by Devney Perry
“If I’m stuck listening to whatever romance book this is that you uploaded to my iPod, then you have to listen to my kind of book too. Besides, those plane flights to and from cities can be boring and the last thing you want to do is talk to Tino and Drew. I plead the fifth to anything they say about me . . . so listen to this book instead. I’ll be giving you a test, and you’re going to want the reward for getting all the answers right.” My smile couldn’t grow any wider if I tried. I pick up the set of CDs and listen to the rest of the message. “What’s the one place you couldn’t wait to see? I believe I had to fight to kiss you because you wouldn’t shut up about it.”
Right now, I’m going to kiss you senseless, Scout, and I want to fucking enjoy it. So, for the love of God, woman, use those lips of yours on me and not on words.
I’m on the elevator in a flash, the car descending to the private field down below. When the doors open, I’m hesitant to step off it. It feels strange being here without Easton. This is his place. His solace. And yet curiosity gets the best of me.
I flick on the lights and begin to walk around, looking for the next item. It takes me a second to see the Mason jar on home plate. When I pick it up, all I can do is shake my head at the dozens of Wint O Green Life Savers inside it.
“There’s one Life Saver for every day left until the season ends. Our own little countdown of sorts. Plus I threw a few extra in there in case one of our teams makes it to the playoffs. When you suck on it, think of me.” His chuckle is deep and suggestive. “And finally, where is the one place I stood, looked at you with the stadium lights in your hair and knew there was no turning back when it came to you?” I make a face at the phone. “Don’t roll your eyes, Kitty. Think about when you stood there and got me like no one else ever had.”
Excited, I get on the elevator to head to the wall of windows where Easton and I first realized there might be more between us than passing lust. When I get there, I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I stare at the empty stadium below, mesmerized for a moment as I recall that first night: the linking of our pinkies; the darkened apartment and stadium-lit sky; the feeling of being understood.
It takes me a moment to see a key ring with a key on it sitting at the base of the window. Uncertain how this makes me feel, I stare at it for a moment as I try to comprehend what he’s giving me. What he’s saying to me. Because yes, he offered it the other day . . . but that was before everything, and now there it is—a new and shiny and silver key to his house attached to an Austin Aces keychain.
I pick up the phone and laugh at myself and my trembling fingers as I dial up the next voicemail. “I know right now you’re probably standing there wondering if you should be spooked or not. Thinking you might have said the words but this makes things real—it makes us real—and that part freaks you out. I didn’t go to bed last night, Scout. I sat and watched you sleep and wondered how this was going to work out. How with two crazy schedules and being in different cities was going to work for us . . . But it’s going to. So take this key. Use it. Don’t use it. But know it’s there for you. The closet is half-empty for you. The drawers. The everything. And while you’re hyperventilating, know this . . . I’ve never met anyone like you, Scout. You challenge me. You make me laugh. You encourage me. But more than anything you get me. My need for this game that I love as much as I hate. How I love my parents even when I feel like the strings I still have tied to them are strangling me. How a picnic on a hill watching a Little League game where we root for strangers is what I need sometimes. So when you get scared, when you wonder how any of this is going to work, remember that I left you a key because I plan on coming home to you. Did you hear that? I plan on coming home . . .”
Every part of my body is covered in chills when the message ends. I just stand there looking at the key on the silly keychain with tears blurring my eyes and push replay again.
And again.
Scout
“Hey.”
His voice. It’s exactly what I need to hear. After my dad being stubborn and refusing to speak to me. After dealing with Cory and his bullshit.
This unexpected phone call from Easton is what I need to center me.
“Hey, Hot Shot.” I try to play it cool and not feel silly that it’s only been hours since he left and I’m already a mess of female hormones I don’t want to lay claim to.
“What are you doing?”
“Making my eyes cross working on plans, schedules, and staff for the team. Sam’s last day is Wednesday, so I’m trying to figure what personnel I should keep, who I should bring in, all that kind of stuff.” I look at my desk covered in papers and then out the window to the locker room beyond and half expect to see Easton there, calling me and pretending not to be talking to me as he’d done before.
“Sounds thrilling.”
I laugh, the gravel in his voice sexy as sin. “It is. For me, anyway. I take it the team made it there okay? How’s Chicago?”
“It’s muggy as hell. But good.”
“It’s a great city. I worked there last year for a while, but with the Cubs, not the Sox. How are the other players treating you so far?”
“Good. Like one of the guys. They’re all a little shocked about the trade and being supportive. Some of them heard through the grapevine that this isn’t the first time Cory has screwed over a player so they’re asking a lot of questions. For all I know, they’re rumors and so I’m not really commenting. . . it’s just different, you know?” There’s a trace of sadness there that he clears from his throat. “But guess what?”
“Tell me.”
“I’m cleared to play tonight.” The excitement in his voice matches the sudden surge of it I feel.
“Really?”
“Mathers couldn’t believe the Aces hadn’t cleared me.”
“Mathers is a competent therapist. I figured he’d see through my lie and reinstate you,” I add, wondering what Mathers must be thinking about my own competency considering I deemed Easton not fit to play. “I’m happy for you, but then again, I already knew it.” My voice wavers on the last word as I try to keep my emotions at bay.
“You’ll watch?”
I laugh and draw the attention of some of the guys wandering in and out after their workouts. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“’Kay. Thanks. I’ve gotta go but I wanted to call, tell you . . . hear your voice.”
And that softening heart of mine continues to melt.
“Hey, Wylder?”
“Yeah?”
“Have a game.”
He laughs. “Is this like have a day?”
“Yep. Have a game . . . but make it a kickass one because I’m keeping points.”
“Points? Are those like the brownie points I cashed in before?” he asks playfully.
Damn, that was fun.
“Something like that.” I laugh as his name is called in the background.
“Call you later?”
“Have a game, Easton.”
The call ends.
I love you.
I test saying it in my head, those ridiculous female hormones taking over again, but when you’re not used to saying the words, you don’t know how often is too often? Because it’s almost as if now that I’ve acknowledged it, I realize I’ve felt it all along.
I would have never let him in otherwise.
Easton
“You look pretty damn good in blue, Wylder.”
I chuckle as I glance over to Stidwell and bump fists with him. “Thanks, man.”
“We’re glad to have you but fuck, man, you got a raw deal.”
“Well . . .” I lift my eyebrows and laugh. The sting is still there but my brand new blue catching gear on the bench beside me dulls it a bit.
“I get it. You can’t talk about it,” he says. “For what it’s worth, everyone’s talking about Tillman. About the shady shit he pulled with you, and now because of your high profile, people are listening to Reagan’s complaints about what he did to
him in Baltimore last year. How he pulled the same crap there. Cutting costs at any price isn’t the way to win a pennant . . .”
“True,” I say but shrug it all off. Right now I have a game to play—my first one back—and hell if I’m not amped up to cross the line and dirty up my cleats. I look up and a few more of the guys have gathered around. Some I know in passing. Some I’ve never met. Some I’ve played with before when they were Aces. Well aware anything I say can be quoted, I play it safe. “Karma’s a bitch.”
“It is,” he says as he hands me my hat. “Like I said, we’re glad to have you.”
“Thanks, guys.”
And when I tip my hat onto my head, a shower of blue glitter rains down on me. Hair, face, clothes, floor. Every-fucking-where.
The guys are doubled over in laughter while Stidwell tries to keep a straight face. “Tino said we needed to welcome you properly to the team. Besides, he said blue’s your color.”
Motherfucker.
I can’t help but laugh, the damn glitter falling in my mouth when I do, because my boys—the anti-Santiago brigade—knew the perfect way to get me to relax before I take the field for the first time in what feels like forever.
They made it feel just like home.
Scout
“Oh come on. You can tough this out,” I encourage as I press Dillinger’s leg from where his calf rests on my shoulder. He grimaces and hisses out a long low-sounding breath as I stretch the tightened tendons he overextended last week.
I hear the comments made under the breaths of some of the guys. I’d be deaf if I didn’t. I’m more than aware of what my body position with Dillinger looks like to them—like I’m trying to mount him—and yet I can’t care. This is my job. To get him feeling okay before he pitches tonight. Every win counts with the Aces one game out of first place, and the season slowly coming to an end.
“Can I be next?” I glance over to where Santiago stands and then return my attention to Dillinger as I ease the pressure off and lower his leg back down.
Moving from my position between his thighs, I look back to Santiago. “I wasn’t aware you were injured.”
“I’m not but if you’re handing out free therapy like that, count me in.” He smirks and everything about it makes my skin crawl.
“There’s a long and distinguished line in front of you, Santiago. Guys who really need me. So I suggest you get in the back of the line. If I have the time, we’ll see about working on your problems, but I’m pretty sure fixing your issues is above my pay grade.” I lift my eyebrows and just stare at him to let him know I’m not taking his shit.
Dillinger whistles low and soft as Santiago narrows his eyes and then turns and walks away.
“Not all of us are assholes,” he says garnering my attention, “but it seems a lot of them are acting like it lately.”
“It goes with the territory,” I say with a nod, trying to keep my professional, tough-girl façade in place. At the same time though, I’m relieved to know I’m not seeing things that aren’t there. The overabundance of towels accidentally being dropped when I enter the locker room. The suggestive, snide comments here and there. The offers to go out on a date despite my continued refusals. Things that never happened when Easton was here, his claim staked even though we thought we were on the down-low. “You good and stretched? Ready to strike ’em all out tonight?”
To have a game. I smile and think of Easton.
“Always.” He offers me a big grin before heading out to the main part of the locker room.
“You okay?” Drew asks the same time he knocks on the doorframe.
“Yep,” I say as I blow out a breath, but the look on his face says he’s not buying it.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Thanks. Can I help you with anything?” I ask, this little visit out of the ordinary for him.
“Easton’s looking good. Strong. Only that lucky fucker would return to a new team after such a long stint on the DL, hit three homers, and throw out every person who attempted to steal on him in his first week back. It’s like he’s superhuman or something.” He laughs with a shake of his head.
“Don’t tell him that or we’ll never get his ego to fit through the door.”
“Ain’t that the truth. You catching his games at all?”
“Of course.” I offer a sly smile. “You guys play out there, and I sit in here and watch him on my phone.”
“Traitor.” This time his laugh is loud and draws more attention from the guys.
“The same can be said for the management of this team and what they did to him.”
“Yeah. It’s still not sitting well with the guys. Everyone’s on edge. If the front office can do that to Easton—Mr. Ace himself—then they can and will do it to anyone. It doesn’t make for good team morale.”
“How could it?”
“There are rumors that Cory’s on the bubble. I guess Finn finally got hold of Boseman, and he’s pissed about what Cory did with East. That he never approved the trade. The goddamn left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing and still someone got jacked off.”
“So eloquent,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but I’m more intrigued than ever. Is Finn trying to cover his ass? By advising Easton to sign that addendum, he’s the one who’s ultimately responsible for letting the club have a decision to make in the first place. And the fact that he still represents Easton makes my stomach hurt.
But that’s not why Drew is here to talk to me. I can tell there’s more and am curious what it’s about so I make small talk until he gets to it.
“I know it’s been tough for you. The guys are being dicks, giving you constant bullshit, and strutting around naked.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I say. “I’ll make a few quips about how small their dicks are and before you know it, the towels will stay on and it will all stop.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to handle it at all. You’re being professional and they’re acting like sexist pigs.”
At least he’s accurate in his description. “Let’s hope those sexist pigs don’t ever find themselves injured because I won’t be as gentle with them as I would with you.”
But I need to get a handle on it. And soon. Or else Cory’s going to think I’m incapable of running the program.
“I like the way you think.” He stares at me and chews his bottom lip for a moment before getting to his point. “They knew you were sleeping with East so they’ve just assumed you have a thing for baseball players. I guess they’re thinking they might get a chance with you too.”
I snort at how ludicrous that is but then realize he’s not joking. “There’s no chance there. I’m still with Easton.”
“Hmm.” It’s all he says. The damn sound makes my stomach drop to my toes and allows doubt to fester when it hasn’t been there once since he left.
Sure, I miss him. Sure I hate knowing he might be out in a bar with his new teammates and a woman might be hitting on him . . . but that could happen here too. That little hum in Drew’s throat tickles at the base of my neck and tugs on insecurities lying dormant.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I hate that I even ask, well aware it undermines my professionalism, and yet I hang on to the silence and wait for his answer.
“Nah. He’s a good guy. It’s just I’ve never seen him like this over a woman.”
“So . . . what? You wanted to feel around and see if I’d take any of the guys up on their offer? Make sure I’m true to Easton? I appreciate your loyalty to your friend, but we’ve got things between us handled just fine.”
The ringing of my phone interrupts the conversation. I don’t mean to do anything more than to silence the ring and send it to voicemail but when I see Sally’s number on the phone, fear has me answering as quickly as possible.
Scout
The clinical white walls feel like they’re sapping every ounce of my courage as I rush down the hallway.
“His fingernails were blue.
I should have known.” Sally wrings her hands as she keeps up beside me toward wherever we’re going in this maze of hell.
“How could you have known?” I ask but don’t really pay attention to what I’m saying because being here has transported me back to three years ago. Back to when the doctor told me my brother, Ford, had died. How after hearing those words, I felt like every ounce of blood had been drained from my body and all of the oxygen had been sucked from the room. The sadness that was nothing short of crippling. The emptiness inside that felt like it went on without end.
Snap out of it, Scout. This is Dad. Not Ford. And he’s going to hang on longer. He has to hang on longer than this.
“I found tissues with blood on them. He said it was because he cut himself but . . . I should have known he’d coughed it up.” A tear slides down her cheek and I know she cares about my dad. The next-door neighbor turned best friend turned to we-never-discussed-their-relationship. Deep down I know love is involved and at this point and time, I wonder why I never pressed to ask more.
The things you choose to think about when you don’t want to think about the now.
“You couldn’t have known, Sally. This isn’t your fault.”
STAT codes are called over the PA system and shoes squeak on the floor as nurses and doctors rush to save another person, another life.
And yet I know my dad’s can’t be saved.
“The fluid built up in his lungs. They call it a pulmonary—”
“Edema,” I finish for her. I’ve researched this disease every which way from Sunday since he was diagnosed and know the signs, the symptoms, the ladder of demise.
“The cardiologist changed up his blood pressure medication to help clear the fluid out. She said once it lessens, he’ll be able to head home.”