The Perfect Game: A Complete Sports Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  “Yes, please,” she says. She holds it up. “How apropos is this? And to answer your question, you are the only patient I’ve ever brought here. You’re the only patient I’ve ever brought anywhere.”

  Why that makes me feel like pounding my chest, I don’t know. I shouldn’t care what she does when she’s not with me.

  “Now you try it,” she says.

  I toss the ring just like she said and, just like she said, it goes much farther when I use my elbow instead of my wrist. But I still don’t ring the neck of a bottle. Not even after a dozen tries.

  “Okay?” she asks, nodding at my arm.

  “Bring it on,” I tell her. “What’s next?”

  The booth next to this one has milk bottle pyramids that people are trying to knock down with softballs. I look at Rylee. “Not a chance,” she says. “You know they weight down the bottom row with lead, don’t you? You’d probably have to throw your fastball to get them down.”

  “I could probably do it with my right arm,” I tell her.

  “I don’t doubt it. But you’re not here to show off, are you?”

  I look at the game. “I guess not.”

  “Good. Because the only two people here that matter are the two people who know how good you are.”

  “Were,” I correct her.

  “And will be again,” she says. She pulls on my good arm. “Come on, let’s do this one over here.”

  I hand over more tickets and the woman gives us each three bean bags. You have to throw them through the clown’s mouth to win a prize.

  “Ever played Cornhole?” Rylee asks.

  “Not even when I was drunk,” I say laughing.

  “Well, you’re missing out. This is kind of like it. I’ll show you.”

  She proceeds to make all three. “Underhand?” I say. “You throw like a girl.”

  “Do you want to try for a larger prize?” the woman asks her, holding out a small plastic whistle.

  Rylee appraises it. “No thanks.” Then she whispers to me, “This is what you get for spending three dollars on the game?”

  I crank my arm back to throw, but Rylee stops my motion. “No, Brady. Underhand.”

  “You have to be kidding.”

  She scolds me with the raise of her brow and I feel my pants getting tighter.

  “Damn, woman, you really are bossy. Maybe we should make a stop on the way home and get you a whip and some leather.”

  “Throw the stupid bean bag, Taylor. And use your shoulder and your elbow. Not your wrist.”

  I make two out of three. “Better luck next time,” the woman behind the booth says.

  “I get nothing for making two?”

  She shrugs and points to the rules.

  “Well, that’s a stupid rule.”

  Rylee hands me the small plastic bag with her whistle in it. “Here, you can have mine.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Let’s do that one now.” She points to the balloon dart throw.

  I get my three darts, attempting to throw one, and it all but falls out of my weak grip. Rylee arranges my fingers so I’m holding the dart between my thumb and my ring finger instead of my thumb and my first finger.

  “I know it feels strange to hold it like this,” she says. “But your ring finger is unaffected, so it may allow you to squeeze the dart better if you do it this way. And don’t flick the wrist.”

  My thumb is still weak and numb, but using her strategy, I’m able to pop one of the balloons. And it’s an overhand throw, so it feels damn good.

  “Nice!” she squeals when I pop all three on my second try.

  The bearded guy who runs the game hands me a rubber snake. I look at it and then fake an attack on Rylee’s hawk. “Who do you think would win?” I ask.

  “The hawk. Definitely the hawk.” I don’t miss how she’s looking right at me when she says it. She clears her throat. “Let’s get something to eat and then see how your arm feels.”

  We settle on a funnel cake and some kind of meat on a stick. We find a bench and do some people-watching while we eat. When we’re done, I notice the line for the Ferris wheel isn’t long at all.

  “What do you say?” I ask, motioning over to it.

  “Sure, why not?”

  While waiting in line, some teenage boys notice me.

  “Aren’t you Brady Taylor?” one of them asks.

  “I am.”

  “I told you,” he says, punching one of his friends in the arm. “Can I get a picture with you? Nobody’s going to believe it.”

  “Sure. You follow the Nighthawks?” I ask, as Rylee grabs his phone and snaps a picture of me with all three boys and then individually with each of them.

  “Well, I like the Rays because I live here, but the Hawks are cool, too,” he says, looking guilty.

  “It’s cool,” I tell him. “You should root for your home team.”

  “You’re on the DL, right? I saw footage of that ball hitting you. It looked painful.”

  “It was. But I hope to be off the disabled list soon. I’m improving every day.” We’re called up to the ride. “Nice to meet you guys. Enjoy the fair.”

  We sit in the chair and the worker pulls a bar down over us. Rylee looks scared. She shoves the hawk into my hands and holds onto the safety bar for dear life.

  As our chair rises, she starts squealing – and not in a good way.

  “Uh, Rylee, are you afraid of heights?”

  She closes her eyes. “Terrified.”

  “Then why in the hell are we on this thing?”

  “I thought it would be fun.” She peeks out of one eye and then grabs onto my arm. “Oh, my God. This is horrible. Do you think the guy would stop it and bring us back down?”

  I laugh. “Oh, we’ll go back down all right, after we go up and over the top.”

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  I scoot closer and wrap my arm around her, pulling her tightly against me. “Is that better?”

  “Marginally. But, as strong as you may be, you couldn’t save both of us if this thing tips over. What was I thinking?”

  I laugh quietly. “The ride isn’t going to tip over. But I promise you if it did, I’d save you.”

  She takes a hand off the bar momentarily to squeeze my hand.

  The ride stops when we’re at the very top. She tenses even more. “What the fuck!” she yells.

  This time I can’t help my boisterous laugh. “Why, Rylee, you do have a dirty mouth after all. I’ve wondered.”

  “This isn’t a time for jokes, Brady. What if it doesn’t start back up? What if we get stuck up here?”

  “They are probably just letting a special needs person on the ride – that can take longer.” I scoot to the edge to look over.

  “Brady!” she squeals, her eyes still closed tightly as one of her arms tries to grab me. “Don’t rock us.”

  I reposition myself next to her and put my hand on her thigh. “I wish you would open your eyes and see how beautiful it is. You can see the coastline from here. The way the lights line the shore is fascinating. I think I might even be able to see Pier 60.”

  That does it. She opens her eyes into a squint. “Don’t look down. Don’t look down,” she mumbles to herself.

  I rub my hand along the inner seam of her jeans.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “I’m trying to help you relax. Is it working?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe a little. And you lie – you can’t see the pier from here.”

  “You can’t?” I squint my eyes like I’m looking to find it.

  “No. But it is beautiful. And worth seeing.”

  “I agree,” I tell her, enjoying a totally different view.

  She turns to find me staring at her.

  My hand has traveled higher and higher and is dangerously close to being publicly indecent. “You know, I think it’s tradition that if you get stuck on top of a Ferris wheel you have to kiss.”

  “Oh, it’s a traditio
n huh?”

  “Actually, it’s bad luck if you don’t. And you know how superstitious baseball players can be.”

  She smiles. “Well, I’m not about to be your bad juju.”

  I lean closer and twist my body a little before my lips find hers. Kissing her is something I’ve wanted to do all night. I thought I’d have to wait until we made it back to the hotel. Maybe I should tip the ride operator.

  “Don’t rock the car,” she mumbles into my mouth.

  We laugh into each other and then I deepen the kiss, hoping to make her forget her worries.

  A minute later, the ride starts again and we reluctantly pull apart. “Tell me about your superstitions,” she says. “Anything to keep my mind off this.”

  “Mine are pretty tame compared to some others I know. Did you know that Caden plays with Murphy’s engagement ring in his back pocket?”

  “I think that’s romantic.”

  “If you’re into that shit.”

  “Tell me about yours,” she says.

  “Mine are boring. I eat carrots.”

  “Carrots?”

  “Yeah, they are supposed to be good for eyesight, so I eat a small bag of those miniature carrots every day I pitch.”

  “What else?”

  “I never step on the foul line when I take or leave the field.”

  “I’ve heard of that one before,” she says. “Anything else?”

  I sigh. “I wear the same t-shirt under my uniform.”

  “Every game?”

  I nod.

  “It must be atrocious.”

  I nod again.

  “What t-shirt is it?”

  Why did I say anything? “Just some old thing I got when I was in high school.”

  “Oh. Well, it must mean a lot to you.”

  “It does.”

  We reach the bottom and the guy is asking people if they want to stay on or get off. I look at Rylee in amusement as she does everything she can to get the guy’s attention. We step off the ride and I start dragging her back in the direction of the throwing games when a group of girls stops our progress.

  “Are you Scott Eastwood?” one asks.

  I look at Rylee who is doing her best to hold in a laugh.

  “The actor? No.”

  “But those boys took pictures with you. You must be famous,” another girl says.

  “I play baseball,” I tell them.

  “Baseball?” The girls look at each other. “Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure I play baseball, or am I sure I’m not Scott Eastwood?” I joke.

  “Can we get a picture with you just in case?” one of them asks.

  “Just in case I’m Scott Eastwood?” I laugh and look at Rylee who happily takes one of the girls’ phones to snap a few pictures.

  The girls giggle as they walk away.

  I pull a laughing Rylee in the direction of the games until I see something and stop. Rylee bumps into my back and it’s now that I realize I’ve been holding her hand. I look down at them just as I pull mine away from hers.

  I don’t hold hands.

  I look at the game booth and then at Rylee.

  “No way,” she says.

  We stand there and watch a guy pitch baseballs to a life-sized cutout of a catcher with a hole where his glove is. I can’t take my eyes off it. I want to walk up there and pick up every ball. I want to hold one in my hand and feel the intricate stitching with my fingertips. I want to feel the glory of releasing the perfect pitch knowing it will be a strike even before the batter does.

  “Fuck,” I say, turning my back on the game.

  A woman walking by with a young boy gives me a dirty look.

  “Sorry, ma’am. Wait – here.” I hold out all the stuff in my hands. “Does your boy want these?”

  Rylee quickly plucks the hawk from among the other prizes we accumulated. “Not this one,” she says.

  I didn’t think I could smile after what just happened, but damned if I don’t.

  I hand the boy the rubber snake and the packaged whistle and then I give his mom two tickets. “For the Ferris wheel,” I say. “With my apologies.”

  “Thank you,” she says as they walk away.

  I eye the small dime-store stuffed animal Rylee is holding and question her with my brow.

  “What? I wanted something to remember tonight. It’s been fun.” She looks hesitantly over at the Ferris wheel. “Well, mostly.”

  I laugh and grab her hand, pulling her away from the baseball toss and towards the parking lot. “Come back to the hotel with me,” I say. “I’ll give you something to remember tonight.”

  She looks up at me and swallows. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  There are two things I never do: watch the MLB draft, and go to funerals.

  Not since that day – the day both happened at once.

  I never got to hear my name being called live in the draft. I never got the phone call college players dream about getting. I never got to hold up a Hawks jersey in front of the cameras that would have been camped out at my apartment. I didn’t do any of that – my agent handled it all in my absence. The names I did get to hear called, however, were Natalie and Keeton Taylor as they were lowered into the ground the same time I was making history. Because damn it if Nat wasn’t right – I did go in the first round.

  But today, I made the only exception I’ve made in five and a half years. I flew in last night to help bury a friend’s wife.

  I look over at Bobby Goodrich in the front pew of the church. He and his two young sons are clinging to each other. I’m gutted for him. For them. Because I know what they are going through. But at least they have each other. I know they don’t see it that way and I’m not about to tell them things could be worse. But they can be. They have been. I’m living proof.

  I often wonder what would have happened if one of them had survived. Would Nat and I have tried for another child? Would Keeton and I have been best friends?

  Murphy grabs my hand. I’m sandwiched between her and Sawyer, with Caden on her other side. I’m not sure what I look like on the outside, but I’m dying on the inside. Having to re-live that day is not something I ever wanted to do. But Murphy convinced me to come. She said I can’t avoid funerals my whole life and that I’d hate myself if I weren’t there for my friend.

  When the service is over, Caden and the other pallbearers walk up to the front to do their job. I never thought I’d be grateful to have this injury, but here I sit, thanking God that I don’t have to carry her body out of the church. No way could I have done it, but it would have meant turning down a friend.

  I turn to Sawyer and lift my left arm. “I have an excuse. Why aren’t you up there?”

  “This whole thing is fucked up,” he says. “I can’t be here.”

  I’m not even sure he heard my question. He’s staring at Bobby’s two sons. One is ten and the other is only four. I watch Sawyer stare at the older one like he’s living a nightmare. He’s shaking. He starts to hyperventilate and I shove his head between his legs.

  “Dude, breathe. Are you okay?”

  “I’m gonna be sick.”

  I pull on his arm, dragging him out the other side of the pew as we find the bathroom at the front of the church. I give him some space and guard the door. But I can hear him hurling into the toilet. What the fuck?

  When I hear the faucet come on, I go back in. “Are you sick?”

  He shakes his head at me in the mirror as he rinses his mouth out with water.

  Maybe he just hates funerals as much as I do.

  I pat him on the back. “You okay, man?”

  “Do we have to go to the cemetery?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It’s customary. But if you can’t handle it, don’t go. I had the same thought myself. I don’t think anyone will hold it against you.”

  He leans back against the wall of one of the stalls and runs his hands through his hair. “I should go. I want to be there to
support Bobby. But – fuck, I didn’t know it would be like this.”

  I stare at him. Sawyer’s as much of a closed book as I am. And I feel like I’m looking in a goddamned mirror right now. Who did he lose? I wonder. What I am sure of is that it has something to do with the tattoo he refuses to discuss.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask, awkwardly, knowing that’s what people say.

  He snorts air out of his nose and gives me a knowing stare. “Do you?”

  I step over to the door and open it, knowing neither of us wants to talk about our demons. “Come on, let’s get through this and then we’ll get shit-faced.”

  Sawyer’s shoulders are slumped as he walks through the door. And it makes me feel like a prick that in this moment, I’m grateful for his pain, because I realize that by taking care of him and his memories, whatever they may be, I don’t have to deal so much with mine.

  ~ ~ ~

  “To Faleena,” Murphy says, after the waitress finishes dolling out a dozen shots.

  “To Faleena!” the rest of us shout before throwing them back.

  Some of us headed over to a favorite team hangout after leaving the reception at Bobby’s apartment. He’s got both his family and Faleena’s there to help him and the kids. He didn’t need us hanging around longer than necessary.

  I remember how I just wanted everyone to get the hell out. My team at Nebraska organized the reception. I know they were trying to be nice, but what they didn’t know, what they couldn’t know, is that I never wanted to see any of them again. Seeing them reminded me of Natalie and Keet. The only thing I wanted to do was leave everything and everyone behind.

  So that’s exactly what I did. I walked right out of the reception and packed a bag. I was supposed to report to Tampa a week later anyway to join the single-A team that was already well into their season. I just arrived early, that’s all. And I did leave everything behind, everything but my clothes, some baseball stuff, and a few small pictures of my family that was no more. I didn’t even clean out the apartment, I had Nat’s parents take care of that.

  I left behind myself as well. I left the old Brady Taylor in Lincoln, Nebraska. The one who fucked up and got his family killed. The new Brady wasn’t going to fuck up anything. The new Brady was a machine. A machine with no human emotion. I threw myself into baseball and never looked back. I only stayed in Tampa for two months before they moved me up to Tucson, and after a month there they moved me up to Vegas. I rose through the ranks quicker than anyone in Hawks history, and by the anniversary of their deaths, I was playing in my first MLB game.