The Perfect Catch

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The Perfect Catch Page 6

by Meghan Quinn


  “Dear God,” Vivian whispers and then is silent for a second. “What color was the metaphorical hammer?”

  “Vivian!”

  “I’m sorry, you’re right, this is a moment and you’re rambling. Let me get this straight. You approached him—”

  “At breakfast. He was alone.”

  “And he was ignoring you like usual and being short with you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You lost your cool,” she continues. “And then bam, hammer.”

  “Precisely. Bam, hammer.”

  “How did he take it?”

  I look over my shoulder just to make sure no one is near me. “Honestly, I’ll be surprised if he shows up tonight. He doesn’t seem to be one who follows the rules of someone else bringing the hammer.”

  “No, he seems like the hammer dropper, not the other way around.”

  I press my back up against the wall. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. God, Vivian, I’m feeling so embarrassed.”

  “Why? Don’t feel embarrassed.”

  I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. “I’ve never had to work with someone like him before. Someone so temperamental. I know my professional experience is limited to five years, but I don’t want him to walk all over me—which I think is what he expects, to be able to get what he wants and not have to do much in return. I’m not going to let that happen, and I think this overwhelming sense of needing to stand up for myself took over and I told him he’s meeting me for dinner.”

  “It’s a good thing, Kate. It’s why they hired you, because they know you can handle yourself when it comes to the players and their unpredictability. Be proud of yourself, not embarrassed.”

  “You don’t think he’s back in the locker room, telling the other guys about what an ass I made of myself?”

  “Well, first of all, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t talk to anyone in the locker room besides Ryot. And also, you didn’t make an ass of yourself. You were assertive and did your job.”

  “You’re right.” I perk up. “I was doing my job.” I would’ve hated the fallout for me, the Bobbies—for Walker—if he wasn’t interested and polite to Lieutenant Gordan. To me, okay, but not to someone who’s served our country. Sacrificed. Even Walker must get that. “In order to help him change his image, I need to get to know him and that’s what this is about.”

  “And if you get a little eye candy while eating—”

  “This is strictly professional, Vivian.”

  She laughs. “I know, I know. You’d never risk your job like that.” She sighs. “Do you feel better?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Now, I must hear all the details when you’re done meeting with him, all the way down to what he smelled like and if he knows how to talk with more than one-word answers.”

  I chuckle. “I’ll be sure to debrief you later.”

  “Much appreciated. Keep rocking it, girl. You’re doing awesome.”

  Chapter Nine

  WALKER

  “Hey, pal.”

  I stiffen as Penn’s signature scent of covered-up hangover wafts past me. Minty breath with a hint of Scotch; it’s a sensory combination that’s been engrained in my brain since high school. Back then, I thought it was him trying to just be like some of the other guys on the team, drinking the night before to see how well they can perform—fucking morons—but it seems to have carried with him.

  I’ve seen Brad—one of our relief pitchers and Penn’s best friend—peel him out of his hotel bed and drop him in the shower minutes before we had to leave for the stadium.

  I’ve watched him pitch hungover.

  I’ve watched him pitch drunk.

  I’ve watched him throw up in the trash can in the dugout, blaming it on a quick virus—but I’ve always known the goddamn truth.

  He’s an alcoholic. I’ve known for a while. I’ve been a victim to his drinking choices and the fucker is still one of the best pitchers in the entire league. What I don’t understand, is why? He had everything growing up, a life of ease. He went to UCLA, playing college ball as a starting pitcher. Into the minors after junior year, like me. Never. Lacked. For. Anything. So, why the fuck turn to alcohol? It’s never made sense.

  Penn grips my shoulder as tension builds in my back. Not looking at him—not needing to because I know I’ll find sunken, red-rimmed eyes, I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “I ran into Kate in the elevator. She told me about your meet-and-greet today. Thought I’d crash it.”

  My head whips to the side, and that’s when I finally catch a glimpse of him. Freshly shaven, eyes clearer than normal, that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s looking fresh, but I can still smell the booze on him. “This isn’t about you and your ability to soak up all the attention. This is about Lieutenant Gordan.”

  “I’m not a fucking dipshit. Of course I know what it’s about. It’s the reason I’m here. I want to thank him for his service.” Penn goes to give both my shoulders a massage but I push him away quickly, slamming him into the wall.

  He laughs, the sound maniacal as he rights his disheveled hair.

  I give him a quick once-over and then ask, “What’s your angle, Cutler?”

  He smirks, looks me up and down as well. “Being a goddamn good person. That’s what it is.”

  “The fuck you are. You’re here for the media attention.”

  His smirk fades as he says, “I’m here because I want to be, which is more than I can say for you.”

  Growing more irritated and wanting this piece of shit out of my face, I try to end the conversation and say, “I’m here because it’s mandatory.”

  The moment the words slip past my lips, Lieutenant Gordan and Kate enter the room with media following closely behind them. They both pause in the doorway as fear creeps up my back.

  Oh fuck . . . did they hear that?

  From the shocked look on Kate’s face, I’m going to guess yes.

  I’ve had some pretty shitty days during my thirty-three years of life. Some devastating days, life-altering days, soul-defining days. They’ve shaped me into the person that I am.

  Even though I’ve seen tragedy—breathed it—I can honestly say today has got to be in the top five worst days of my life. Not because I got my ass handed to me by my manager after the game, but because of the way Lieutenant Gordan’s face fell the minute he heard me say it was mandatory for me to meet him.

  And I didn’t even fucking mean it.

  I wanted to meet him. I wanted to thank him for his service and offer my condolences for his brother. I wanted to have a genuine conversation about baseball and catching. I wanted so much more but the minute Cutler showed up, he sent my mind into a tailspin where all I saw was black. All admirable intended interaction went out the window.

  Why the fuck was Cutler there?

  To fuck with my head? To throw me off my game? To gain just a little bit more attention because the idiot thrives off it?

  I swear it’s his mission in life, to slowly destroy me piece by piece.

  I apologized profusely to the lieutenant, but it was no use, his excitement faded and the meet-and-greet was awkward and filled with tension.

  To top it all off, I went zero for four today with three goddamn strikeouts. My head wasn’t in the game, and it’s why I couldn’t throw anyone out at second either. We wound up losing two to six, and I’m hanging this loss on my shoulders.

  Coach was right when he said the atmosphere in the dugout was tense because of me, that the players feed off me, and when I’m secluding myself in the corner, they do the same.

  I’m nowhere near the oldest on the team, but I’m the catcher and hold the responsibility of commanding excellence. I set the rhythm for the game, I prepare the field for the incoming pitch, and I’m the grounding unit the pitchers rely on to carry through their game. When I’m not delivering excellence myself, how can I demand it from them?

  I have no right.

  My phone ring
s for the fifth time since I’ve sat down. I send it straight to voicemail, not in the mood to talk to Roark, or anyone for that matter.

  If only I could keep it that way . . .

  The sound of heels clicking across the polished tiled floors of the hotel, headed straight toward my table.

  Right on time.

  I glance up to see Kate approaching me, wearing the same outfit she wore this morning at the meet-and-greet but instead of a smile like when she walked through the door this morning, she’s wearing a scowl.

  Fuck.

  She plops her files and tablet on the table and sets her hands on her hips, a warrior stance. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Not giving me a chance to answer, she takes a seat across from me, anger rolling off her in waves. For some reason, I don’t like it. I normally don’t care about other people’s reactions to the dumb shit I do, but there’s a small—and I mean small—pang of guilt piercing me as I watch her jaggedly jerk her papers around. I didn’t mean to disappoint her.

  “Why are you making this so hard?” she finally says when she’s settled. “You had one job—make this man who’s given up so much for our country feel special. And instead, you made him feel like an obligation.”

  And the guilt grows. Not like I wasn’t already eating myself alive over what happened, but hearing it from Kate intensifies the feeling that’s gnawing at my inner walls.

  “It was a mistake,” I grumble.

  “Yeah, no shit,” she seethes, setting her tablet in front of me. “It was a huge mistake.”

  I take in the headline of the article pulled up on her screen. It paints me in a very ugly light. “Thanking a Wounded Veteran Mandatory for Rockwell.”

  Fuck.

  I drag my hand over my face. “Why was Cutler there?”

  “Are you really going to blame this on him?”

  “I’m not blaming it on anyone. I just want to know why he was there.”

  “I don’t know,” Kate says in a sarcastic tone. “Maybe because he wanted to sincerely thank a veteran for their service. You know, make their day special.”

  Through clenched teeth, I ask, “Was he invited? Because if he was, I need to be told that shit.”

  “Are you seriously getting angry at me right now? Are your nostrils really flaring in my direction, Rockwell? Because if they are, I suggest you take a deep breath, because the only person you’re allowed to be angry at right now is you.”

  She’s right, I have no one else to blame but myself. Yes, Cutler did his normal Cutler thing by riling me up and getting under my skin, but I’m a grown-ass man and should be able to control my emotions.

  There’s no one to blame but myself.

  Instead of saying anything, I take the tablet and skim the article, looking over all the hateful things people are saying about me in the comments and wondering when it got to this point. When did I paint myself as the least-likeable person in baseball rather than the kid who used to love walking out on the field and feeling the dirt beneath his cleats?

  Probably when fame got involved. All the fanfare surrounding me and Penn, the team drumming up our relationship. The shirts, the merch made for when Penn and I are in command on the field. This all came tumbling down when the team started to monetize the “magic” we create on the field.

  What a goddamn mess.

  I’m about to ask Kate what she wants me to do next, but before I can, she asks, “Why are you like this?”

  “Like what?” I ask, barely looking up at her.

  “Such . . . such . . .” She pauses, trying to find the right word. “Such a bastard.”

  For some reason, the shock in her statement combined with the way she insulted me elicits a smirk.

  “Are you smiling?” she asks, irate.

  Oh shit.

  I wipe the smirk off my face and shake my head. “Must be seeing things.”

  “No.” She points. “There was humor in your face. I saw it. Do you think this is funny?”

  Jesus Christ, after everything that’s happened today and my shitty performance, the last thing I want right now is to have to deal with a hysterical woman who’s analyzing every last one of my facial expressions.

  “I don’t.” I push the tablet toward her and lean back, my hands gripping the armrests of my chair. “I don’t think any of this is funny.”

  “Good, because this is really bad, Walker. Really, really bad.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I scratch the side of my jaw, succumbing to the truth and what rests in my future. “What do I need to do to make this better?”

  Surprised by my eagerness to agree with her, she pauses for a few seconds, gathering herself. She looks through her papers and I think it’s all for show, because she doesn’t spend more than a few seconds on each piece before moving forward. “We have a lot of damage control to do first. Public relations have been handling the media the best that they can. We asked Lieutenant Gordan if he’d like another meeting with you and he declined.” Fuck. “But we—”

  “What’s his contact information? I want to reach out to him personally, without media. Just man to man.”

  “But media would help—”

  “Media would make it seem set up, like I was forced to lick my wounds. I owe one apology and that’s to Lieutenant Gordan. Email me his information.”

  Chapter Ten

  KATE

  He really is a bastard.

  So rude and has zero bedside manner.

  “You know, a please wouldn’t kill you,” I mutter while I pull up Lieutenant Gordan’s information and forward it to Walker. Once I’m done, I open up the calendar on my phone only to look up and find him with the smallest of smirks . . . again.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  The humor in his face drains as he shifts in his seat, securing his mask of indifference again.

  “I’m waiting on you,” he answers, his voice gruff.

  “No, you were smiling again.”

  “Jesus Christ, is this what the meeting is going to be about? You pointing out a tick in my mouth?”

  “You know”—I fold my arms over my chest—“it would be nice if you had a meeting with me where you didn’t have something crawling up your ass.”

  “Cute,” he deadpans.

  “I’m serious. If you really want to make this better, if you really want to save your image, then try being a touch less dickish to the people willing to help you.”

  The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t say things like this in a professional atmosphere, but his attitude is getting to me. He’s pulling out my immature side.

  I work for the Bobbies, but the players are the cash crop, while I’m a measly garden rake in the grand scheme of things, but I’ve always been taught that in the workplace, you need to be equals with everyone else, even if they bring in a different-sized paycheck.

  Which means I’m not letting up on Walker, nor am I making concessions for his behavior. If he wants a change, then he’s going to have to work for it.

  With a pinch in his brow and slight remorse in his eyes, he picks up his water glass and takes a swig before setting it back down again. “Sorry,” he says quietly, nearly shocking me right out of my thong.

  I’m not one to gloat, but if I were any less of a professional right at this moment, I would be asking him to say that a little louder.

  What was that, Walker? Were you trying to apologize?

  I spare him.

  And I hope he doesn’t forget that.

  “Apology accepted,” I reply with my chin tilted up and a smile begging to pass over my lips. It’s one of my most challenging moments. “Now, let’s get down to business.” He reaches for his phone again but I stop him with a shake of my head. “No, I don’t want to go over our schedule. I want to get to know you.”

  “Why?” he asks skeptically.

  “Because I think there’s a big disconnect between us, and if I’m going to truly help you out, then I think we need
to get to know each other. It’s like talking to a stone wall when it comes to you. If I know you better, then I’ll be able to do my job better.”

  “Can’t you just look shit up on the Internet?”

  Of course that would be his comeback.

  “Try talking to me in person and see what happens first. If that doesn’t work, then maybe I’ll resort to stalking you on the Internet.”

  He lets out a long sigh and then looks around the restaurant, scoping out the place. Finally, he turns his attention back to me and gestures toward the back of the restaurant, where there’s a fireplace and comfortable chairs. “Want to sit back there? Less out in the open.”

  The smile that wanted to appear earlier sneaks over my lips. “I think that’s perfect.”

  He stands from his chair abruptly. “Claim a spot. I’ll order some food to be sent back there. Good with burgers and fries?”

  “Perfect. And a Coke Zero, please.”

  He gives me a curt nod and heads to the bar to place our order. I make my way to the fireplace, victory vibrating off my every step.

  Burgers and fries with Walker Rockwell. We’re diving deep tonight and I’m finally going to crack open this hard nutshell Walker seems to bury his feelings under. Vivian is going to die!

  I situate two Windsor chairs side by side, close enough so we’ll be able to hear each other but not so close that I’ll be sucking down his cologne the entire time.

  Because he’s wearing some.

  And it smells really good.

  I rest my papers and tablet on the coffee table in front of the chairs and take a seat just in time for Walker to return with a drink for each of us in his hands. He takes a seat, his large frame eating up his chair.

 

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