the prick.
“When did contracts become about personal appearances and not about stats?”
“If they were basing things off stats right now, you’d be shit out of luck, too.”
I hate that he’s right.
“You need to work out how to fix that, mate. Stats don’t lie. Find a way. We also need to do some damage control, so we’ll spend the next few weeks making it impossible for the team to trade you. Which means you’re going to meet up with Kate Chapman tomorrow.”
“Who’s that?”
“The new community events coordinator for the Bobbies. She’s been working there for a month or so now. It’s really pathetic that you don’t know who she is. Just shows how uninvolved you are with the community.”
“I told you, I don’t need shit televised. I do my own charity work on my own damn time.”
“I hate to say it, Walker, but it’s time you start televising the pretty side of you.”
“There is no goddamn pretty side,” I huff out, dragging my hand over my face. Even though I’m bitter as fuck right now, I know he’s right. My image isn’t one to imitate, it’s unruly and agitated most of the time. Doesn’t read well on camera. Doesn’t read well in person. Doesn’t read well to my coach, who I’m sure would pay money out of his own damn paycheck to see me on a different team.
Ralph Hopkins has been the Bobbies manager for twenty years. He’s built a dynasty, has made the Bobbies who they are—strait-laced and professional on and off the field. We’ve clashed since the minute I signed my contract, because in his eyes, he sees me as a Rebel, not a Bobbie.
With a groan, I ask, “What is she going to make me do?”
“No clue, but whatever she says, just nod, smile, and take it up the ass, because if you want any chance at saving your career and not turning into a catcher who’s traded from team to team every year, then you need to listen to everything she has to say. Do you hear me?”
Unfortunately.
“Yeah,” I grumble.
“Good. Now get some beauty rest, because you have a water cooler to apologize to on camera tomorrow.”
“I don’t know why I haven’t fired you yet.”
“Because I save your arse.”
Fact, on more than one occasion.
We say a quick farewell, and I start my Tesla, enjoying the silence of not having an engine. Then I head out of the parking lot and straight to my apartment.
Chapter Four
WALKER
Hand on the beat-up plastic, I lean in and say, “So, you know I love you, pal. You’ve been there through thick and thin with us, hydrating me and my teammates during some of the most important moments this season. You’ve celebrated with us, you’ve been a silent shoulder to lean on, and you never pass judgment when we strike out, looking . . .” I pause and grit my teeth. “So, from the depths of my soul, I’m truly sorry, and as a gesture of kindness, I would like to pay for your plastic surgery bills.” I pause. “Friends?”
I lift the handle of the water cooler and shake it.
Digging from the depths of my soul, I smile and hold a thumbs-up to the camera. “Friends.”
“Annnnnnnd, cut.” The small crew I’m working with claps while I slowly lose any last piece of self-respect I had for myself. “That was great, Walker. The fans are going to love this,” Trevor, the social media specialist, says as he closes the camera and starts typing something out on his phone.
Yeah, real fucking great.
I feel like a giant jackass.
The apology to the water cooler went far beyond what I expected. Having to give the thing a damn flower as a thoughtful apology was more than I signed up for, and the kiss . . .
Fuck.
You.
Whoever came up with that idea.
From the giddy look on Trevor’s face, I’m going to guess it was him.
But like Roark said, I slapped a cheesy-as-fuck smile on my face and did what I was told because he’s right, I don’t want to end up being a catcher who’s traded from team to team. I want to be stable, a lifer on the Chicago Bobcats.
Standing and righting my pants, I say, “Yeah, sure.” I scratch the back of my head. “Is that it? I have to meet up with Kate—I think that’s her name.”
“Kate Chapman? Yeah, she’s in the cafeteria waiting for you. Just texted her to let her know we finished up.”
“Thanks.” Because I’m trying to be a good guy, I extend my hand to Trevor, who takes it in shock and gives it a quick shake. “Have a good one.”
“You too,” he says in disbelief. “And good luck with the game tonight.”
I give him a curt nod and make my way through the dugout and into the clubhouse. The red and blue colors of our team extend through the long, cinder block hallways. I’ve been on the team for five years now, which means I know these walls by heart. Blindfold me and tell me to find my way, and I would be able to just from the feel and smell of each of these corridors.
I’m turning the corner to the cafeteria when I run right into the biggest annoyance of my li
fe.
“Whoa, almost took you—” Penn Cutler looks up from his phone. When he spots me, his lips turn into a wide grin. “Look who it is—the water cooler beater himself.”
“Get out of my way, Cutler.”
Penn Cutler, the bane of my existence. The reason why I did more conditioning in high school than I was supposed to. My least favorite person in the entire world, for many reasons. But mainly, the guy who changed my life forever.
I hate him.
“Is that how you should treat your number-one pitcher? We have a big game tonight, Rockwell, and I need you ready to squat your ass behind the plate for me.”
“Move,” I repeat, this time getting in Penn’s face.
“Touchy.” He laughs and steps to the side. “Let’s hope you use some of that anger to actually hit the ball tonight.”
“Focus on your curveball, not me.”
“My curveball is killer.”
As I walk away, I say, “Says the guy who gave up two homeruns last start on hung pitches.”
I don’t stick around for a retort. There’s no need, because frankly we could go at it all day if we had a chance.
I can still remember the moment I found out I was signed with Penn. Same year. Same team.
After high school graduation, I thought I was free of him. We were done being teammates. I went to Florida, he went to California, and there was a small chance we could possibly meet up in the big leagues one day.
It pains me to say this, but Penn has always had naturally raw talent. He works at it, but not as hard as me. Pitching comes to him easily, and so does his arrogant confidence and “charming” personality that everyone—including Coach—enjoys eating up.
I, on the other hand, have put in countless hours at the gym, behind the plate, or in the cages, working on every aspect of my game, from having quick reflexes to being able to hit any ball that comes my way. I’ve struggled, but I’ve also had my winning moments too.
But the day I found out Penn and I were signed to the Bobbies, it felt like a sick twist on a dream come true, and I think it’s the main reason why my job feels just like that now—a job.
Irritated and wanting to be anywhere else but in the clubhouse about to talk to someone about community events, I round the corner of the cafeteria to find a woman dressed in a tight, black pencil skirt and a white, sleeveless blouse. My eyes scan down her short legs to very high heels that give her at least three inches of height. Curvy, her ass is prominent in that skirt, making her waist look small. Her long, wavy, honey-colored hair floats past her shoulder blades, and when she turns around at the sound of me entering the room, I’m greeted with a warm smile, a spattering of freckles across her cheeks, and deep brown eyes highlighted by long, dark eyelashes.
Kate Chapman is pretty damn hot.
“Walker,” she says in a sweet voice, approaching with her hand extended. “I’m so glad you could meet today. I know you have a lot going on—making up with the cooler and all.” She winks, and even though she’s hot, I immediately start to dislike her. I don’t like winking and I don’t like people making fun of me, either. “So I’ll make this quick. Please, have a seat.” She gestures to a table with papers laid neatly across the surface and a bowl of fruit to the side.
I reluctantly pull out a chair and make myself as comfortable as I can.
“I spoke with Joel in the front office and then had a little conversation with your agent, as well. They’re both very concerned about your image and the way you’re perceived by the media and your coach.”
Already on the verge of bolting, I remind myself of the benefits of sticking around—building a foundation as a Bobbie—and reach for an apple to keep my temper from raging.
I take a large bite, chew, and swallow before answering. “My image is fine.”
Her smile tightens and I know she’s trying to be as polite as possible. “Not to be rude, but if your image was fine, then you wouldn’t be sitting here, talking to me.”
All right . . . well, her sass just brought out my “sass.” See how easy that was?
“Skip the therapy session and tell me where you need me and when.” Another bite of my apple.
She blinks a few times and then stumbles through her paperwork. “Well, you have options—”
“I don’t want options. I want requirements so I can get this over with.”
Pausing, she makes eye contact, her brow knitted together in question. Setting aside the papers on the table, she folds her hands together and stares me down. Oh boy, here we go. “We’re going to be working closely together for the next few weeks, so I suggest you ease up on the attitude and try to be an active participant in our conversation, rather than steamrolling me.”
She’s tough, ballsy almost.
Interesting.
Too bad I’m a fucking bastard who doesn’t give two shits.
I sit up and lean forward while scanning all the papers with charity titles listed at the top. Every baseball team in the league has certain charities and causes they work with each year. The Bobbies like to focus their efforts on children and being active—just like every other team out there. As players, we’re required to make appearances at a certain number of events to show how involved we are in the community.
I’m involved with the community on my own terms, with my own causes, so it’s bullshit that I’m even sitting here. I like kids and inspiring our youth to do great things, but I don’t like spending all my efforts on the children. I break it up between the generations and those with disabilities. On top of helping out at hospitals and local YMCAs, I enjoy going to a few nursing homes around the city and visiting with seniors, where we reminisce about baseball during the golden era. Children are important, but so are our elderly, a population I think we tend to forget about as we attempt to shape the next greatest generation. I also spend a great deal of time helping out with local organizations that focus on offering equal opportunities to those with disabilities.
“I do my own work, on my own time—”
“Which is admirable, but no one knows about it.”
“Which means I’m doing it the right way. I don’t need a trophy for being a good person,” I shoot back.
“But according to the headlines and the opinion of your coach, you’re the least-liked player in baseball, with a bad attitude, painting you as anything but the man you really are.”
I drag my tongue over my teeth and lean back in my chair while folding my arms over my chest. “And you think you know the man I really am?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “But I would like to get to know him, to help him.”
“I don’t need your help. I need you to tell me where to be and when. That’s it.”
Visibly, she deflates as a blush creeps up her cheeks, and for a moment I feel bad for snapping at her. Capitulating, she starts to thumb through her papers as she shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath that I can’t make out.
“You have something to say?”
She meets my gaze, lips firmly pressed together. “I’m good.”
I know that look. I’ve seen it before, from my mom. From the thin purse of her lips to the small divot between her eyes, she’s not a happy woman. Terse response, glare in her pupils, stiff shoulders, the word “fine” on the tip of her tongue.
What, is she not happy because I’m not letting her dive deep into my psyche? Because I’m not letting her give me a mental makeover? If she’s looking for me to be her do-good project, she better look for someone else, because that shit is not going to happen.
Nodding at her stack of charities, I ask, “Do I need to stay for this or . . .”
She forcefully smacks the papers on the table and glares up at me, nostrils slightly flared. Someone loses their temper quickly. Just like me. Maybe we will be friends.
“You’re required to be at this meeting, not just by your agent, but by the team, so if you don’t mind, I would appreciate it if you could be a little more open to discussi
ng your upcoming events.”
Ah, she pulled the “team” card, good for her. Going straight for the jugular.
Can’t argue with that.
“Then get on with it,” I say while pulling out my phone and opening up my calendar. I toss the device in her direction and say, “There’s my schedule. See what you can fit in.”
She stares at the phone for a few seconds before looking up at me, her expression neutral. “I suggest you pick up that phone, tack on a smile, and work with me, Walker. I’m not your assistant, nor will I act like one. I have no problem letting your manager know how difficult you’re being.”
Who the fuck does this woman think she is?
“Are you threatening to tattle on me?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. So, pick up your phone and go through the calendar with me. I’m not your secretary, nor am I your mother. I won’t be digging you out of this temper tantrum hole. You put yourself in there, now grab a ladder and start hauling yourself out.” She pushes the papers toward me with a shit-eating grin. “Time to get to work.”
Just as I thought—I don’t like her. Not one fucking bit.
Chapter Five
WALKER
“How did your meeting go?” Ryot asks as I hit a ball right back up the center of the batting cages.
That felt good.
I loosen my shoulders and move my head back and forth before getting back into my stance for another pitch.
“Waste of time,” I answer, just after a pitch fires in. Groundout. Fuck.
“Rolled your wrists too soon,” Ryot points out. “Punch and push through. Put that on repeat in your head.”
I’ve been playing baseball since I was eight. Being thirty-three now, one would think after almost twenty-five years I would be able to hit a ball with muscle memory alone, but it’s not that easy. One weak muscle, one bad practice, can throw you off your entire game.
And that’s where I am, thrown off but slowly gaining that feeling back.