Perfect Game

by Collette West

  "I haven't gotten as down as I used to get while thinking about things. Before I really had nothing to take my mind off it, but ever since I started talking to Alex, it's gotten easier. I actually remember what it feels like to smile." He looks at me with hope in his eyes.

  "But don't pin it all on her, okay? It's a lot for any girl to handle. You gotta be strong for yourself, not just for Alex," I reason with him.

  "Why do you keep warning me off this chick, bro?" Bobby bristles, getting mad again. "You know something about her that you're not telling me?"

  "Carrie said that she's boy crazy, a little immature." I shrug. "I just don't want her walking away from you if you hit a bump in the road."

  "She wouldn't." Bobby shakes his head adamantly. "She's not like that."

  I sigh deeply. "But you don't know for sure."

  "Yes, I do," he insists, determined to prove me wrong. "She brought that pair of prosthetic legs with her on the plane. They took up most of the room in her suitcase. If she's as self-absorbed as you think she is, would she really have gone out of her way to help me like that? I don't think so."

  My head snaps up when I hear Carrie whisper, "He's right, you know." She steps outside, coming up behind me and placing her hand on my shoulder. "She only packed three changes of clothes and left half of her beauty products behind."

  "What are you doing out here?" I whisper against her ear, wrapping my arm around her waist.

  "I came to check on you guys because my sister's worried sick that she came off like a major bitch in there," Carrie chuckles.

  "Why would she think that?" Bobby exclaims, gripping the wheels of his chair.

  Carrie tenses beside me before she says, "Because Alex always panics when things start to get real."

  Bobby raises his hands in the air. "I'll back off, I promise. I won't come on so strong."

  "Bob, relax," she urges, her voice gentle. "When you go back inside, she's going to ask you to take her around tomorrow and look at some places where she could stay." She lifts her hand to salute him as a smile spreads across Bobby's face. "Thank you, First Lieutenant Harper, for finally giving my baby sister some direction."

  He takes a shuddering breath, looking her right in the eye. "Carrie, I promise I'll take good care of her."

  "I know you will," she says without hesitation.

  I strum my fingers against her stomach, hoping she's right.

  She places her hand over mine before issuing Bobby a string of orders. "And you can forget about that sleeping bag. She's saving room for you next to her on the couch. Just keep your hands to yourself, soldier boy. No funny business."

  "Yes, ma'am." This time, he salutes her while wheeling past us.

  "I'm glad that order doesn't apply to me," I reply, spinning her around in my arms.

  "Oh, I think it does, mister," she responds, laying her hands on my chest. "We are in your parents' house, after all."

  Bobby snickers, still able to hear us. "So tell me, how does it feel to strike out, bro?"

  "I wouldn't know 'cause it's so not happening," I answer, swooping Carrie into my arms and over my shoulder.

  "Scott! Put me down!" she cries, pounding her fists into my back, laughing.

  I slap her on that sumptuous ass of hers and stride confidently toward the house. "C'mon, Care Bear. Time to cuddle."

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Carrie

  "Wow! These seats are something else, Carrie," Scott's mom says, leaning over to thank me for the tickets SportsTV comped for them for this sold-out Memorial Day weekend game.

  "Yeah. I'm just sorry they had to come with strings attached," I apologize to her, while checking the monitor as the freelance cameraman sets up the shot.

  "Be honest." Alex nudges me. "How good does Bob look on camera?"

  "Way hotter than his brother," I reply, giving him a wink.

  "But you're not gonna show my legs, right?" Bob speaks up, looking ill at ease.

  "No, we won't," I assure him, but he still appears tense, flexing his jaw. "I already told my cameraman to keep the shot high and tight while I talk to you."

  "Is it almost time?" Bob asks, his lips forming a thin line.

  "Yeah. SportsTV wants to get your real-time reaction when Scott steps up to the plate," I explain, wanting to be as up front as possible so he knows what to expect. I don't intend to blindside him with anything.

  "So, the whole thing's gonna be live?" Alex swallows hard.

  "Yep. The entire segment," I say a little too cheerfully, lowering my eyes back to the monitor.

  "Fuck," Bob groans. "The Sunday night game is broadcast nationwide, isn't it?"

  Bob looks nervous as hell onscreen, and my producers expect a fun and happy segment with Scott's family. Bob said earlier that he wanted to do this as a surprise for Scott to show him that he's making progress in overcoming his aversion to people staring at him. This is the first game of Scott's that Bob's been to since his meltdown at Kings Stadium last year. He ended up not going to any of his games so far in San Diego, so this is a big deal. I can see why he's getting overwhelmed being in such a large crowd, but I need to put a halt to this if there's any possibility of him freaking out on national television.

  "Chill, Bob. You're turning green," Alex says, slipping her hand into his.

  His face slowly relaxes.

  I lower my voice to a level that only the three of us can hear. "Bob, are you sure you want to go through with this? You can still back out if you want. I can interview your parents instead."

  "Nah. I'll be fine," he insists. "As long as Alex keeps holding my hand."

  "Of course I will," she declares.

  He grins back at her, fighting through his nerves.

  "Are you sure you don't need us to say anything, Carrie?" Scott's dad calls down the row.

  "Nope. For now, my producers just want you to smile and cheer," I reply, hearing his concern for his son in his voice. "So far, they're only cutting away to give me enough time to talk to Bob."

  "Because I always make such a startling visual," Bob mutters sarcastically.

  I bend down until I'm at eye level with him. "I know you don't like to call attention to yourself, especially after what happened, but I want you to know that I think you're really brave for doing this. Scott's going to be so proud of you when he sees this."

  "Nah. My brother's the brave one," Bob admits, shooting me a wry grin, letting me and Alex in on something he probably would never say to Scott's face, considering how much they like to bust each other. "I honestly don't know how he's coping with all this. Yeah, there was always a lot going on when he was playing in New York and winning the World Series and all that, and maybe it was because I was always deployed and only able to watch it on TV, but it never felt this big before. Back then, he was just a part of a winning team. Now, it seems like it's all about him."

  "Do you think it's changed him?" I inquire, eager for Bob's insight.

  Bob takes a second before answering. "Well, he's gotten a lot more intense in the way he approaches the game. On the field, he doesn't smile or joke around as much as he used to."

  I should be listening to my producers in my ear. I should be coordinating with my cameraman. I should be getting my game face on. But all I want to do is keep chatting with Bob about what makes my boyfriend tick. When I'm told that Scott's up next, I know I have to wrap things up and get back to work, but not before I let Bob in on something.

  I place my hand on top of his, the one that's clasping my sister's. "For as much as I've hated this trade, I'm glad that he has you here in San Diego to lean on."

  Bob tips his head in a way that reminds me so much of Scott. "And nothing makes me happier than to have had you and Alex here these last few weeks."

  The PA announcer ramps it up to full blast, filling the stadium with, "Now batting, first baseman, number fifteen, Scott Haaaarrrrperrr…"

  The crowd goes nuts, and I can barely hear myself think.

  I quickly sit down in the
aisle seat. "Here we go, Bob." I touch my hand to my earpiece. "Ready up in the booth? Okay, on your mark."

  "You can do this, Bob!" Alex shouts above the rhythmic chant of, "Let's go HAR-PER!" Clap, clap, CLAP, CLAP, CLAP. "Let's go HAR-PER!"

  I watch my cameraman's fingers count down from five to one. As soon as the red light goes on, I launch into my introduction.

  "I'm sitting here with Scott Harper's parents along with his brother, Bob—and Bob, I have to ask you, do you think you're brother's going to get a hit this time up and extend his hitting streak to a jaw-dropping fifty games?"

  Bob clears his throat as I stick the microphone adorned with the SportsTV logo in his face. "I hope so 'cause I'm getting tired of him making us wait till the ninth inning every night." He smiles into the camera. "It's getting old, bro."

  I want to laugh, but I can't. I don't know how long Scott's at-bat is going to be, and I have to get in everything the SportsTV producers want me to cover, so I hurry things along. "Bob, you and your brother grew up here, so how special is it for you to see Scott chasing history in front of the hometown crowd?"

  "He's definitely San Diego's new favorite son. Everywhere you go around here, people are talking about Scotty."

  Again, that signature Harper grin. Girls across America are probably swooning right now. I nod enthusiastically to Bob—not that he needs any encouragement, because he's doing great.

  He continues. "It's a lot to live up to, but Scotty's been handling it extremely well. He doesn't wanna disappoint anyone, and so far, he's been able to give the fans what they want."

  I follow up with, "Do you think the streak has changed Scott at all?"

  "I do and I don't," Bob sighs. "In the past, the fans have always rooted for him because he makes them laugh. He's a goofball, not exactly the most politically correct player in the game. He likes to clown around out there, and I feel like this hitting streak is preventing him from having as much fun as he usually does. But on the flip side, he knows now what it means to carry a team and what an enormous responsibility it is. He can't turn to the next guy in the lineup and ask him to get a hit for him. You know what I mean? It's all up to him."

  "Do you think your brother has what it takes to break the record?" I ask in my best reporter voice.

  "Listen, I can't predict the future. All I know is that Scotty's going to do everything in his power to make it happen." Bob speaks with such conviction. His military background comes shining through, showing that he clearly knows how to lead and inspire. "Baseball's an unpredictable sport. If this record were so easy to break, it wouldn't have stood for nearly seventy-five years. Even the greatest hitters of all time, like Pete Rose and Hank Aaron, couldn't break it, and to think that Scotty's being mentioned in the same breath as those guys, well… It's really something special."

  I'm so proud of Bob right now. He's giving me such detailed and articulate answers. I thought he might freeze up on camera, but he's coming across so natural, so likable.

  I go through the list of questions in my head and fire another one off at him. "If you could give your brother one piece of advice, what would it be?"

  "To live in the moment," Bob says simply. "Not to let all of this pass by in a blur, but to really soak it in and enjoy it. But I don't think he needs me to tell him that. That's the way he lives his life."

  With the crack of the bat, I look down at the field and smile. Speaking into the mic, I say, "And just like that, Scott Harper has his first hit of the night with a line drive back up the middle and into center field. Guys, this crowd is going crazy. Back to you in the booth."

  I take a deep breath when the red light goes out. It went really well—better than I expected.

  Until Bob says, "Why was the cameraman panning up and down?"

  Shit. He noticed that. I did hear random directions from my producers being shouted in my ear, but I didn't even pay attention to them, to be honest. I wasn't aware of what the cameraman was doing. I was so wrapped up in what Bob was telling me.

  The cameraman gives me a sheepish look, unsure of what to say.

  "Bob, it wasn't him," I respond, kicking myself for losing focus—not that I could've stopped it from happening anyway. "One of the producers kept calling for the shot in his ear. He had to do it."

  "Don't worry about it, Bob," Alex says soothingly. "You were wonderful."

  "You sounded great, son," his mom says, trying to console him, rubbing his arm.

  But Bob grits his teeth and glares at me. "Carrie, you didn't tell me they were gonna put me on the Jumbotron."

  Shit. They did that too? How did I not know about that ahead of time? But I shouldn't be surprised that Bob noticed. He's constantly surveying his surroundings, a part of his survival instincts, the way he honed his training. For God's sake, it's how he survived an attack by the Taliban.

  I meet Bob's angry gaze, hating that he thinks I lied to him. "I didn't know. Really, I didn't. But if it's any consolation, seeing you up there must've really inspired your brother because he hit the tar out of that pitch. You know he's been struggling to get some good wood on the ball since he came over here, and that's by far the best hit ball he's had since he got traded."

  I don't want to think that Scott was so angry at seeing Bob up on the big screen that he took it out on the baseball.

  But our conversation is interrupted when everyone around us starts fussing all over Bob.

  The guy behind him pats him on the back. "Hey, man. Thanks for everything you did for this country."

  The lady in front of us turns around. "You're a true hero, Lieutenant Harper."

  The old man down at the end yells out, "You make me proud to be an American, son!"

  Some drunken guys start chanting, "USA! USA! USA!"

  "Yeah, you did so much better this time than that night in the Bronx," one of them with a strong New York accent shouts over to him. "See? You pissed yourself for nuthin' that night, dude. It was all in your head. I knew you had to be made of tougher stuff than that."

  And Bob goes still, his face white.

  "Don't listen to that moron. He's exaggerating. I was there. No one was able to see that," Alex whispers.

  A look of utter anguish crosses Bob's face. Shit. He had no idea that Alex was at that game and witnessed his very public breakdown. God, she never told him.

  "What is it?" Alex asks, alarmed.

  "I gotta get outta here," Bob mumbles, gripping the armrest and starting to shake.

  "Bob, you can't leave," Alex replies with a slight catch in her voice, trying to calm him down. "The game's not over yet."

  "You don't understand, Alex," Bob says, scooting himself to the edge of the seat. "I gotta get outta here—NOW!"

  His father stands up, working his way down the aisle. "I'll take you, son. Just hang on."

  "Bob, are you okay?" I ask when a thin layer of sweat appears on his brow.

  "He'll be fine, Carrie," his mom replies for him, rubbing the stump of his leg. "He just needs some air. That's all."

  "Let me go with you," Alex insists as his father lifts him in his arms as the usher brings over his wheelchair.

  "No. Stay here," Bob responds, his voice strained. "I don't want you following me."

  "But, Bob—" Alex wails.

  "Stay here, Alex. That's an order," Bob barks like the officer he is.

  Alex drops back into her seat. "I don't understand," she moans, her confusion evident as she looks to his mom for help. "Why doesn't he want me to go with him?"

  "It's all right, dear," she replies like she's dealt with more than one of these episodes since Bobby came home. "He just doesn't do well in crowds. Oh, why did they have to put him up on that big screen when Scott stepped out of the batter's box?" she sighs, shaking her head. "It was only for a few seconds, but he was doing fine up until then, before everyone started to swarm him. He'll be okay once Sarge gets him home."

  "You mean he's leaving? Like, leaving the stadium?" Alex blurts out.

  "I'm afraid
so, honey." His mom gives her a sad smile. "Once a panic attack sets in, it's best to get him back to a more controlled environment where he can get his bearings."

  "Does this happen a lot, Mrs. Harper?" I question, inwardly berating myself.

  "He starts to feel claustrophobic when too many people come at him at once," she says, catching Alex as she gives me an aggrieved look. "But if you could only see how much better he's been doing lately." The poor woman smiles at the two of us. "Yes, tonight was a setback, but a few months ago, he never would've come out in public like this, much less talk to the media."

  "Jeez, Carrie. You should've never let him do this for Scott." Alex glares at me. "It was way too much for him."

  "Now, don't go getting mad at your sister, Alex." His mom steps in, and I feel myself on the verge of tears. "Bobby's a big boy. He knew what he was getting himself into, wanting to surprise his brother like this. It would've been better for everybody if he hadn't caught a glimpse of himself up there. He's not used to seeing himself with prosthetic legs yet. It was probably a bit of a shock for him on top of everything else."

  "I have to go to him, Mrs. Harper." Alex stands up again. "There's no way I can sit here and watch the rest of the game. Please, I'm begging you. Take me home so I can talk to him."

  "I will, dear, but just prepare yourself. It looks like he's worked himself into quite a state," she warns, following Alex out of the aisle.

  I step aside to let them pass.

  "Are you going to be okay without us, Carrie?"

  "I'll be fine, Mrs. Harper. Thank you." My lip trembles at her politeness after my damn producers just exploited her son on live TV. "Please tell Bob I'm sorry. I just wish I could apologize in person…but I have to leave after the game and…"

  "There's no need." She gives me a quick hug. "It wasn't your fault. When it comes to my Bobby, we just have to keep reminding ourselves to take baby steps. You and Scotty have a safe flight, okay?"

  My sister looks back over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes as she leads Mrs. Harper away, making me feel like crap. I messed this up—badly.

  The cameraman taps my arm, pointing for me to put my earpiece back in.