Called Out

by Jen Doyle

  “You know what, Mom? I’ve gotta go.” Jack hung up before she could reply and then shut off his phone because he knew she’d try and call him back.

  During Jack’s trip to Inspiration, he’d spent a decent portion of time helping rebuild a barn out on the far side of town, and he remembered enough to know to avoid driving through the town center. Jack knew Nate’s house was on the grounds of what was going to be the Iowa Dream Academy, so he probably would have been able to find it whether the McIntire kid had pointed him in the right direction or not. Knowing it was on this side of town was helpful, however, because it gave him a chance to get to Nate’s door before the citizens of Inspiration drove him away with their pitchforks.

  There weren’t any signs among the rolling hills with open pasture and cattle dotting the landscape, but two baseball fields were visible from the road. Thank God. He wasn’t looking forward to the task ahead of him, but the fields, at least, felt like home. Enough so to remind him that he had a future somewhere, even if only on a minor league team in desperate need of pitching help.

  At least he hoped he’d eventually be able to find something like that, because he honestly didn’t know what he’d do with his life if he didn’t have the game.

  An unassuming dirt road ran past a field house and through an opening in a six-foot fence. Leave it to Nate Hawkins to build a baseball empire and then top it off, literally, with a white picket fence. This was the story Nate deserved.

  Jack sighed. He hated to do this to Nate, he really did; but he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel quite yet. He had at least another decent year or two in him. Please, God, at least one more season. He had to make the attempt. And, damn it, he was the Iceman. Dead inside, so the story went. He could easily handle this.

  Right.

  Despite the landscape he’d been driving through, Jack wasn’t quite ready for the sight that greeted him as the dirt road went up and over the crest of another hill: a small valley with fields that appeared to go on to the end of the earth, fading into a fiery haze of setting sun. At the end of the road a house sat in a cluster of trees. Two cars were parked in front and the sound of laughter drifted out through windows that were open on this unseasonably warm end-of-October day. Jack steeled himself against the impulse to turn around. He had two decades behind him of single-minded focus. This was not the time to give up on the one thing he was so very good at.

  He got out of the car, walked straight up to the front door and knocked before he lost his nerve. From inside, Jack heard Nate, then a woman’s voice, much closer as the door began to open. “No cookies until after—”

  She stopped mid-sentence when she saw him standing there.

  The woman, of course, being Dorie Donelli, who Nate had met only six weeks after breaking up with Courtney. Having only seen Dorie in person twice, and both times from afar, Jack was surprised at how short she was. Tiny, almost. The exact opposite of pretty much every woman he’d ever seen Nate with since the day they’d first met.

  Her mouth formed a surprised, “Oh,” as she took a step back and looked over her shoulder.

  The door was immediately pulled the rest of the way open. Nate’s expression went from, Honey, who’s at the door? to What the freaking fuck? in two seconds flat.

  Well, apparently Mama Bear had stayed true to her word because Nate had zero clue Jack was on his way.

  “In the neighborhood?” Nate’s voice was flat and his eyes were cold. He pulled the door back all the way and took a step forward, putting himself directly in front of Dorie. As if Jack was about to hit on her right in front of him.

  Jack didn’t blame him one bit.

  “Nate,” was all he managed to get out, and it took every ounce of strength he had.

  For someone who’d spent his entire life containing every feeling, it was strange to be standing here with the storm of emotion threatening to break through. He, Jack Oxford, known to millions as the Iceman, was afraid even the slightest breeze might set him off to crying like a baby as he stood on the porch of the only man he’d ever truly called a friend.

  Nate should turn him away without a second thought. It was nearly as hazardous to Jack’s health to be standing here as it would have been to lock himself away in his tower and drink himself into oblivion. But they’d spent nearly all of their adult lives having wordless conversations across sixty feet of ground and in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans. Entire strategies laid out and debated through the flick of a hand and the twitch of an eye.

  And because Jack could read him so well, he saw Nate give him an opening he didn’t deserve even though the words actually said were, “Why the fuck are you here?”

  Since that was the exact same question he’d been asked during the first week of spring training his rookie year—the day Nate decided to talk to the arrogant-as-fuck pitcher already known for having an ice-cold chip on his shoulder—Jack gave the exact same response. “Because my dad’s a prick and my trust fund doesn’t kick in for another three years.”

  The tension held for a few more seconds, during which Dorie stood with her eyes glued to Nate, clearly ready to scratch Jack’s eyes out should Nate give the word. She only barely relaxed her stance when Nate did, leaning back against the door and looking down at the ground. “I should be kicking your sorry ass into the next county right now,” he muttered.

  Yep.

  “Um, hello,” Dorie said, drawing their attention down to her. “Just stating for the record—I’m reserving the right to do that very thing.”

  Mama Bears left and right, it appeared.

  “Are you now?” A smile broke over Nate’s face. “And exactly whose idea was it to add him to the guest list for the wedding?”

  Jack was on the guest list? That seemed unconventional.

  “I said we should think about it,” she answered, bickering right back, although neither of them seemed particularly angry.

  “So should I be expecting a boot in the back or an engraved invitation?” Jack asked. “There’s a little bit of a mixed message coming through at the moment.”

  Dorie turned to him first, partly amused, partly irritated. It was unclear which one was directed at Jack. Nate took a few seconds longer to turn, his eyes lingering on his bride-to-be before they met Jack’s.

  Having known Nate for as long as he had, Jack was unprepared for what he saw there. Something he’d never seen before. Not on Nate’s face, that was for sure, not even with Courtney during the two years they’d been together. Jack actually felt the blood in his veins thaw out a little.

  Nate, on the other hand, looked at him for a minute and then looked over Jack’s shoulder as he ran his hand through his hair. “So why are you here, Ox? I’m guessing it’s not a social call.”

  There went all that blood, icing back up. “No. Not so much.” And since it wasn’t going to sound better if Jack waited any longer to say it, he went ahead and blurted out, “Bobby and Lou are releasing me from the team.” He didn’t have to go into the details as to why. Nate was coming off the best year of his career, capped by another World Series win. Jack had only barely kept his place on the roster through September. “Sam said he’d consider giving me a one-year deal but only if you agree.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” Nate muttered. He didn’t question it, though. Sam wasn’t just the owner of the Chicago Watchmen, he’d built the team from the ground up, with Nate being the anchor of it all. He was driven, eccentric and a billionaire to boot. He did whatever he wanted and expected everyone to go along. Like, for example, sending Jack to Nate’s door. The fact that Nate had a choice in whether to turn Jack away or not was more of a surprise than Sam orchestrating this particular scenario.

  Narrowing his eyes, Nate said, “You felt the need to drive all the way here to tell me this in person?”

  Jack almost laughed in response. “Yeah. Pr
etty much.”

  Under no circumstances did he think Nate would have picked up the phone or even answered an email. Better to ask him here at his home than anywhere along the World Series Victory Tour. He supposed he could have asked a mutual acquaintance to reach out on his behalf, but it was his mess and therefore his to deal with. His dad might have raised him to be an asshole, but he was an asshole who took responsibility for his own mistakes. He could say that much, at least.

  Nate ran his hand through his hair again, mouth settling into a grim line. This time there was more irritation in the motion than distraction. “One of these days, I am seriously going to kill Sam.” He looked off past Jack again, and then down at the ground before his head came back up. “Is there more?”

  Jack would have done anything to make things right. Why it was impossible for him to come out and say that, he had no idea. He blamed it on his genes. So instead he went with, “I’m thinking he’s also expecting me to do some groveling.”

  That made Nate laugh. A harsh bark of a laugh, but a laugh all the same. “He clearly doesn’t know jack-shit about you.”

  No, Sam really didn’t. Nate, on the other hand, did. Yes, Jack had screwed up. He’d made the worst possible choice at every turn in the road. And there were a lot of things he would do to save his career, letting Nate put him through whatever motions he saw fit to have Jack make up for what he’d done. But, no. Groveling wasn’t on the table.

  “I need to sleep on this,” Nate finally said, jamming his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough,” Jack answered. “My number hasn’t changed.” With a nod at Dorie and as much dignity as his pride could summon, he turned and headed back to his car.

  Chapter Three

  “Please,” Lola begged. “I’ll do anything.”

  Closing her eyes and counting to ten, she pleaded, “I will sell my soul a thousand times over. Just please—” oh, God, and all that is holy “—eat your dinner.”

  Ready to get down on her knees if that would help, Lola forced herself to meet each and every stare head-on. She would not back down even though she, too, was having a hard time finding the iceberg lettuce appetizing. Or the orange mac and cheese. It was her own damn fault for getting them hooked on her homemade mac and cheese, accompanied by salad with greens they grew in their tiny backyard garden. Still, once the boys finally relented and began to pick at their plates, she couldn’t resist sending a text back to the kitchen that maybe they could find some green pieces of lettuce and sprinkle it in among all the white stuff.

  Ugh. What was her problem tonight? So what if she’d scrapped her plans for a home cooked meal in order to call ahead and have dinner waiting for them at her family’s restaurant. She was not a failure. It meant there was still a hope of making it home in time for the boys’ regular bedtime routine.

  Usually she wasn’t thrown by a change in plans. With four young kids you learned very quickly to build routines with flexibility and shrug it off when things didn’t go as planned. But today had been particularly difficult. Luke had a slight fever and had been sent home early. He’d screamed through her entire parent/teacher conference at Silas’s school. Then there’d been the flat tire and the harsh reminder of how much she missed sex.

  Or, at least, that was the only explanation she could come up with for why she’d reacted at all to a man like Jack Oxford, much less lose her capacity to speak. But she knew she tended to maybe blow things out of proportion when she was in a bad mood, and she absolutely shouldn’t have fired off a second text to the kitchen within two minutes of the first: We need to talk about the new kids menu soon.

  Lola sighed and sat back. She really did need an attitude readjustment.

  “I love you to death, Lo. But could you please stop pissing off my chef?”

  Lola whirled around to see her brother, Deke, standing in the doorway to the office. The boys all jumped up to run and hug him as if they hadn’t seen him fifteen minutes earlier when she’d gotten here.

  He wasn’t at all fazed as the triplets barreled into his legs. Instead, he scooped up James in one arm and Luke in the other, his eyes on Lola while he somehow managed to simultaneously tickle them and hold them steady as they squealed and squirmed in his arms. Not a feat she was capable of performing. Without a word to her, he came to the table and set the boys down. After detaching Emmet from his leg, he sat down, too, not even flinching as Emmet reached around Deke’s chair to whack Silas on the side of the head, or when Silas returned the favor.

  “Your chef?” Lola asked, putting her hand on Silas’s shoulder and steering him to his seat across the table. “The sign on the door says ‘Deacon’s Bar and Grille.’ I’m still a Deacon, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I know.” Deke put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “You know I do.”

  It was times like these that Lola was grateful her brother was the most laidback guy in the world. She was irritated, frazzled and even more irritated because she was frazzled. Thus the need for at least a few minutes of peace tonight. But it was even less Deke’s fault than it was the chef’s. It definitely wasn’t his fault everyone—the kitchen staff included—loved him dearly. In fact, they often bent over backwards to do whatever he asked them. Though Lola rarely admitted it, sometimes she resented it a teensy little bit.

  So, yes, she could be bossy and a little abrupt. She didn’t have the energy to filter in some nice along with being persuasive.

  Oh, God, she’d become a complete bitch.

  Oh, God. Now she was crying. She sniffled a few times, pulled herself together, and then rested her head on Deke’s chest. When he looked down at her questioningly, she shook her head. She was just in a mood. She had no interest in talking about it.

  Deke gave her a hug and then turned to the boys. “Guess who’s about to FaceTime us?”

  “Auntie Fitz!” the boys all yelled. Fitz, Deke’s fiancée as well as one of Lola’s best friends. Also, up until recently, the boys’ nanny of sorts.

  “Okay, guys,” Lola said, seizing the opportunity. “You’ve got five minutes to finish your dinners before she calls. Go.”

  She knew she should probably say something about manners as they all began to shovel their dinners into their mouths, but, honestly, as long as none of them choked, it was fine. It was even more fine when Deke said, “I’m on break. I can hang with them back here for a bit.”

  “Really?” she asked. Damn it, she felt like she was about to cry again.

  He waved his hand at the door. “Just don’t get any ideas about abandoning me back here. And,” he added, “don’t even think about going back to the kitchen.”

  “I won’t.” Lola jumped up out of her chair and threw her arms around his neck. “I promise.” She was in the hallway with the door closed behind her in a matter of seconds.

  Leaning back against the wall, she took a deep breath. She had no idea why tonight felt so overwhelming. She’d handled single motherhood for almost three years now. Military-induced single motherhood ever since Silas had been born four years before that. Why had it suddenly become so difficult?

  The second she heard the cheers and then Fitz’s laughter through the closed door, followed by the low murmur of Deke’s voice, it hit her. It was getting hard to keep pretending she wasn’t on her own. Deke had been her rock, always right there with her, even when Dave wasn’t deployed. Dave had been a wonderful father; he’d loved their boys with every ounce of blood that ran through him—and she’d loved him since the moment he’d made her a daisy chain bracelet when they were in first grade. But he’d been deployed for most of their marriage, and when he was home, it was...strange. Sometimes tense. Always exhausting. But still better than the acknowledgement that Dave wasn’t coming back, not even to go hang out in the garage for all hours of the day.

  D
eke had made that all easier and Fitz had been right there along with him, as had Jules, Lola’s best friend since childhood. With Jules caught up in her divorce, though, and Fitz and Deke caught up in each other, it was impossible to deny how much it all sometimes sucked.

  Brushing away her tears, she stood up straight. Okay, fine, it had been a frustrating day. But it didn’t even make the Top 100 of her hardest days ever. All she needed was to get her head back on straight and she’d be fine.

  Determined to use her twenty minutes to the fullest, she headed into the bar, glancing at the hostess stand out of habit when the bells chimed and the front door opened. She’d just sat down at a booth in the back when Jack Oxford walked in.

  She wasn’t sure if he was oblivious to the way everyone turned to him or if he was just so used to it that he didn’t care. He was not, however, oblivious to how she could do nothing but stare. When his eyes met hers, she felt it down to her bones.

  Because you’re tired. You could use a break. And a man like that would make you remember what it feels like to be a woman again.

  But at what cost?

  The man was immoral. Arrogant as well. Unfortunately, however, he wasn’t an idiot, and he knew exactly what Lola was doing when she grabbed her menu and held it up in front of her face. Yet he seemed not to care as he came up to her, obviously amused. “Well, if it isn’t Mama Bear.” Then he grinned and the lady parts of every woman within a three-mile radius started humming.

  God save her from men who got by on good looks and charm.

  Well, and talent, of course. Not quite so evident in recent months, but still.

  “What are you doing?” she snapped as he slid into the booth across from her.

  “I’m sitting down.” He took a menu from where it was stashed on the side, and held it up just as she had. “And thinking that maybe if I sit with you the angry mob will stay away.”

  People were definitely watching. Which just topped off this winner of a day. News spread quickly in Inspiration; odds were, she’d soon be getting casseroles from all the ladies in town who were concerned about the demise of her moral character. Then again, it would solve the problem of dinner for, possibly, weeks.