by K. Bromberg
“I’m a big girl, I know how to throw stuff out.” And I know that will get him, break through his obstinacy—the fear that I’ll sneak in here with black trash bags and clean out his clutter of memories stacked in boxes in my old room. Newspaper clippings on giants of the sport he helped rehab. Articles highlighting Ford’s pitching stats and my softball career. Trophies and jerseys for the teams he’s worked for. It’s a treasure trove of memorabilia any baseball collector would die for.
He eyes me again, but I can see his lips fighting the smile I know he wants to give me for doing just what he taught me: giving as good as I’m getting. “You can stay for a bit, but one sign of waterworks and I’m kicking you out.”
I nod, understanding the hard-ass is giving me a mulligan so long as I don’t cry. Stepping beside him, I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze, needing to touch him. And when he lifts a hand to place on top of mine, I’d give anything to be a little girl again. Then I could crawl into his lap like I used to do and listen to the rumble of his voice as he told me stories about a mom I never really knew, but who he swore loved me. The stories I now know to be lies, because a mom who walks out on her two children getting ready for bed while her husband’s washing the dishes without ever looking back never really loved them at all.
This house holds too many memories for me, good and bad, and I wonder if maybe that’s why my dad’s forcing me to distance myself from it.
“Tell me about how Easton is coming along.”
The pang in my chest is real at the mention of his name. The images of him last night—his smile when he was dancing with me, the adoration on his face highlighted by the bright lights of the stadium beyond, and the moonlight across his face as he sank into me—all flash through my mind and force me to act like none of it mattered when every single thing did.
Forced to switch mental gears, I try to care about work right now.
A safe middle ground for us. Well, safe for my dad, but not so much for me.
“The player is doing well,” I murmur, knowing damn well Easton’s cologne still lingers on my skin as I go into the details of his therapy, what still pains him, what I think he’s hiding, before I listen to the master of the trade tell me what he thinks I need to do differently or add to my regimen to help. “What I don’t get, besides the obvious—that the team needs him on the field because he’s just that good—is why rush it? Why give a timeframe for recovery on a franchise player?”
My dad angles his head as he contemplates the question. “Beats me, Scout. I learned a long time ago that front offices rarely do things that seem reasonable to the public, but in the long run make perfect sense.”
“Yeah, well, how about they make common sense instead of aiming for perfect sense,” I grumble in defense of Easton when there’s no need to defend him.
And it’s the look in my dad’s eye that unnerves me. The one that tells me he’s reading my thoughts when I sure as hell don’t want him to. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. He’s nice, easy to work with, and wants to recover. What’s not to like about that in a player?” I figure that’s as safe as anything.
“True.” He nods his head again and chews the inside of his lip. “Is this going to be a problem?”
There are so many ways I can take his question, so many ways I can answer it, and so I don’t say anything. Does he mean am I going to be able to get Easton back on the field in the allotted time? Does he mean that he can see right through me, knows something happened between Easton and me, and is wondering if it will jeopardize my standing with the club?
When he chuckles at my lack of response, it’s music to my ears. He’s let me off the hook without answering.
“How is it you can have two kids, raise them exactly the same, and they turn out so completely different?” he asks, and I know now that he didn’t let me off the hook at all. His chuckle was just prepping me for the schooling he’s about to give. “You were always pushing boundaries while Ford was . . . he was always so concerned with making everyone happy. You were always willing to take risks, and he was always the one who would stay the course. You were always so hard to read, and he was the open book. You were opposites in so many ways, and yet so very much alike it scared me some days.”
I watch him. The lines in his face may have changed over time, with age and illness, but he still looks the same, still seems the same, and it’s hard to believe he’s really that sick. That he’s mortal and not the invincible man the little girl in me still sees.
“But you changed, Scouty girl. After Ford died, I know you tried to be both for me. That you stepped into his shoes—tried to give me pieces of both of you—even though some days I know it killed you to be someone you weren’t . . . but you did it for me. So, thank you. I wanted you to know I appreciate that.”
“Dad . . .” I fight back the emotions his acknowledgement churns up. Hearing he knew how hard I’d worked to try and fill the hole Ford’s death left in our family—and in his heart—means more to me than he’ll ever know.
And at the same time, I hate hearing it. I hate wondering if he’s slowly checking items off his mental list of things left to say, and that this is the slow, winding path of him starting to say good-bye.
“You promised you wouldn’t cry.”
“I’m not.” I sniffle and swallow what feels like a boulder in my throat. “I just don’t understand why you insist on not letting me—”
“I have my reasons,” he barks, and stuns me into wondering what the hell just upset him so much.
I stare at him, wanting to question him, to finish my thought. But I shift my gaze to the field outside again, to the good memories of playing hide and seek with Ford for hours, to try and abate the tears sobbing silently within me.
“He’d be thirty, this month, you know.”
“I know.” The silence stretches between us, interrupted only by the rattle of his breath. “No father should have to bury his son,” I whisper, not sure if it’s to remind me or to reassure him.
“And no daughter should be left all alone to bury her father.”
A fucking text?
That’s how she’s going to play this bullshit game with me? Leave me to do my rehab by myself because she can’t face me or the fact that the other night was incredible and she left without a word?
“I just can’t.” Seriously? Those three words were all she could give me before hanging up, followed by a text detailing my rehab routine for the day? Four reps of weighted arm swings and the rest of the regimen?
Total bullshit.
Fucking women.
But I should be happy about this, right? She’s not Doc. She’s nowhere near as skilled, experienced, or knowledgeable as him. So maybe if I bitch about her, tell the GM, then they’ll demand Doc come here instead. He’s the best after all.
If that’s the case, then why do I want her? How come I keep thinking about that look in her eyes and the feel of her body and the sound of her laugh?
She’s frustrating.
And sexy.
She’s stubborn and unrelenting.
And goddamn beautiful.
She’s fucking irritating is what she is.
She doesn’t want to pick up the phone? Then fine. I’ve got this. I’ll bust my ass on my own. I don’t need her. I knew that the first day I met her.
But I like her.
Fuck if that isn’t perfect. And fitting. Wanting a woman I can’t have.
Wanting a woman who could cause trouble if others found out.
Wanting a woman who made it clear she doesn’t want me back.
Scratch that. There’s nothing clear about it. She’s about as clear as mud, because she wants me. A marathon of sex is about as good a validation as any.
Now I just need to figure out how to make her admit it.
Damn woman.
I grit my teeth as I prepare for the pain that typically begins with the fourth set of repetitions, and then startle when it doesn’t.
There’s no pinch. No burn. There’s fucking nothing.
I repeat the movement. I lift and twist and turn a few extra times.
And still nothing.
I try one more time, push my shoulder farther than I should, until I feel a faint pinch before dropping the weight. And when I look in the mirror, I have a stupid grin on my face. It’s been so long that I forgot what it even feels like to not hurt.
And, of course, I immediately want to call Scout and tell her so she can celebrate with me over this tiny fucking milestone that shouldn’t feel like a victory but does.
But I can’t. Because she won’t pick up. And I know this because I’ve called and texted—enough times that I lost count—without getting a return response.
Someone did a number on her. That much I can tell from all her talk about players moving on and leaving her behind, but fuck if I can figure out who it was. No one I’ve talked to can remember her ever dating anyone. Her social media accounts show shit other than pictures of her in other team clubhouses posing for the camera with various players, arms hanging casually over her shoulders.
Fucking lovely. Isn’t that her term? Lovely? Well, that’s the first thing that came to mind when I saw the picture of her sandwiched in between Rizzo and Bryant after she worked with the Cubs last year. Or of a shirtless Posey laughing with her in the Giant’s clubhouse.
Not a single personal picture. No mutts. No weekend out boozing it up with girlfriends. No inspirational sayings that you want to roll your eyes at and scroll past. Nothing.
But she can go out dancing with me. She can stare at my stadium from the darkness of my condo and put into words everything that the sight of it makes me feel. A woman who can understand that shit is not normal.
And now she won’t talk to me? Can’t face me?
The other night was not a mistake. No way. No how.
“Where’s Ms. Dalton?” The voice of the club’s GM startles me from the other side of the training room. “Are you on her clock or are you putting extra time in on your own?”
I’m not sure why I hesitate to respond, but I do. He’s hard to get a read on, and so caution is the name of the game until I can.
“Hey, Cory. How’s it going?” Wiping the sweat from my face with a towel, I walk toward him.
When he steps into the room, I’m surprised to see my father right behind him. The best-buddy squad. Great.
“Good. And you? How’s the arm?”
“I’m feeling great. The shoulder’s feeling the best it has since surgery. I’m anxious to get back out there.”
“I’m sure you are. Is Scout around?”
“She caught a bug. I told her to stay home, but we’ve talked and gone over my regimen so I can stay on task.” The lie comes out smoothly, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why I feel the need to cover for her at all.
And yet I did, the need to protect her unexpected, but there nonetheless.
“I’m impressed that you came in on your own to get it done,” my dad interjects.
I stare at him, trying to comprehend why he’d think it was anywhere near okay for him to say that. And around my boss, no less. I’m not a child. This is my job, and I’m damn good at it, so he needs to leave me the fuck alone. The thought manifests into words, but I bite my tongue so hard it hurts.
It’s not worth it. Besides, Cory’s expression is guarded, making it nearly impossible to gauge his thoughts. And since professionalism is always the best route, I play the part they expect me to play.
“Like I said, I’m anxious to get back on the field. I miss contributing to the team.” I spout the company line, and even though they smile in response, there’s something off here. Something I can’t put my finger on but can sense nonetheless.
“The guys miss you, too. The Aces don’t quite feel right without a Wylder on the field.”
My dad laughs and slaps me on my good shoulder. “Keep up the good work, son. I have no doubt you’ll be back to fighting form soon enough.”
“Neither do I,” I say.
“Make sure to tell Ms. Dalton that I’d like a report in the next day or two on your progress.”
“Will do.”
I watch them leave and blow out a breath as I try to figure out what the little visit was all about. I don’t want to care but have to. He’s my boss.
“Everything good in here, Easy E?”
My smile is automatic, the irritation vanishing in a heartbeat at the voice I’ve known since I was eight years old. I turn to find the familiar face of our clubhouse manager, the man who used to entertain me with stories and jokes when my dad was too busy being the public persona.
“Hey, Manny-Man,” I say in the same exchange of nicknames we’ve done for over twenty years. “How’re you doing today? You staying to watch the game tonight?”
“Pretty damn good. And nope. You know me. I only stick around when the greats play.”
“Are there no greats playing today?” I ask with a shake of my head.
“Greats are few and far between, son,” he finishes his typical retort and surprises me when he continues. “I’ve watched enough baseball in my life to hold off watching another game until it’s someone who’s going to dazzle me with his talent.”
“Picky. Picky.”
His grin just widens, and I love that even though I’m injured, he’s still Manny-Man.
“I see the old man is still as hard on you as ever,” he says with a knowing nod, just like he used to do when he’d find me alone in the locker room, sniffling away tears in secret after I was hurt by something my father would say.
“Yeah, well. Why change now, right?”
He just nods, never one to be disrespectful, but a man I’m glad to have on my side.
“True.” He laughs, contrary to the gravity in his eyes as he searches to make sure I’m okay. “Look at me—forty years, and I’m still doing the same goddamn thing.”
“Taking care of us pretty boys?” I tease.
“There’s nothing pretty about you, son.” I bark out a laugh at the good-humored dig. “But that tough cookie who’s been working you over? Hoowee. Now, she? She’s definitely pretty.”
“She sure is,” I murmur before I catch myself, and wonder why nearly every conversation of late seems to come back to her.
Because she’s the one in charge of the decisions.
And the one currently clouding up and fucking with my head.
My lungs burn.
My legs ache.
And all I can think is one more side of the stadium before my nerves are calm and emotions dulled enough to be able to face Easton today.
Because how do I keep things professional when every time I have to touch him, I’m going to be reminded of the other night?
So, running the stadium steps I go. Up one section. Lower loge to loge to upper loge, across the top row of empty seats, then down the other side.
I replay my meeting with Cory. His insistence that I answer whether I think Easton will be up to speed by mid-August. His pressure on me to say if he’ll be back to one hundred percent, or if he will slowly slide down the slope of injured and irreparable that sometimes happens despite all rehab efforts.
Frustrated with their businesslike attitude when it comes to a human being—to tendons and muscles and soft tissue you just can’t superglue back together—I push myself harder. To the next section, to the upper loge, to the loge, to lower loge, and then to the next.
Forget about it, Scout. It’s his job to get good players on the field and win pennants. Players are commodities.
I sprint across a row of seats.
Screw that. Players are people.
My lungs burn, but I need more.
Martinez hits a ball over the left field wall in his early morning batting session on the diamond below, but the crack of his bat is silenced by my ear buds. And I need it to be. I may be in the stadium, but I need to forget about baseball for a few more flights. And, in particular, a specifi
c baseball player.
So, I continue to push myself. To use the physicality to burn my mind and ease my soul. To eat away at my anger. To calm me the hell down when all I feel is uncertainty.
When all I want is something I can’t have.
So, I climb. Section by section. Step by step. Trying to shed the burden of my emotions with the sweat that drips off my body.
But the clearer my mind becomes, the more room I have to think, and of course I veer to where I shouldn’t. To Easton and everything about him. The contrasts. The unexpected. The disarming smile and the intense eyes. His soft groans in the dark and his baseball-bat-roughened hands on my skin. The vulnerability he pulls out of me, when I’m tough with everyone else.
This is not a good sign—me thinking about him.
Not at all.
And, of course, when I turn to run down the next section of seats, he’s right there, running behind me. Matching me step for step.
I ignore him.
I still get thirty more minutes to myself before I have to deal with him.
I still need thirty more minutes to figure out how to look at him and not want to feel how I feel.
I still want thirty more minutes to calm the flutter in my belly just from knowing he’s near me.
So, I run faster. I take the steps two at a time.
He does the same and double-times it so that he’s now running beside me instead of behind me.
I push harder. Irritated. Competitive. Not wanting him to think I’m weaker or less than or both, even though he’s never made me feel that way in the first place.
But having feelings for him does, and so that makes it his fault. All of it.
And so, I run. But this time, instead of turning to cross over to the next section, I run straight through the exit to the concourse beyond.
One of my earbuds has fallen out, and my shoes squeak on the concrete as I run in an all-out sprint down the empty corridor, past the vacant concessions stands and team merchandise kiosks.
His shoes slap the concrete behind me, and his labored breathing echoes through the space.
I know he’s fast. Having clocked his time, I’m well aware he could be ten steps ahead of me in seconds if he really wanted to be, and the fact that he’s not grates on my already irritated nerves.