How had he come to this?
Once he’d been the number four draft pick, a future star pitcher and a wealthy man fresh from high school. Now—after a number of call-ups followed one month, one week, or one day later by a ticket back to the minors, he was close to becoming a former minor leaguer who’d only tasted big league life, never big league success.
It was enough to make him crazy.
He kicked the dirt on the pitcher’s mound, trying to forget the closed looks he’d seen on his manager’s face. Sure, he’d given up a few runs the last three times out, but he had only one loss to show for it.
He glanced around the infield. One out. Runners on first and second. No biggie. The next batter would be out number two, maybe even a double play.
While the batter was announced, Ben glanced at the kid’s stats on the scoreboard.
Michael Connor, just called up from Double-A, batting .325 with sixteen homers and forty-one RBIs this year.
Already?
Ben shook himself. None of that mattered. This was a different level, and this punk was now facing a guy who’d pitched in the majors. Some. He returned to the rubber and studied the batter digging in at the plate. Good gravy, could Mikey even drive?
Javier signaled for a curveball away.
Ben shook his head. No one fresh from Double-A was going to get a hit off him. He shook off the sign for his change-up. Come on. Fastball. This kid was getting nothing but heat. Three pitches, and the guy could go sit. Maybe then it would be clear to everyone where Ben Raines belonged.
After a long look into the dugout, Javier called fastball.
Ben checked the runners and started his windup. Let Connor try and hit this.
Connor did.
The ball sailed over Ben’s head and disappeared behind the centerfield wall.
A three-run bomb of a homer.
Ben jammed his glove onto his hip, barely containing the urge to throw a tantrum, and glared at the kid rounding the bases. Let him try that a second time.
Connor reached home, tapped the base, and high-fived his waiting teammates.
Ben caught the ball Javier threw him and turned his back on the high-fiving in the home team’s dugout. Come on, breathe. Calm down. He walked around the mound, smoothing dirt with his foot until he could relax his jaw. He shook his head, rotated his neck. Ready. He blew out a long slow breath.
Bring on the next loser.
He faced home plate.
But Javier was standing, watching the manager cross the baseline.
He was getting yanked again? So what if he’d faced four guys and retired one? They were still up by three. Why wouldn’t anyone let him work out of a jam?
He glared at his approaching manager. No way he was going calmly, not this time. Ben hurled the ball toward center field, then chucked his glove at home.
The packed stadium erupted in a mix of hoots, boos, and cheers.
He stormed past his manager, head throbbing. He snatched his cap and threw it down the dugout steps.
The guys in the dugout ignored him.
Not for long.
He kicked a cooler and, when it didn’t topple, pushed it over with his hands, leaving it leaking on the floor behind him.
Still, no one paid attention.
Too bad he couldn’t take a bat to—
He halted and backtracked to the bat rack.
The pitching coach glanced his way.
About time. Ben grabbed a handful of bats and tossed them out of the dugout and into foul territory.
Heads turned.
He grabbed helmets and flung them as far as he could. More helmets, another bat—
Voices buzzed in his ears.
Aiming at the field, he launched a bat like a javelin.
It whizzed past an approaching umpire’s head, an umpire who immediately threw him out of the game.
Ben laughed, his fingers curling around a baseball. Too bad the bat had missed.
“Knock it off, Raines,” someone farther down the dugout yelled.
Ben spun. He flung the ball at the concrete wall at the far end of the dugout, watching in satisfaction as players hit the floor, hands covering their heads. The ball popped off the wall and into someone’s ribs.
Who cared?
Ben gave a few fallen bats and helmets one last kick before storming down the runway, slamming the sides of his fists against the walls.
No one ignored him now, did they?
He stomped into the clubhouse, eager to create another mess, but what he saw when he entered stopped him short.
Some employee emptying Ben’s locker. Fast.
His nameplate gone.
And Arnie, the ex-wrestler security guard, standing nearby. Taser drawn. Looking right at him.
Ben sucked in air, bolting upright in bed.
Over the soft hiss of the shower, Dana’s alarm clock was going off.
He knocked it over with his fist.
Still it buzzed.
He left it and stumbled to the kitchen, made himself a cup of coffee. He leaned against the counter as he drank it.
His dream returned.
Each detail remained clear—the way Arnie and another security guard had taken him out of the stadium, the anger he’d felt that his coaches had given up on him, and then rage when he’d discovered how bad his reputation had become.
A head case.
Damaging to team chemistry.
No self-control.
Over and over he told his agent it wasn’t true, but every team believed it.
No team, at any level, would touch him.
When he returned home, Dad had laughed and said I told you so before leaving to play pool, but Margo had cooked him a huge meal and, with damp eyes, sat across the table, listening to him rant while he devoured three helpings. Someday, he’d told her, he’d set things right with everyone who’d trashed his career.
And he was keeping his word, although too late to do her any good. He set his coffee down as his arms twitched, remembering the way he’d been forced to shake hands with a man who’d helped murder Margo. He’d ached to beat him senseless right there. To be that close—
Ben shot his fist into an upper cabinet.
He’d go nuts if he thought about it any longer. He shadowboxed his way to the front door, imagining Connor taking every blow. On the chin and jaw, in the stomach and the teeth followed by a knockout punch to the nose. He shook himself like Muhammad Ali and opened the door. The paper lay on the steps. He picked it up, proud of his self-control. He’d changed, hadn’t he? If any other team had given him a chance, they would have been celebrated as geniuses.
And Margo would still be alive.
He plopped onto his recliner and searched the paper for the sports section. He pulled it out, his gaze landing on the article covering the bottom half of the front page. “‘Umpire Accused of Throwing Games,’” he read out loud and skimmed the story. Edwin Byrd, forty-nine, major league umpire for fourteen years with an untarnished record—until the FBI talked to a low-life with mob connections who, in addition to giving up a crime boss, also let slip this interesting bit of information.
Ben held his fingertips to his mouth. “Whoops.”
And, oh look, Byrd was suspended pending an investigation. Well, anyone knew an ump didn’t accept money to call one team’s strike zone larger than the other.
“What were you thinking, Byrd?” Ben carried the paper to the kitchen and rummaged through a drawer until he found scissors. He cut across the page, then down the fold. Byrd’s somber face stared at him from the article. “You threw that game to Oakland. You called my fastball a ball when everyone knew it caught the outside corner. You walked in the go-ahead run, and you sent me to the minors.” He held up the cut-out article. “Now it’s your turn.”
Ben tossed the remainder of the paper onto the recliner as he headed for the hallway. He walked past the bathroom, where the shower still ran and into his office, locking the door behind him before sitting
at his desk and pulling the green binder from the file drawer.
His fingers caressed the pages inside. Newspaper articles from various papers and of various lengths were taped to plain white paper. Ben flipped through them slowly, smiling at the different memories each story brought.
Marc Hollowell, a former All-Star pitcher and pitching coach indicted for insider trading.
Aaron Ramirez, a former ballplayer and arena football team owner who committed suicide earlier in the year. The guy had chosen death instead of facing his family when they learned what he did when he traveled.
Two more articles followed, two more heart-rending tales of men whose careers—whose family lives—were no more.
He laid the latest article sideways across an empty sheet of paper and taped it carefully in place. After snagging a pen from the pen holder, he flipped to the last page of the notebook and crossed off Edwin Byrd. Chills ran down his shoulder blades as his gaze lingered on the next name.
Very soon another man would fall. Two in one month? He was making incredible time.
Ben closed the binder and returned it to the back of the file drawer. It was good he hadn’t flattened Connor. Waiting for the perfect moment would be much, much sweeter.
Because Connor deserved something bigger, something better than Ben had originally planned. And, just like the rest, Connor would never see it coming.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mike’s visits continued.
After his game ended Thursday afternoon, he brought dinner over—potato salad, Hawaiian sweet rolls, salad, and ribs he grilled to perfection. After they’d eaten, he stayed long enough to play three games of Uno and two games of Operation with Terrell.
On Saturday evening Mike stopped by again, playing a lazy game of catch in the backyard, tossing the ball to Terrell while talking to her. Always including her.
Anyone listening would never guess they shared a past, one happy and heartbreaking. There were no jabs at each other, no tactless hints that they should date, no rehashing their broken marriage. Just talk about her current design project, Terrell’s first year in school, Mike’s rising batting average, the shocking success the team was having, and some charity dinner that Mike and other teammates were attending.
As Mike chased Terrell’s errant throw, Meg realized that the man she’d loved was a much larger part of this older Mike than she’d thought possible. His humor, his easy laugh, his positive personality that had made him so much fun to be around—none of that had changed. Despite his betrayal, there was still something safe about him, something kind and gentle. He played with Terrell as if there was nothing better in the world. He thanked her for the drinks she brought him and smiled whenever he looked her way.
Meg relaxed her armor, returning his kindness with civility. But she couldn’t help examining the year when cruel Mike appeared. Had it been some bizarre blip in his personality that she’d bailed out on too quickly?
When Saturday’s light faded, the three of them moved inside and watched a kids’ movie with Terrell. For the first time in years, Meg found herself laughing with Mike and sharing a bowl of her favorite popcorn, an act that felt too intimate. When he finally left, she leaned against the closed front door, pleased with the peacefulness of the evening—until she caught herself smiling at the thought of him.
Why was Mike being so attentive? He should concentrate on Terrell and leave her out of their relationship. Wasn’t that the way it was done?
She called Jill, sharing her confusion on how to handle Mike. Should she treat him as a friend? As someone she didn’t care to be around? One exhausting week of navigating the happy, the bittersweet, and the excruciating—suddenly Meg felt worn out.
Sunday and the church services she craved were hours away. What would Mike say about her attending church so faithfully? Would they see him tomorrow, or would he drop by after they’d left for the evening service? Would he try to stop her from going to church? Would he make jokes? Would cruel Mike reappear and prove there was no blip in his character?
Mike’s Sunday afternoon game ended two hours before the evening service started. Every few minutes after that, Meg glanced at the clock, calculating what he might be doing— talking to reporters, eating, working out. If he didn’t hurry, they’d be at church before he ever knocked on her door.
No, she was thinking that all wrong. If she and Terrell didn’t leave early for church, he’d catch them at home.
They would leave early.
But Terrell couldn’t find one of his shoes, and the doorbell rang five minutes after Meg had hoped to leave. She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, then opened the door to find Mike wearing his familiar grin.
This was… bad. Yes, bad. Not good.
“Hey there.” He entered the foyer, surveying her. “Going somewhere?”
She glanced down at her spring-green sheath. “We’re on our way to church.” She pulled her hair over her shoulder, feeling the flutter in her hands. “Terrell’s looking for his shoe.”
“I found it, Mommy.”
She turned toward him at the top of the stairs, glad she didn’t have to see Mike’s reaction.
Terrell ran down the rest of the stairs, missing shoe in hand. “Hi, Dad.” He raised his hand for a high-five, and Mike slapped his palm. “That was a big home run.”
“Thanks. Those are fun.” Mike’s gaze returned to her, brown eyes smiling as if he knew something. “Can I talk you out of your plans? I made reservations at a French restaurant downtown.” He soft-punched Terrell’s shoulder. “You can eat snails.”
“Yuck!” Terrell grinned and launched into authentic gagging noises.
“Stop that, Terrell.” She hungered for church, especially with Mike’s presence wearing on her. “Thanks, but not this time.”
“We’re going to church,” Terrell said. “You could come with us.”
What?
Terrell tugged on Mike’s hands. “If you came, you could meet my friends.”
And have her whole church whispering about her? Of course, Mike would never set foot in—
“Why not.” He shrugged at her. “Then I can see what kind of outfit your mom’s joined.” He pulled his phone from his pants’ pocket. “Let me cancel those reservations.” He disappeared into the living room.
Meg slumped against the half-wall of the stairs. He can’t come. She covered her cheeks with her palms. God, please. He can’t come.
“Mommy?” Terrell tugged at her arms. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She moved out of his grasp, ducking into the powder room beneath the stairs. She stared at her face in the mirror. “I can’t be seen with him. Not at church.” Having Jill and Clark and even Dana know about Mike was one thing, but for her whole messed-up past to be paraded in front of her church—
“Meg?” Mike knocked on the door. “Are you all right?”
“Just a minute.” She couldn’t tell him he couldn’t come. How would she explain that to Terrell? And Terrell was what mattered, she told her reflection, not her reputation.
The thought didn’t help.
She forced herself to leave the safety of her powder room and followed Mike and Terrell outside, pausing to make sure her door was locked. Terrell ran for the Range Rover, but Meg took her time climbing into the front seat.
“Don’t you have a church you go to?” Terrell asked as she buckled her seatbelt.
Mike backed out of her driveway. “I don’t think I’ve been to church since I moved here.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I always feel like I’m in trouble. Don’t you?”
Terrell shrugged. “Maybe you are.”
Leave it to Terrell. Hiding her amusement, Meg turned away, but not before catching Mike’s surprised look.
“What do you mean maybe I am?”
“People who don’t know Jesus are in trouble because they can’t go to heaven.”
Between Meg’s directions, Mike asked, “And I suppose you know Jesus?”
“Really?”
Why did he poke fun at his own child? “Don’t make this a joke, Mike.”
He raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Yeah, Dad. You have to believe Jesus paid for your sins and tell him you’re sorry for all the bad things you did. And when you die some day, you’ll go to heaven and live with him.”
“You don’t say. So Jesus forgave all those horrible things you’ve done?”
His words tipped off Terrell to his amusement. “I’ve done bad things. Ask Mommy.”
Mike sent her a smirk, eyebrows raised.
“Mike,” she warned.
“And your mom did this too?”
“Yeah, but she had more bad things to confess because she’s older.”
Mike laughed, grinning at her. “Oh, I know all about those.”
Wasn’t he hilarious? She flashed him an insincere smile, then glanced out her window, leaving him to chuckle to himself.
Mercifully, the subject died, and the drive was soon over. But as Meg stepped out of the Range Rover, she debated snatching Mike’s keys and driving away. How would she be able to come back once people found out who her ex-husband was?
She dragged her feet to the church’s main doors, pleading for time to freeze, for the door to seal shut—
Mike reached around her and swung the glass door open before she could scream at him not to touch it, which was probably a good thing. She walked through the door and nodded a hello at the greeters. Nothing like a scream to ensure attention.
Inside, she scoped out the fastest route to the auditorium, but people stood in groups throughout the foyer while others weaved around them. She speed-walked for the nearest entrance, only to tangle with members heading to the nursery or bathrooms or… someplace that slowed her progress. Those she knew paused to say hello and touch her arm before doing a double-take, their eyes above and behind her.
Wonderful. He was still there.
More heads turned. Eyes widened. People whispered, staring at Mike, then Meg and Terrell, then Mike again.
Her vision blurred. Already the speculating had begun.
Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) Page 10