The Cannon (Swift Book 3)

by Leslie Pike

  “I’m taking off. Wanted to say goodnight to you all,” she says.

  “Oh no. Stay a little longer. Sit here, darlin’,” Mr. Swift says pulling an empty chair out.

  I take my seat and she takes one across from me. This is an unexpected bonus.

  “You’re a smooth dancer, Sawyer,” Mrs. Swift says.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Swift.”

  “Call me Lucinda. Let’s all be on a first-name basis.”

  “Alright.”

  “Is it true you never played ball in high school or college?” Brick’s wife says.

  “Never went to college. There wasn’t an opportunity to play when I was a kid. I moved around a lot.”

  “Remarkable. Really,” Lucinda says.

  Now I have Bristol’s attention, head tilting in a question.

  “Foster homes. You know. Baseball wasn’t on the radar.”

  A slight shoulder sag tells me there’s a soft spot in her heart.

  “Bob Carter got a call talking about this young guy hitting in the batting cages in Fort Worth,” Brick says.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He sent someone to take a look.”

  “So, this guy shows up one day and he’s watching me. I thought I had a pervert on my hands.”

  “How old were you?” Bristol says.

  My gaze finds hers. “Twenty-three.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yeah. Life changed that day. I’ve been working my way up in the farm leagues since then. Until I got called up to the show.”

  “What about family?” January says.

  “I’ve been on my own since eighteen. Mostly construction jobs. On the weekends I’d mow lawns and do gardening for people. I’m pretty much a one-man band.”

  It’s a matter-of-fact statement, but I see respect in everyone’s eyes. Especially Bristol’s.

  “I want to apologize for what I said about you being the golden child,” she says holding my gaze.

  The faces turn toward her, wondering why that was said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m not offended.”

  “Atticus and I have ruined Bristol for baseball. She heard too many stories, thinks all players are party boys. Won’t go near one.”

  “I don’t need you to speak for me, Brick. I’m a doctor and very capable of expressing myself.”

  He chuckles and holds his palms up in surrender.

  “What kind of doctor?” I say.

  “Pediatrician.”

  Oh shit. I was schooling her on her cycle.

  “I want to apologize for what I said about your cycle.” My smile accompanies the mea culpa.

  “I guess we both made wrong assumptions,” she chuckles.

  “This is by far the oddest conversation I’ve ever been part of,” says January.

  Don’t think I’ve ever seen so many stymied expressions. Her cycle? Bet they’re wondering if I’m referring to a bicycle or her period. What the hell was said out on the dance floor?

  Chapter 2

  Bristol

  Memphis Bowl is lit and I’m ready to put my lone athletic skill into practice. Bowling is without a doubt the only time I can beat my brothers. Doing anything sports related that is. Well, that and ice skating. But I haven’t skated in years.

  When we’re playing Jeopardy or using our intellect we’re on an even playing field. The Swift children aren’t lacking in their competitive gene. Thanks, Dad.

  I put the car into park and pop the trunk. It’s still warm at seven at night, and the day’s waning light is beautiful. It casts a purple glow on the cars lining the parking lot.

  “Our shoes are in the backseat.”

  Kara Tyson is my best friend. Has been since fifth grade when she punched that little shit Robert Hartman in the nose for looking up her skirt. I liked her for making a boy cry.

  “I appreciate the shoe loan, but it’s not going to make up for my gutter balls. I’m a complete spaz in the alley. Who’s going to want me on their team?”

  “Every man playing.”

  Kara’s looks have drawn the boys to the yard since junior high.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve already signed you up with one of the single teams. I’ve got you covered, girlfriend.”

  “Will we be next to your lane?”

  “You’ll forget all about me. There’s going to be cute guys and alcohol.”

  Grabbing our equipment, we start for the wide entry. I spot January, my pregnant sister-in-law, walking in beside Charlotte and her daughter Mallory. My happiness for Brick’s impending parenthood and the family’s first grandchild is real. Even though I’ll never know the experience of giving birth myself.

  “Aren’t people going to go crazy asking for autographs when they see the players?” Kara says.

  “The Mavericks rented the entire place. It’s just the team and their families. They do it every year at the start of the season.”

  “I don’t remember you coming to this before.”

  “I didn’t. I’m only doing it now because Atticus asked me to. They needed a ringer. The ball player they used last year got traded.”

  She seems to accept my excuse. Truth be told, I’m kind of interested in maybe hooking her up with the new pitcher. I want to see if my final impression of him is the right one. He’s not for me, but he could be perfect for Kara. Something tells me they’d hit it off.

  It’s been a few weeks since Sawyer and I met, and I’m still mad at myself for saying such a stupid comment about someone I didn’t know. Mommy and daddy’s golden boy. It stings me to think it might have hurt him. Even though he shook it off, it would be impossible to forget you were nobody’s golden child.

  His beautiful hazel eyes softened when I apologized. He’s empathetic. Fixing him up with my fun-loving friend will be my way of making up for the gaffe.

  “I’ve got someone I want you to meet. One of the new pitchers on the team.”

  Kara and I speak the language of best friends. She knows I’m not apt to play matchmaker so this guy must be special.

  “And.”

  “I met him at an event a few weeks ago. He’s sexy. Light-brown hair, tall, good lips.”

  Her low purr approves my description.

  “Full disclosure, he was hitting on me. But you know how that went.”

  We laugh because she does know.

  “Poor guy. Hope you let him down gently.”

  “Besides being a ballplayer, he’s young.”

  “I like em young.”

  “Handsome.”

  “Never hurts.”

  As we walk through the doors, the sound decibel rises dramatically. Balls hitting pins, conversations and laughter. Children are everywhere. And over it all, country music plays.

  “He’s a Texan with a sexy drawl,” I say a bit louder.

  “You sure you’re not interested?”

  “Positive.”

  “Bristol!”

  I turn in the direction of Brick’s voice to see him waving us over. Grandma Birdie and Grandpa have taken their posts center stage as Swift team cheerleaders. My parents are practicing their stance, while January and Charlotte sit talking with Atticus.

  “There’s your team,” I say pointing to the raucous group in the next lane.

  I see Sawyer showing a young boy how to hold a ball. There’s a patience about his instructions. The child looks happy to be with the newest Maverick.

  “Grandpa Davis!” Kara says throwing her arms around his back. She lays a kiss on his head.

  “Hello, pretty bird!”

  As a lifelong bird watcher, Grandpa’s compliments often connect to his flying friends.

  “Nice! Is that a new one?” I say fluttering the edge of his bright blue bow tie.

  Grandma Birdie comes in for hugs from Kara and me.

  “I bought him that because it reminded me of his eyes.”

  Oh. My heart is touched by her words, because Grandpa’s eyes have paled in recent years. No longer are they as deep or clea
r. But she sees them as they were.

  He takes her hand and kisses it tenderly. How many times has he kissed that hand? It was young and flawless once. My hands already look different than they did at twenty. At eighty-three hers are dotted with age spots, the veins raised, the skin hatched.

  But they’re beautiful, because they held babies and soothed skinned knees. They prepared meals for decades and made a home. They caressed a man’s body. Their flaws were etched by love. Grandpa Davis sees it and so do I.

  “That good-looking Texas boy was asking for you, honey. He came over and introduced himself,” she says taking her seat. “I invited him to supper Sunday.”

  There’s a glint in Grandma’s eye as she tells me the news. Like I’m going to be thrilled. But she’s misinterpreted what my reaction will be.

  “Oh no.”

  Kara raises a palm in the air. “That’s it, I’m out.”

  “No. Wait. He hasn’t seen you yet!” I say pleading my case.

  “Forget it, I’m no one’s second choice. Now let me go find another young pup.”

  “Kara! He’s perfect for you!” I call to the retreating body.

  All I get in response is a wave of a hand as she heads for her team.

  “Bristol, over here!” Atticus calls.

  I cross the few yards to the long black leather couch and place my bag on the floor.

  “Greetings happy bowlers.”

  “Feeling lucky tonight?” Brick says.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it. Bowling’s my thing. Hello girls.”

  January takes my hand.

  “You look pretty.”

  “Thanks. This is my winning-the-tournament outfit.”

  “Don’t damage your grip. As godmother, you’ll be holding the baby over the baptismal font, you know,” Brick says.

  “Don’t you worry.”

  “Did Grandma Birdie tell you the new pitcher was looking for you? He’s really nice,” says Charlotte.

  “He’s hot too,” Mallory adds under her breath.

  She gets a look from both her parents that shuts down further descriptions of the man’s sexiness. They’ve got a teenager on their hands now. When she came into my brother’s life she was a shy girl. Think she’s finding her voice.

  “Yes, she mentioned it. I’m not really interested.”

  Brick stands and turns to his wife. Picking her legs up, he stretches them out where he was sitting.

  “Try keeping them up.”

  A look passes between them that is so genuinely loving it warms my heart. I should be so lucky. I doubt I’ll ever feel anything close.

  “How’re you feeling tonight?” I say to January.

  “Uh. Like a balloon about to pop.”

  Charlotte’s head turns in the direction of our neighboring team.

  “Ohhhh. Here he comes,” she whispers. “Don’t anybody look.”

  But I look. Playing coy isn’t in my nature. This one’s impressive. I’ll give him that. A tall glass of steaming hot water. White T-shirt fitting perfectly, red running pants. Is that bulge in his pants an optical illusion? Must be. Eyes up, Bristol.

  He’s in front of me by the time I raise my lids.

  “Evenin’, Miss Scarlett.” He says it low and slow.

  “What?”

  He chuckles at what he thinks is my confusion. I’m just surprised he’s quoting my favorite movie.

  “That’s a line in Gone with the Wind. One of her many admirers says that when she walks up,” he says locking eyes with me. “And she gave him the same look you’re giving me now. Am I gonna have to storm your plantation, Bristol?”

  Okay, so he’s kind of funny.

  “Fiddle-Dee-Dee. I’m not giving you any kind of look.”

  His luscious lips part in surprise.

  “So you do know Scarlett and Rhett. That’s kind of our dynamic. Don’t you think? You stand there looking irresistible and I point out I’m the sort of man you should be with.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  A smile curls one corner of that tempting mouth.

  “I have been since we met.”

  Christ almighty.

  “So is that your favorite film? It’s mine,” I say trying to distract him from looking at me with those soulful eyes.

  “Book. I’m a big reader.”

  How unusual for a young guy to choose a romantic saga.

  Suddenly I’m aware of the people around us. The bowling alley is loud and teams are practicing. Except for my family. They’re trying to listen to every word Sawyer and I are saying.

  It’s the way they’re doing it that’s comical. Not one is looking our way. All hold themselves just a little too still not wanting to miss anything. As if freezing like statues is going to improve their hearing.

  “I’ve got to get ready. We’re about to start and I don’t have my shoes on yet,” I say.

  “Alright. We can continue our conversation later. I’ll come back after we’ve won the tournament and buy you a drink.”

  “That’s what you think. You haven’t seen my form yet.”

  He pauses for a few moments and I think he’s considering some sort of double entendres. Instead I get a nod of his head and a respectful answer.

  “Let the games begin.”

  He turns and starts to walk away, then looks over his shoulder and offers a final thought.

  “Don’t let my ass distract you.”

  And he’s gone. I turn back to the gallery of family onlookers who are now smiling and reacting to what was said. It’s amusing every last one of them.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  Didn’t expect our teams to be so competitive. Actually, it’s all him and me. Sawyer is playing the same role I am. Ringer extraordinaire. There’s not one other bowler on either team who knows what the hell they’re doing. Or cares.

  But the fact so many are athletes is the saving grace. At least there’s strength and balance and not a lot of gutter balls. Instead, there’s a hell of a lot of rockets thrown. Wouldn’t be surprised if some pins weren’t blasted apart. This is testosterone alley.

  Except for Kara, who’s representing the estrogen brigade. She’s made an art of her unconventional stance. No one’s bothered by the creative ways she approaches and releases the ball. It’s never the same twice.

  I think that’s the centerfielder who’s chatting her up and enjoying the view from behind. Sawyer follows her in the lineup. He’s as good a bowler as I am. I won’t say better. But just because I won’t doesn’t mean it’s not true.

  Damn. I may have been distracted a few times by his ass and it affected my game.

  Kara stands poised, ball in hand, for her next run at the pins. Sawyer’s three feet behind her talking with the boy he was helping earlier.

  Then without warning everything I’m watching changes to slow motion. As Kara goes into her backswing she loses her grip. The ball flies out of her hand and sails toward where Sawyer and the boy stand.

  Like he’s fielding a bad hit, Sawyer’s quick reflexes go into action. He steps in front of the child and takes the hit himself. Right in the face. The nose taking the brunt. The ball slams with a thud onto his foot. Sawyer’s down and out.

  Oh shit.

  I’m up as the scene resumes real time. Blood is pooling from his nose. There may be a head wound where he hit the floor. Kara’s crying and kneeling beside him. People are starting to react. I go into physician mode.

  Chapter 3

  Sawyer

  Fleming’s Steak House is the kind of restaurant I had to work up to. I remember how out of my comfort zone I was the first time I ate at a fancy place. It was the night I was moved to Double A ball. All of us new guys on the farm league were up for celebrating. Every guy but me had reached a lifelong goal. I stood alone on my pathway. The dream had found me.

  Previously, my idea of fine dining consisted of good BBQ around Dallas and Fort Worth. The food was lickin your fingers good. But the atmosphere was more kitschy la
mps and plastic cups than low lights and fine crystal.

  I’ve come to have a wider vision of life. Most of that’s Brick’s doing over the last year. His watchful eye has led me straight from obscurity to the show. He’s got an ability to see the big picture. From the start he pitched the idea we bank on my unusual story. Build interest. He says that’s where the gold is as far as sponsorship goes.

  Tell my unique story of hidden talent. It will make people believe in the impossible. They are already responding. He’s the one who told me not to shy away from my relatively new nickname, but to embrace it. Now all I have to do is deliver on the expectations.

  For me he’s more than my agent. He’s like a brother. At least what I imagine being a good brother would be. But I’d never say that out loud. It sounds needy.

  “Okay, so you’re going to miss a few practices, a few games,” he says buttering a warm roll. “There’s nothing we can do about it, Sawyer. But don’t let it pull you down. Shit happens in baseball. You know that.”

  Brick’s matter-of-fact delivery leaves no room for discussion. Nevertheless, I give it a try.

  “I’m feeling good though. Really. My foot’s a lot better. And the broken nose, it’s nothing.”

  A pointed look passes from his gaze to mine.

  “Don’t be foolish. You want to twist your ankle because you’re favoring your foot? Besides, you have a concussion, Sawyer. The league’s rules and guidelines are in place. It’s final.”

  So that’s it. A bowling ball to the head has shriveled my introduction to the fans. They’ll meet a limping concussed bench warmer instead.

  “The guidelines tell us to take things slowly. You should be back to normal in a few weeks. But that’s if your foot heals properly and we don’t have any unforeseen complications.”

  I’m not even going to ask about those. Think positive. Eliminate the negative.

  I’ve waited my entire life to find my sweet spot. But there’s still time till the regular season. It won’t kill me. In the meantime I know something that will take my mind off myself. Bristol. Beautiful Bristol.

  According to Atticus and Brick, their sister went into doctor mode when I took the bowling ball to the head.