Perfect Game

by Collette West

  "Grandpa will never let him," I reassure Scott. "Especially if my mom says no."

  "But what if Terry Bloom sides with your dad? He's the general manager. His opinion carries a lot of weight with Arnold." Scott rakes his hands through his hair, gazing at me imploringly.

  I stand in front of him, placing my hands on his shoulders. "You just keep that hitting streak alive and they can't touch you."

  He grimaces at me. "Great. No pressure."

  "I know you can do it…" I trail off. "If you set your mind to it."

  "So, you don't think I'm focused either?" he asks like I'm injuring his pride even more.

  "It was all fun and games before. Now, there's more on the line… Now, it means something," I respond, trying to put my thoughts into words.

  "And what? It didn't before?" he chides, shaking his head like he can't believe I just said that.

  "You have a whole lot more at stake now than just breaking some record," I insist.

  He gives me a pained look. "What are you telling me?"

  "I'm not going to lose you, Scott. Not now." I clutch the front of his shirt, hoping he doesn't bolt when he hears what I have to say. "That's why I didn't want to tell you who I was. I knew what would happen. It'd force you into making a choice you didn't want to make."

  "About what?" he asks, his eyes darkening.

  "If this is just about sex or something more," I respond, giving voice to my innermost fear.

  "Care Bear—" he sighs.

  I take a step away, afraid to hear what his answer will be. "Maybe we should just call it a night. My head is pounding, and you have a game tomorrow. I'll see you at the stadium, okay?"

  "I don't wanna go back down this road again," he groans, running his hands across his face. "I don't want you to keep doubting me."

  "It's just a lot to deal with," I say, stalling. "We both need some time to think it through."

  "All right. Fine. If that's how you wanna handle this, then I guess I'm outta here." He brushes past me, ready to walk out the door.

  "Scott, wait!" I call out, not wanting our night to end with things so uncertain between us.

  "Yeah?" He glances back at me like he's expecting me to say something, anything, to make him stay.

  But all I'm able to mutter is, "Nothing. See you tomorrow."

  He hangs his head in disappointment. "Yeah. See you tomorrow," he responds like all the energy's been drained out of him, which makes me want to cry. He lets himself out, closing the door behind him, and I sink to the floor in a heap.

  I really wanted this to go well, but based on past experience, I should've known better. Dad always takes pleasure in making the guys I bring home squirm. He thinks they're all after my trust fund, the one I won't have access to until I'm thirty. He claims that he's weeding out the jerks so that I'll end up with someone truly worthy of me, but instead, he just drives everyone away.

  But Scott's clearly not after my money. He's a different case entirely, and that terrifies him.

  Not to mention how it left me with a massive inferiority complex, thinking that no guy would ever want me for me.

  Dad's a believer in tough love, telling me that it's better to know a guy's intentions up front before having him lead me on with false promises of love. And that's before I lost the weight. I think, deep down, he's still bitter over how Grandpa subjected him to such treatment when it came to Mom. Grandpa always feared that his daughter would be romanced by one of his players, and he did everything in his power to prevent that from happening. So when Dad came along with his Harvard business degree, he knew he'd found the right man for his daughter, even if he made Dad sweat a while before welcoming him into the fold.

  Dad went to work for Grandpa, but he never quite earned the old man's respect. Grandpa continues to bully him to this day, refusing to cede control and promote him to the level of his sons within the organization. Dad has waited a long time, and even though Grandpa's health is decline, he keeps Dad right in the same position where he started, frustrating the hell out of him.

  Ever since I took the job with the Kings, he thinks I've fallen under Grandpa's influence, too. Dad never wanted me to have anything to do with baseball, period. He didn't like that I was following my college team or covering the clubhouse in Philly. He wanted me to do something completely out of Grandpa's realm.

  I think that's why Dad hates baseball players so much. He manages the whims of guys who make a ton of money without an Ivy League degree. He doesn't equate success on the field with the time and dedication he put into building his father-in-law's sports empire. Today, the New York Kings are a multibillion-dollar franchise thanks to Dad's fine-tuning the contracts of these athletes down to the last dime. Dad resents how Grandpa cares more about doing whatever it takes to secure the best talent rather than showing his gratitude to those who bust their butts behind the scenes, the ones who bring these star players to the team and make these championships happen.

  I guess that, if I try really hard, I can sort of understand the immense pressure Dad's under, but what he said tonight was so reprehensible that I wouldn't blame Scott if he wanted to break things off with me completely and find a girl who's a lot less complicated. Someone who won't endanger his career or make him feel like less of a man just because he dared to show a genuine interest in me.

  I bury my face against my knees, terrified that Dad got Scott so rattled that he's probably going to do just that—dump me and move on. But I won't make Scott's mind up for him. I was afraid to take things to the next level with him, but I did. He made me confront my feelings for him and act on them. But now, he knows that this is the situation he'll be getting himself into if he decides to stick around, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone, especially a red-hot ballplayer in the middle of a hitting streak.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Scott

  "Jackson, feel like doing something tonight?" I ask from the back of a cab when he finally picks up after about the fifth ring.

  "I'm already doing something, man!" he yells over the noise in the background.

  "Where are you?" I ask, yanking my tie out of my collar.

  "Where do you think?" he says, and I hear girls laughing all around him. "Rosewood, dude."

  "The VIP room?" I press for specifics, in no mood to have to hunt his ass down once I get to the club.

  "You know it," he replies over the pounding bass.

  "All right. Be there in twenty."

  ***

  "Hey, Harper. I haven't seen you here in a while." My favorite bouncer in the whole wide world moves the velvet rope aside, letting me in ahead of the crowd waiting in line.

  "Yeah. I've been lying low, Big D." I pull him in for a man hug, thumping him loudly on the back.

  "Dude, those pics of yours were slammin'. Let me shake your hand on behalf of men everywhere. You da man, dawg." He tries not to laugh, but it's a losing battle.

  "Wow. You like my naked body that much, huh?"

  "Shut the fuck up, man. I cropped your skinny, white ass outta every single one of them," he says, making me laugh right along with him. "Thanks to you, I'm never gonna be able to keep my shit together around Jessica Wallace anymore. Damn… Tits like that should be illegal."

  Yeah, but he hasn't seen Carrie's…and he never will, I think before shrugging off the thought. Damn it. I came here to get my mind off Carrie, not think about her curvaceous body all night long.

  "Is Jess here tonight?" I ask Big D., really needing to know before I go in there.

  "Would I be standing here, talking to you, if she were?" he snickers.

  "Just making sure," I respond, glancing briefly at all the hot chicks checking me out, up and down the line.

  "Why? Are you hitting that again?" Big D. inquires, raising an eyebrow at me.

  "Nah, just out for a night with the boys." I smile at him.

  "Jackson is already up there. Drake, too," he informs me, knowing how we both can't stand that particular teammate of mine.

 
"Great," I mutter.

  "Yeah, that cheap motherfucker never tips me whenever I hail a cab for him at the end of the night."

  "He probably pretends not to notice you with your hand out," I bust Big D., a smile playing on my lips.

  He looks at me all offended. "Hey, I don't beg."

  "Nor should you. Here's a little something for your troubles," I reply, handing him a crisp, new hundred-dollar bill. "And if any of those girls whose pics you have stored in your phone—"

  He interrupts me, snickering, so I punch his arm.

  "Yeah, don't deny it, you dirty bastard. If any of them show up, make sure you let me know."

  "Will do, dawg. Enjoy your night. Oh, and get a hit tomorrow." He grins at me, showing off his grill.

  "You've been following that?" I ask, flattered that he's been keeping tabs on my hitting streak.

  "Who hasn't? The Kings own this town. Jeez, the amount of pussy you guys get? C'mon. You gotta make me an honorary King just for the night or something."

  For a guy who doesn't beg, he's sure groveling now.

  "Get the fuck outta here, Big D. You're crazy, my man," I laugh, moving into the club.

  He chuckles back at me. "Hey, a dude's gotta try."

  I still have a smile on my face when women start throwing themselves at me the minute I walk through the door. It might have been a while, but it's like I never left. It'd be so easy to fall into my old routine—picking the first girl who caught my eye and bringing her home with me after we had some fun getting to know each other. But for some reason, I don't want to do that tonight. I just want to get drunk and forget about my problems.

  "Hi, Scott. What are you doing here all by your lonesome? Why don't you c'mon over here and join me and my friends?" A busty brunette tries to catch my attention, but I'm not feeling it.

  "I don't think so, sweetheart." I turn her down and keep walking.

  Then I hit the steps, leading to the VIP area and hear, "Hey, Scott! Smile!"

  A flash goes off in my face, and I blink, staggering backward. "I thought cameras weren't allowed up here?" I grumble.

  "My apologies, Mr. Harper," says a black-clad member of Rosewood's security team, immediately stepping in. "I'll take care of it."

  "Yeah, you do that," I mutter, watching the beefy dude confiscate some chick's phone.

  A lot goes on in the upstairs lounge at Rosewood, and they keep their celebrity clientele happy by maintaining our privacy at all costs. I can't even repeat some of the shit I've seen when the rich and famous think they can do whatever the hell they want—but it makes my selfies look tame.

  I'm at the top of the stairs, when I'm greeted by Jackson's alcohol-fueled welcome.

  "Scotty-Boy, you're here! Where the hell have you been? We've been waiting for you!" He's surrounded by women, and a half-empty bottle of vodka sits in front of him.

  I shake my head as I approach. "You look like you're having a good enough time without me."

  "Oh, a blast," he laughs, shifting the petite Asian girl on his lap. "These lovely ladies have been keeping me thoroughly entertained."

  A redhead with skin as white as snow stops massaging Jackson's shoulders and glances my way. "Looking to have some fun, hot stuff?"

  "Uh, not tonight, darlin'," I reply, giving her an apologetic smile.

  "I don't mind if you photograph me naked…" She strides forward confidently, throwing her arms around my neck and rubbing herself against me. "In fact, I think we'd both enjoy it."

  "Harper, loosen up, my man," Jackson calls out when he sees me disentangle myself from her embrace. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

  "Arnold's granddaughter. Or should I say, he's gotten into her."

  "Piss off, Drake." I narrow my eyes at him, not up for dealing with his shit. Not after the night I had.

  "What…you're screwing Arnold's granddaughter?" Jackson spins around and nearly falls off his barstool. "I didn't even know he had one."

  "You've probably already jerked off to her," Drake snickers, raising his beer bottle to his lips.

  "Fuck, I know her?" Jackson asks me, wild-eyed.

  "How did you even make the connection, Drake?" I ask under my breath.

  "You dickheads are always so distracted, looking for your next score, too busy scoping out the stands for chicks, that you don't even realize what's right in front of you." Drake taps a finger to his temple. "But I always keep my eyes open when it comes to the execs and their families."

  "But they're only on the field for ceremonies and shit like that." Jackson thinks out loud, trying to figure it out. "On Ring Day when Brooks and Sasha gave their speech, I don't remember seeing any hot granddaughter of Arnold's."

  "Because she wasn't at that one. She was working in Philly then. You have to go further back to when they retired Kevin Spalding's number," Drake scoffs.

  "She was there that day?" I ask, hardly believing it myself.

  "Yeah, but she was a lot heavier then. The girl's lost a shitload of weight. I mean, a ton," Drake chuckles, seeing me tense up.

  "Scotty, you're banging a fat chick?" Jackson sputters after swallowing the shot the redhead just handed to him. "You? No way!"

  "She's not fat, dumbass. She's smart, beautiful, spirited…" And I realize in the midst of all this just how much I miss Carrie and how much I stand to lose if I walk away from her now. I can't stop thinking about her no matter how hard I try.

  But Jackson ignores me, getting on Drake. "Then why didn't you go after her yourself if you knew who she was?"

  "Because I'm not an idiot," Drake says, propping his elbows against the bar. "I value my career as a King."

  "Would somebody please tell me who she is already?" Jackson whines, sliding the Asian girl off his lap in the process.

  "Our feisty, new clubhouse reporter, Carrie McKenzie," Drake announces, his eyes fixed on me.

  "Your woody girl?" Jackson turns to me, reminding me just how much I hate the nickname the guys gave to Carrie after she started kissing my bat.

  "C'mon. Don't talk about her like that."

  "Why not?" Drake taunts. "Hey, she chooses to look all hot and sexy, so she chooses to have the reputation that goes along with it. Why shouldn't we talk about her like that?"

  "Because she has to play the game, just like we do." I'm quick to rise to her defense. "Hey, you don't always like the position you're assigned in the lineup, but you bat where you're told to bat to stay in the game. It's the same for her. She's looking to make it to the big show, just like the rest of us."

  The guys clearly aren't buying it. They think I'm just after her body, but they're wrong.

  "I don't care what you say, dude. Only you would get that lucky," Jackson chuckles.

  "Lucky?" Drake nearly chokes on his beer. "Cursed is more like it." He gives me a sarcastic salute. "It's been nice knowing you, Harper."

  "Drake, c'mon. The Kings aren't gonna dump Scotty," Jackson argues like Drake is trying to tell him Santa Claus isn't real. "He's been friggin' killing it with his bat."

  "But we all know that hitting goes in cycles or we'd all be batting a thousand," Drake tips his bottle at me, knowing he's right. "Harper, you're gonna cool off, and when you do, they'll use any excuse they can to designate you for assignment."

  "But I have a contract," I argue.

  Drake laughs like it's not even an issue. "So what? They'll just buy you out. Yeah, you'll get your money, but you won't ever be able to play in the major leagues again. You know how all the owners are interconnected. If Arnold says not to touch you, they won't. Although maybe some low-budget operation in the Independent League might take a look at you. You never know. I hear Winnipeg is looking for a new first baseman. Boy, does it get damn cold in that part of Canada—even in the summer."

  "You know what, man? You make absolutely no sense," I say, rounding on Drake. "You wanna get back to the World Series this year, don't you? Then why would you wanna see them get rid of me?"

  "Because no one's irreplaceable, Harpe
r. Not even you," he replies, saying the words no baseball player likes to hear because we all know they're true. "Yeah, you're good, but there are other guys out there who are just as good, if not better. The Kings use your pretty-boy face to sell tickets, but they won't give two shits about showing you the door if you make Arnold's granddaughter cry."

  "I'm not gonna make her cry," I growl, wanting to wipe that self-satisfied grin off his face so badly that it hurts.

  "Yeah, right. Then why are you here tonight?" Drake smirks at me like he's waiting for me to slug him so he won't get blamed for starting the fight the way Jake did at Jilly's party.

  When I don't do anything, he walks away, shaking his head, and it makes me want to tear after him and beat him to a pulp.

  But Jackson holds me back. "Don't listen to him. He's always such a buzzkill." He drags me into the seat next to him, and I hold my head in my hands, the music throbbing through my skull. "But, dude, he's right. Why'd you even come out tonight?"

  "Because I met her parents earlier and it didn't go so well. I needed to get out for a while. Clear my head," I moan, not wanting to have to explain my actions to Jackson Riggs, the guy who has chicks draped all over him and enough liquor in his system to intoxicate a horse.

  But I'm not good at being alone. I never was. It's probably why I'm always out at the hotel bar, picking up chicks, when we're on the road. I'm not the type to go up to my room and sleep it off alone. I need someone to take my mind off the pressures of the game, and a little female companionship always does the trick. Sometimes, one's enough, but if I've had a really bad game, I've been known to invite several up to my room. Maybe Carrie's father's right. Maybe I am all ego and not much else.

  "I never thought I'd see you commit to a girl, man," Jackson says, pouring me a tumbler full of vodka. "When she called you her boyfriend at Jilly's party, I thought she was delusional. But now, considering who she is, you're screwed if you can't make it work somehow."

  "It's not that," I groan, reluctantly taking the glass from him when he shoves it into my hand. "I like her. I like her a lot, but…"

  "You're still you." He refills his glass and lifts it to toast me. "Once a horndog, always a horndog."