Hard to Lose (The Play Hard Series Book 4)

by K. Bromberg

  “You ever thought of pitching batting practice for us?” Grainger asks.

  “I have in years past,” I answer, but that’s all I say.

  Because I’m not here to pitch batting practice or to improve my slider. I’m here to get the aggression out. The anger. The need for my life, my fucked-up head, to feel normal again when the goalposts for normal seem to be continually moved from one day to the next.

  “I saw you at the Lager and LEGO thing. Who was your hot date?”

  Fucking Chase.

  “Fastball,” I say, not wanting to talk about her.

  Her, being another reason I’m here, tied up, and needing to pitch.

  “Changeup.” I indicate with the motion of my glove in a different way.

  The woman is tying me up in knots.

  “Curve.” My shoulder burns with the pitch, but I don’t care. I need this. To understand how I feel about her, how she made me feel when she showed up at my house with what looked like panic the other day . . . and my first thought was that she was leaving.

  I stressed over it all day.

  Stressed, when I’m not one to stress.

  And that? That scared the fuck out of me, when we’re not far enough in this relationship to be scared the fuck out of.

  I’ve let her in.

  She’s the first one I have.

  The dream reliving everything that happened last night.

  Seeing Jenny and celebrating Dickman’s birthday tonight.

  Chase Kincade.

  Emotions.

  Fucking goddamn emotions.

  That’s why I’m here, in my church of sorts. In my therapist’s office. The place where I always go when I need to work through memories or demons or emotions—the ones that haunt me—and the PTSD that chases me.

  “You sure you’re good?” Grainger asks.

  Good? That’s not something I think I’ll ever be. I try to give back, try to give more, try to make up for not being able to save my guys that day, and yet I always feel like it’s never enough. Like no matter what I do, it won’t ever be enough.

  And it won’t.

  They’re gone. Just like a piece of me will always be gone with them.

  Just like the hole left in the lives of their families that day.

  So good? Never. But that’s not something I’ll ever say out loud, because who am I to not be good when I’m the one still alive?

  “Yep. Just . . . just figuring shit out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Gunner

  Six Years Ago

  “I’m serious, Ryan. There were calls. Emails. I saw them on his computer when he accidentally stayed logged into his account. They want you.” My mom’s voice, her incomprehensible pleading for me to believe her across the scratchy connection, almost feels surreal. Almost sounds like the words are a dream.

  But they’re not.

  They can’t be.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I finally say.

  “They emailed Sal, sweetie. Agents. Four of them. They were interested in representing you. In getting you signed into the major leagues.”

  The hope in her voice is like a dagger to my heart.

  “And you’re just finding this out now?” I look at the sparse walls of my barracks and hear the night patrol watchman’s radio faintly in the distance.

  “Yes. I had to help him with something on his phone and saw them,” she explains. No one is allowed to go near Sal’s computer when he’s logged in. No one. So the fact that she saw the emails, that he left them sitting open on the computer screen so she could read them, tells me it was all part of his plan to manipulate her. To show her who is in control. “It was an accident. This all was a misunderstanding.” But the catch in her voice confirms she knows she’s lying. “He thought they were calling for Marcus. He gave them Marcus’s information by accident, and it was all just a silly mix-up that I’m sure we can get straightened out.”

  My snort of derision is loud.

  “Are you listening to yourself, Mom? Are you really hearing yourself make excuses for him? You’ve somehow been able to watch him lay into your son time after time for years. You justify why he hits you. That’s on you. But now you’re justifying why he fucking screwed me over, and you bet your ass I’m going to call you out on it.”

  “He promises it was an accident.”

  “Yeah. A perfectly calculated accident to get me out of your lives while pushing his own son’s success.”

  “He can undo what he did. I promise. All he has to do is call them and explain it. Explain the confusion that he had two sons—”

  “Do not ever call me his son again,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

  “All he has to do is explain that he thought they were calling for Marcus,” she repeats, never missing a beat. “That he—”

  “I’m not sure what I’m finding harder to comprehend. The fact that you’re buying this BS or the notion that you think this can be undone.”

  “It can. I know it can.”

  “Mom? Are you listening to yourself? I’m in fucking Afghanistan. Do you think the US Army will let me out because some agent showed interest in me before I signed my life away—before your husband threatened me and made me sign my next four years away? They don’t fucking care.”

  “But they want you.” Her voice sounds less certain now. “They know how good you are.”

  “Wanted, Mom. Past tense.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  I’ve never hated her more than right now. A wishy-washy woman who is defending her asshole husband. Sure, life has dealt her a shit hand, but that doesn’t mean she has to be weak. That doesn’t mean she has to kowtow to a man. She’s worth more than that, but I’m so sick and fucking tired of being the only one fighting for her to see it.

  The anger that courses through my veins is like a drug. I don’t know how to dampen it, and at the same time don’t think I want to. I need to feel it. Need to own it. Need to hold on to it, because it’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane at the moment.

  “What are you going to do about it?” I ask her, needing to hear her answer. Needing to hear her say she’s leaving him because of what he’s done to her son—her own flesh and blood. Needing to know she’s choosing me over him.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she stammers. My heart sinks. Just once I wanted her to fight harder for me than she’s fought to keep someone around to support her.

  “I mean, your husband screwed over your son. Me. He threatened me. He gave me the ultimatum of jail or enlisting. He took away a chance to make our life something other than paycheck to paycheck. He took away my dream. HE DID THAT,” I scream into the phone, not fucking caring who’s around or what they think. “So you tell me, Mom, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Ryan,” she mumbles in that soothing voice she used to use after my dad died. When I cried myself to sleep and she didn’t know how to comfort me, she used that voice. That tone.

  She doesn’t know what to say or how to comfort me.

  “You’re talented. I’m sure you’ll still be good when you come home. When you’re discharged.”

  Does she not understand in order to be that good you have to play every day? Practice on a schedule. Get coaching. Face competition.

  But how could she know that when she never went to my games? The stands were always empty. At first, it was because she was working to supplement the death benefits we received for my father, and then it was because Sal didn’t let her.

  There was always an excuse as to why.

  And then there was simply silence.

  “It’s always been about him, Mom. Always. And now, maybe you’ll see it. Maybe you’ll stop making excuses. Maybe you’ll see what he’s done to us and—”

  “That’s not true,” she screeches, so used to defending him.

  I hang my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. Nothing’s going to change. I could talk till I’m blue in the face and she won�
��t hear me. She’s so conditioned to believing his lies. Why bother trying to change it? Her choice. Her life.

  “They loved you, sweetheart. They want to represent you.”

  Do you really think any coach in their right mind is going to sign some asshole, law-breaker? A kid with no morals who steals from the hand that feeds and houses him?

  They might have loved me and wanted to represent me, but my fucking mother doesn’t do either.

  “Don’t worry about me. You keep going on with your life while I’m out here being made into a real man.”

  “Ryan. Honey. Please don’t—”

  “It’s okay, Mom. Don’t sweat it. It never would have worked. I’m a screwup, remember? I’ve got to go,” I lie. “Bye.”

  Fuck that shit.

  And when I end the call on the sat phone, I hand it to the next guy waiting in line to call home. Once on my bunk, I try to hide the tears I’m holding back, which burn like a motherfucker.

  They loved you, sweetheart. They want to represent you.

  Those fucking words repeat over and over in my head. They taunt and torture and haunt me.

  I was good.

  They wanted me.

  The tears that slide down my cheeks as I shove my pillow over my face are hot and angry, and each one feels like it slices me open. Each one a painful reminder of what I gave up and will never get back.

  Dickman was right.

  The life I knew before coming here is one hundred percent done and over.

  Fucking gone.

  The letter I wrote, which is shoved under my mattress, I might as well send.

  Goodbye baseball.

  Goodbye dream.

  Goodbye, Ryan Camden.

  I’m Gunner now.

  A soldier without a family other than the guys around me.

  A man without the dream that’s guided his whole life.

  Simply Gunner.

  Simply another soldier who might die in the line of duty.

  But a soldier who won’t be missed by anyone back home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chase

  “Thank you. We can’t wait to have you on the team and to play with us,” I say to an adorable, freckle-faced little boy with glasses.

  “But I’ve never played before.” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and looks over at the court where kids are shooting hoops. “What if—”

  “You’ve never played before?” Gunner asks, as he walks into the front office of The Center, smile big. The little guy shakes his head. “That is the best news ever.”

  “It is?” he asks, eyes growing wide.

  “Yep. I’m Gunner.” Gunner holds his hand out.

  “I’m Robbie,” he says as they shake hands.

  “Can I tell you how excited I am to coach you and teach you how to play basketball and baseball?”

  “You are?”

  Gunner nods. “I talked to your mom on the phone the other day and she was telling me how much you’ve wanted to try this.”

  Robbie nods and then swallows loudly. “I was waiting for my dad to teach me, but . . .” His bottom lip trembles and my heart lurches into my throat.

  “But he’s busy getting better at Walter Reed, isn’t he?” Gunner says without flinching.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I heard he was busy being a superhero and ended up getting hurt.” Robbie’s bottom lip quivers. “It’s okay. I’ve been there too and look at me. The doctors there patched me up good as new.”

  “They did?”

  “Yep. Good as new.”

  The lump in my throat grows as I sit back and become a bystander to their conversation. A kid who has to grow up way too soon and a grown man who can relate to him more than I’ve ever seen before.

  I notice Robbie’s mom in the periphery, watching from where she’s filling out forms. She dabs the corner of her eye with a tissue as she watches just like I do.

  “And that means that I am more than excited to coach you and teach you until your daddy can come back and take over for me. Sound like a deal?” Gunner asks and offers his fist to be bumped.

  Robbie’s timid smile grows wide as he bumps Gunner’s fists. “Deal.”

  Gunner gives me a glance and a soft smile, before he’s pulled away to another kid, to the start of a practice, to being just the incredible guy that he is.

  It’s not until I’m sorting through the new registrants and putting the last ones in the computer system when I see him again.

  “You’re still not feeling good, are you?” He rests his butt on the desk in front of me, putting his hand on my forehead to check my temperature.

  “I’m fine. I told you, it’s just a little cold.”

  “A little cold while you’re staying in a hotel, living out of a tiny refrigerator and having to go down to the lobby to put something in the microwave if you want warm food.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and meets my eyes. “You’re staying at my place.”

  “Gunner—”

  “Argue all you want but I’m going to win in the end.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m not beneath throwing a tantrum to get what I want.”

  “Good to know,” I say as he pulls me against him. I revel in the feel of his arms around me.

  Truth be told, all of his points are valid. I’m sick of reheated takeout food and grab-and-go snacks. I’d kill to have decent Wi-Fi and to not wonder how many germs still live on the comforter I sleep under.

  Or if there are any bed bugs lurking, despite checking before I lie down and after I get up.

  And a selling point he’s not even privy to? I want to soak up more time with him. As much as I can get, if I’m honest. I know how bleak life will be as soon as I cross the border out of Destiny Falls on the way back home.

  I don’t like that it means deliberately hiding anything KSM from him, which might make it difficult to take phone calls, but I can make it work.

  I know I can.

  I don’t want him to be hurt, thinking I was only here to deceive him. This kindhearted man does not deserve that. So, I’ll hide anything I can to avoid that.

  And besides, who in their right mind would turn down an incredibly sexy man telling them that he wants to take care of them when they’re sick?

  Not this girl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Chase

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” Gunner asks. He tucks me under his arm and adjusts our position so I can rest my head on his chest.

  “Let’s see. You’ve made me homemade chicken noodle soup—something I don’t even know how to make myself—set me up in your spare bedroom so I have my own space, and then built a fire because I said how much I miss real fires in fireplaces.” I snuggle in harder against him. “Oh, and now you’re snuggling with me and rubbing my back simultaneously. I think you pretty much nailed every damn thing, Gunner, so much so that you’re going to have a hard time getting rid of me.”

  “No complaints with that here,” he says into the crown of my head. We’re on his couch in front of a whitewashed brick fireplace. Flames crackle and snap. I can’t believe he built me a fire simply because I said I missed having one in my New York apartment. “Are you tired? Do you want to sleep or catch a movie or—”

  “I want to know more about you,” I say.

  “Me?” He laughs the word out.

  “Yep. Tell me about your childhood. Where you grew up. Were you a pain in the ass who caused your parents headaches or were you a perfect angel?” He snorts and I laugh. “Did you always want to enter the service or was that a decision made later in life?” I ask leading questions, because I genuinely want to know. And I refuse to rely on Kelly’s information as my source.

  “Why all the focus on me? Don’t I get to know more about you?”

  “You’re the mysterious one,” I counter. “I don’t even know your last name.”

  “Camden,” he says without hesitation. I don’t know why I expected him not to. It’
s not like he was hiding it on purpose or even knew that I was looking for him. But it just feels weird to have him offer it up so easily.

  “Camden,” I murmur, getting used to the feel of it rolling off my tongue.

  “Ryan Camden to be precise, but ever since my first tour in Afghanistan, I’ve gone by Gunner.”

  “I’m sure there’s a story there. But see? I told you that you were mysterious.”

  “Says the sexy grad student who lives in New York and is researching a topic I’ve lived, but who I don’t know much else about.”

  “Yes, you do. You know I have three sisters and that my mom died. You know I have an affinity for Converse, dancing in the rain, putting things in order, and can’t paint for shit.”

  “Any dislikes?”

  “Beside bed bugs, men whose biceps are bigger than my thighs, and Neapolitan ice cream? No, none that I can think of.”

  Gunner barks out a laugh. “You’re something else, you know that?”

  “Who me?” I look up at him and bat my lashes, once again struck by just how damn handsome he is. And the more I get to know him, my attraction seems to grow stronger. “I’m known for being the picky one.”

  “Apparently not too picky seeing as you’re here with me.”

  I desperately want to kiss him but don’t want to get him sick, so I do the next best thing and press my lips to the underside of his jaw, close my eyes, and savor him. The scent of his soap. The strong rhythm of his heart beneath my hand. The warmth of his hand as it runs up and down the length of my back.

  I’m uncertain how long we sit like this, simply drinking each other in with the warmth of the fire in front of us and the quiet presence of each other.

  “I was a good kid growing up,” Gunner says and breaks the comfortable silence. “Then I wasn’t.” His chuckle is self-deprecating. “My dad left for deployment when I was ten. I remember giving him hugs outside the depot, him making me promise to take care of my mom while he was gone, and then . . . then the car pulling up to our driveway. The knock on the door. My mom’s shrieks as she fell to the floor.”

  “Gunner.” His name is a mixture of apology and understanding. I squeeze him tighter but don’t say anything else.