Caught by You (23 page)

Angela.

In the clubhouse, he stripped off his street clothes and quickly donned his uniform. He needed to get on the field early to swing the bat a few times. He might be rusty after his week off.

He hadn't seen Angela again since her out-­of-­left-­field . . . proposition? Invitation? He didn't know how to describe it. She'd sent flowers to the memorial ser­vice, along with a formal, polite little note. She hadn't attempted to see him before he left, nor had he her.

He jogged onto the field and launched into his pre-­game stretching routine, waving to the few players who were already taking practice hits and fielding grounders. The clunk of bat on ball, the casual chatter of the Catfish, the timeless sounds of a baseball field brought him a precious sense of peace. God, it was good to be back. God, he loved baseball.

And if he made the grade, got the call-­up to the Friars, he'd have the official go-­ahead to pursue Angela once again. If he wanted to. Not that he did. The thought left him cold, or maybe “confused” was a better word. He was still grieving so deeply over his brother that no woman could break through.

Well, maybe one.

We are family
 . . .

Mike watched Donna dance onto the field to the sounds of Sister Sledge. “How y'all doin', Catfish fans?” she sang into the microphone, her Texas accent more pronounced than usual. “Are you ready to get your seventies groove on? We've got a real fun time comin' up. Who here remembers the seventies? Stand on up if you do.”

As some of the older folks in the stands rose to their feet, Donna clapped her hands over her head, leading the crowd in a round of applause. “How about you all come on down here? I got a special surprise for you. Don't be shy, y'all! This is Texas, this is the Catfish, we're here to have some fun.”

Donna and her dimples were impossible to resist, and one by one the middle-­aged members of the crowd filtered onto the field.

“Now I wasn't around in the seventies, so I had to watch this on YouTube. Y'all let me know if I'm doing it wrong.” The classic sound of the hustle blasted over the stadium sound system and in less time that it took to say John Travolta, the whole crew was side-­stepping, rolling their hands, and pointing toward the sky in unison. The entire audience was on their feet, stomping and clapping, shouting, “Do the hustle” on cue. Mike had never seen that many ­people have that much fun at the same time. It was a glorious sight.

Donna in particular shone like a joyful little firefly, a copper-­haired beacon of fun. Every time he looked at her—­which he couldn't stop doing—­a bit of happiness splashed into his soul, overflowing from her, from the crowd, from the moment.

Joey would have loved this.

It wasn't until the National Anthem had been played and the Catfish were taking their places on the field for the top of the first inning that Mike looked around at his teammates and noticed something different.

He saw it first on Dan Farrio, the pitcher. A black armband fastened around his upper arm. Squinting, he saw something else. A piece of rainbow ribbon tied around the armband.

Behind home plate, he froze, then let his gaze travel to first base. Sonny Barnes, the giant, tattooed, bald first baseman, who was so in love with his wife he cried when the Catfish bus rolled away for a road trip, wore one too, right above his elbow. Second baseman, James Manning, whom Mike barely knew—­he wore one too. At shortstop, Bieberman's armband seemed extra-­large, but maybe that was only in comparison to his smallish stature. At third, T.J. Gates caught his eye and offered a broad grin. He lifted his arm in a gesture of respect, then touched his fist to his heart. Trevor Stark, Dwight Conner, the whole team . . .

They were all wearing armbands for Joey. For him.

A swell of applause rolled through the stadium. Joey's name was up on the Jumbotron, Joseph Luigi Solo, over a simple black background, the dates of his birth and death, and the words, “Peace be with you.”

Oh hell. He was going to lose it. He put his hand to his lower belly, over his surgical scar, the missing piece of him. God help him, he was going to cry, right here in front of three thousand plus fans. Wildly, his gaze flew to the sidelines, his eyes drawn to the bright splash of Donna's hair. Her hands were clasped together under her chin, her eyes misty. When he caught her eye, she seemed to sense his distress, and pulled a goofy, comical face. A sort of freaky little bunny face.

Light flooded the hollow place in his heart. He touched his own hand to his chest, bowed to the crowd, kissed his fist and raised it to heaven, head bowed.
This is for you, Joey. My big brother, forever.

 

Chapter 23

A
FTER THE EMOTIONAL
high point at the start of the game—­Donna couldn't help crying, it was so beautiful—­things went downhill. Dan Farrio, the starting pitcher, lasted only two innings before Duke pulled him out. His replacement was even worse; he was a rookie who'd just come up from Double A. Mike had to keep going out to the mound to calm him down, and after three innings he got the hook as well.

Donna was busy emceeing the Farrah look-­alike contest, which was a huge hit both with the Kilby girls who got to go wild with the curling iron, and the guys who got to appreciate the jumpsuits and tank tops. Whenever things got slow—­like when they put the game on pause to bring in yet another pitcher—­she and Catfish Bob would do the “bump.” Everyone loved that, and the stands turned into a sea of hip bumping. At one point she looked up at the owner's box and caught Crush's eye. He wore a big grin and gave her a vigorous thumbs-­up.

Wow. She was actually good at this. It was fun, more fun than she'd ever imagined a job could be. Sure, the Shark had been fun, but there had also been the constant undercurrent of worry that went with being responsible for a little person's well-­being. Here, she felt carefree and light and happy—­except when she looked at Mike. The circles under his eyes and the deep lines bracketing his mouth made her heart swell with sympathetic pain. She'd do anything to ease his hurt, anything. But she didn't know if he needed help from her. He'd barely let her say, “I'm so sorry,” before cutting her off.

She got it. He wanted to grieve in private, not in the company of a girl he'd offered to marry out of duty.

By the seventh inning, the bullpen was empty. Duke had run out of pitchers; there was only one left. “Yazmer Perez, number 35,” intoned the announcer, as if he was introducing any old player, not the most controversial one on the staff. A buzz rippled through the crowd. Donna, who'd been going over the plan for the “birthday parade” with the cameraman, looked up. At first she didn't notice the reason for everyone's whispers. Then she inhaled a sharp breath.

Yazmer wore no black armband. No little rainbow ribbon. As he strutted onto the field, he gave Mike a smug look, as if to say,
What are you going to do about it?

Mike slowly lowered his face mask and went into his crouch.

That
's right
, urged Donna silently.
Be the bigger man. Don't let the asshole get to you.

At first he didn't. Yaz struck out the first Express batter swinging. Mike whipped the ball to the third baseman. It traveled round the horn, binding the players together, ending up back in Yazmer's glove. When the next batter came to the plate, Yaz and Mike seemed to have trouble agreeing on a pitch, and finally Mike shrugged and gave the pitcher no signal at all.

He threw a fastball, which the guy hit, a long line drive into the gap between center and left field. Triple.

Yaz didn't take it well. He stalked off the mound, muttering angrily.

The next batter up, Yaz barely waited until the umpire gave the signal before slinging a gunshot of a pitch just outside the batter's box. Mike lunged for it—­if he let it pass, the runner on third would score easily. He smothered it, then got slowly to his feet, clearly feeling a little pain. He took a moment, obviously trying to calm himself, then tossed the ball back to Yaz. As soon as it hit Yaz's glove, he went into the windup for the next pitch.

Donna remembered what Mike had said about getting Yaz to pick up his pace. He seemed to have picked it up, all right. Now he was winging those pitches at about the speed of an overactive pitching machine. He was barely giving Mike a chance to get into his crouch. Almost as if he was trying to grab the spotlight back.

Mike tried to slow him down by taking an extra long time to throw back the ball. The umpire said something that made him nod, then toss the ball back. He set up for the next pitch and started flashing signs. This time, Yaz took his sweet time, stepping off the rubber to call time, then stepping back up, then shaking off Mike's signs. His message was clear even to Donna.
He
controlled the pace of the game, not Mike.

They finally agreed on a pitch, and Mike set up on the outside part of the plate. But the pitch, a fastball, went inside. The batter jumped out of the way as Mike lunged to his left. Then everything got crazy. Mike batted down the ball with his glove, then exploded to his feet, wheeled around, and charged the mound. With a roar Donna could hear from the sidelines, he tackled Yazmer. Yaz responded with a sharp punch to the gut. They toppled to the ground, grappling with each other, raining blows onto each other's backs and ribs and faces.

From someone's radio, Donna heard the announcers going crazy. “This is something you
never
see, two members of the same team coming to blows
during a game
. It's one thing when two teams go at it, but a pitcher and a catcher? There's a lot of bad blood there. Maybe it was just a matter of time before these two took their feud off Instagram and onto the field. Now the home plate ump has thrown them both out of the game, but they aren't going anywhere. Isn't anyone going to stop this?”

Duke and the pitching coach sprinted onto the field and shouted at the rolling pair. The commotion from the crowd created a dull roar in Donna's ears. The Catfish players ran in from all over the field, then hovered at the edges of the two-­man brawl. Trevor darted in to pull Mike away, but Mike lifted his head and snarled at him. Whatever he said made Trevor step away and give the other players a “stay back” gesture.

“Looks like the Catfish don't know what to do. In your normal fight between two teams, the unwritten rule is that every single player's gotta come off the bench and join the dogpile. But if it's players from the same team? Whole new ball game, so to speak.”

Meanwhile, the Express players poured out of the dugout and stood laughing their asses off at the spectacle of two teammates tearing each other apart.

Why didn't anyone stop them? The umpires were gathered in a knot, yelling at Duke, who yelled back, but didn't make a move toward Mike and Yazmer. Maybe he'd decided it was best to let them fight it out. Maybe he was waiting for the perfect moment. Maybe he didn't want to get an arm snapped off.

There had to be something she could do. She couldn't just stand here and watch Mike, with his missing kidney and his grieving heart, get beaten to a pulp.

Casting around wildly for inspiration, she caught sight of the grounds crew watching the scene from near the dugout. She knew one of the crewmembers because he used to bring his Chevy truck to her dad for repairs. She ran over to him. “I need your help, Ryan.”

“For what?”

She tried to sound official and urgent. “Don't ask questions. Just do what I say. Crush Taylor sent me.”

Well, surely Crush
would
have sent her, if he'd known the plan that had flashed into her brain. Ryan glanced up at the owner's box, but Crush had disappeared. Probably drinking to the end of his hopes of hanging on to the team, thought Donna. If the Catfish looked bad before, this was beyond embarrassing. She had to stop this, not only for Mike, but for her new boss.

“Okay, Donna, shoot. What do you need?”

Two minutes later, she and Ryan jogged onto the field hauling a hose, firefighter-­style. When they were close enough to Mike and Yaz, who were still locked in a cage match, Donna waved her hand to the other grounds worker stationed back at the spigot. He cranked the handle and water spurted from the hose with so much force she lost control of it for a second. It snaked all over the place, spraying Trevor and Duke with water. Trevor threw up his hands to shield himself and Duke started yelling something at her. She couldn't really hear over the blast of the water and the incredible din of the crowd.

The damn hose seemed to be possessed as it flung water at fleeing players and coaches. With all her strength, Donna wrestled it into submission and pointed the stream of water at Mike and Yazmer, who were splayed out on the bare dirt at the base of the pitcher's mound. Water blasted onto them, drenched their uniforms, their hair, their everything, then streamed off their bodies onto the infield grass and the dirt of the mound, which quickly turned to mud.

It was a mess, but it worked. Yaz broke away first, shouting and spluttering. He rolled onto his knees and coughed water out of his mouth. Mike lay on his back, chest heaving, arms thrown over his face. Donna changed the direction of the hose so water streamed onto the grass, then yelled to Trevor.

“Go in there. Don't let them start again.”

Trevor took one stride forward, then slipped on the mud and went down hard on his rear. Next came Duke, who got about a yard from Mike before he lost his footing and splashed into a puddle next to him.

The crowd was now roaring with a different sound, one of rollicking laughter. Donna barely heard it through the ringing in her ears. She abandoned the hose and dashed to Mike's side, using the wet grass as a sort of slip-­and-­slide to reach him. His arm still shielded his face. “Mike, are you hurt?”

“Donna?”

“Yes.”

He eased his arm off his face to blink at her. “Did you just nearly drown me?”

“Yes. It seemed like a better alternative than what you were doing.”

Duke, wet and furious as a drowning bulldog, scrambled next to them. “You're suspended, Solo. You sonofabitch. You too, Yaz,” he called to the pitcher, who was slowly getting to his feet. His soaking wet uniform clung to his body. Donna had to admit he looked pretty darn good. He was a jerk, but he was ripped.

“Photo op to the max,” the pitcher said, flexing his biceps. “The Yaz don't usually do wet T-­shirt contests.”

Mike tensed, but Donna pinned his arm to the ground. “Don't even think about it,” she hissed. “Besides, you'd win by a mile.”

“Get your asses up off the ground,” Duke yelled, though his authority was slightly undercut by the fact that he still couldn't stand without slipping. Trevor stepped over and hauled him up, then steadied him. “Solo,
now
!”

Trevor reached a hand to Mike, who grabbed it and pulled himself upright. He looked bruised, bloodied, drenched, but oddly exhilarated. Donna remembered how he'd looked at the Roadhouse, the warlike gleam in his eyes as he'd taken on the Wades.

“Can someone turn off that goddamn hose?” Duke marched toward it, his cleats making sucking sounds in the wet grass. He gestured toward the head umpire, who gingerly stepped forward.

Water kept pumping onto the field while the grounds worker turned the spigot. Finally it diminished to a trickle. Donna surveyed the damage. Three wet Catfish, a furious manager, and a baseball diamond that looked more like a mud bath.

But hey—­the fight was over. Yaz kept showing off his muscles to the crowd, while Mike shook himself off. Duke and the head umpire conferred, testing the wet grass with their feet. The manager of the Express joined them as well, and they bent their heads together in furious discussion.

Oh cripes. With a sudden sinking feeling, Donna realized the inevitable consequence of her brilliant plan. The game would have to be called. No way could they play in a mud slick. It wouldn't be safe. She scanned the other Catfish, who were staring at the mess in disbelief. From the stands, camera lights flashed like fireflies.

Sure enough, Duke soon trotted off the field, beckoning to the announcer. The official word came a few moments later.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that due to unforeseen circumstances, today's game will be considered a forfeit to the Round Rock Express. The Catfish management would like to extend our sincere apologies and offer all attendees a rain check for a future game of your choice.”

The crowd didn't seem too disappointed. After all, it was already the seventh inning, and the Catfish had been on the losing end anyway. And now they were enjoying the sight of two wet and studly ballplayers striding off the field. Girls screamed and whistled, cameras flashed, the “We Are Family” song blasted through the sound system again.

Halfway off the field, Mike looked over his shoulder and caught her eye. He jerked his head toward the stadium in clear, blazing invitation. Her stomach clenched with excitement; she hadn't thought she'd ever see that wicked gleam in his eyes again.

Mike barely lasted the few moments it took to haul Donna into the physical therapist's supply closet. He slammed the door shut, turned the lock, and backed her up against the back wall. “You're nuts,” he muttered, putting his hands all over her. “And you make me crazy.” He ripped the T-­shirt over her head, then filled his hands with her sports bra–covered breasts. She shivered from the contact with his wet hands and returned the favor by dragging his drenched uniform shirt off his chest.

He took a step back and peeled off his uniform pants, so wet they were nearly see-­through. “Guess I gave the folks a show, didn't I?”

“Oh yes,” she breathed. “But not this good of a show.”

He hauled her back against him. Naked and gloriously aroused, he fixed her with an all-­consuming, hungry gaze, as if he never wanted to take his hands off her. “God, I missed you. I need you, Donna. Now.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Get naked.” The need in his voice clawed at her heart. She stripped off her shorts and leggings. The small room was stuffy from their body heat and the steam rising between them. It made her light-­headed, as if none of this was real.

“Turn around, put your hands on the wall.” Tight and intense, his voice sounded like a stranger's, but she'd know his touch anywhere. He turned her, placed her hands on the wall, and tugged her hips toward him. She felt the hot brush of his erection against the globes of her ass, the hard press of his body against hers. His hand came around to her front and caught at her curls, fingers parting her and searching until he found the piece of flesh that craved him.