Night Games (13 page)

I try to stem my tears. But there’s something about knowing he touched his naked body with that bit of fabric that makes me feel a deep, heartrending ache. I hold onto it as I wander back to my bed. If I close my eyes, it’s like I can feel him here with me. Hear his deep voice in my head. Imagine his full lips on mine.

***

Shit. I must have fallen asleep.

The sun is already setting, but I don’t want to move. My poor, miserable heart is overruling my body, demanding to stay buried under the covers, languishing in my disappointment. If I turn on the TV, it’s going to be like none of this ever happened, like he was never here and I imagined the whole thing in my mind.

But I’m too worried about him not to care what’s going on. I have to see how’s he doing. He must be exhausted, but then again he’s probably used to this kind of schedule—waking up in one city and playing in another. I don’t think I could ever adjust to all that traveling and then have to excel at such a physical job. I’d be spent after the first week, and he has to play for six months straight with a rare day off in between. But earning millions of dollars has to ease the fatigue somewhat. He can sleep all winter long.

I click the power button on the remote. Of course, the TV is already on the right channel. The game is in the bottom of the fifth inning, and the Kings are behind five to six. My breath catches when I realize that it’s Chase at the plate. I fall back against the pillows when the onscreen graphic says that he struck out twice. Great, I already missed his first two at-bats. And his streak of bad luck continues. He’s not the kind of hitter who swings and misses that often. When he gets out, he usually makes contact with the ball, either a pop fly to left or a grounder to second. That’s why he’s had so many hits in his career because he bats either first or second in the order and he’s a pro at getting on base.

I get a little lightheaded when I see his face fill the screen, because now I know what he looks like up close without his batting helmet on and how his hair fades back against his head. The camera doesn’t capture the magnetic pull of his eyes that’s impossible to ignore in person. He’s all business at the plate, but I wish I could hear him laugh again. He’s always so serious on the field. Sure, he knows how to have fun, but it’s contained when he’s playing. Not like he was when he threw my hoodie over his head and we sped away into the night.

I watch as he whiffs at curveball that breaks below his knees. What the heck is he swinging at that for? It’s too low. He knows better than that. He’s jumping at the first thing he sees, pressing too much. He needs to wait for what he wants, sit on a pitch. Not hack at everything the pitcher throws at him.

He fails to connect with the hanging slider that comes next, ending up in the hole with two strikes. This is so unlike him. It’s scary. He’s falling apart before my very eyes, and there’s nothing I can do to stop the bleeding. I can’t even freak him out behind the net at home plate because I’m not there. I’m in Stockton, a helpless bystander to his demise.

He would have to be facing the ace of the Boston staff on his first night back in the big leagues. The two teams are embroiled in yet another pennant race, and the games between them usually get heated. They’re either pitchers’ duels where the winner squeaks by with a one-run victory or slugfests that end in double-digit scores. These match-ups sell out as soon as the tickets go on sale. They’re highly anticipated, garnering raucous crowds and monster ratings. No wonder the Kings wanted Chase back in New York, but seeing him flail in front of Boston pitching isn’t making anyone feel good right about now.

“C’mon, Chase. Get a hit! Just a blooper to get you started,” I yell at the TV.

It’s like he hears me from hundreds of miles away as he tries to lay down a bunt, no doubt desperate to advance the runner on first while trying to scrape and claw his way on base. But the ball doesn’t hit the fat part of the bat and it soars high into the air, an easy out for the catcher, who’s waiting behind the backstop as it drops softly into his mitt.

Chase hurls his bat in frustration, muttering to himself as he marches back to the dugout in defeat. The fans ride him a little as he gets closer to the stands. Usually players aren’t allowed to leave the dugout during the game. They’re expected to sit on the bench no matter what happens on the field. But as Chase passes Drake in the on-deck circle, he chucks his helmet at one of the bat boys and jogs down the steps and through the tunnel into the locker room.

The camera immediately zooms in on the face of manager, Tony Liotta, but he doesn’t bat an eyelash. He’s too cool to show his reaction to his star shortstop’s uncharacteristic outburst. But the commentators are already speculating how Liotta is going to ream Chase out after the game. Liotta doesn’t run a team of crybabies and drama queens. He’s old school, expecting his players to suck it up and control their tempers. This display by Chase is so unlike him that Liotta must be reeling inside. He’s never had to deal with any problems with Chase, and this is a hell of a time to start.

It doesn’t help when, seconds later, Drake blasts a home run into the upper deck in right, crushing the first pitch he sees. The fans go berserk as the Kings take the lead, but Chase is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t come out of the dugout to congratulate Drake with the rest of the team. He stays hidden in the bowels of the stadium.

Something has to be wrong. He’s known for his great sportsmanship. For Chase, the team always comes first. He’s said numerous times that he doesn’t focus on his personal statistics—all he cares about is winning. But his behavior tonight seems to be demonstrating the exact opposite. Drake is making him look bad by getting the job done. Even if Chase doesn’t want to, he should be with his teammates, not sulking by himself at his locker. Or else it’s going to look like he’s all talk. Yeah, he’s a team player when things are going good, but the minute he has to deal with an injury or a setback, he changes his tune. It was easy for him to play the hero when he was sitting on top of the world, but now it’s like he doesn’t even want to make the effort if it’s not directly benefiting him. If that’s the case, it shows a total lack of character, and I thought he was better than that.

Maybe I placed him on a pedestal he didn’t deserve to be on, glorifying him in my mind like he’s this standup guy, when he’s nothing more than an immature brat who needs to grow up. I can’t help but notice the pattern that’s forming every time he doesn’t get his way or things don’t go right. What does he do? He bolts. Too obstinate to deal with his problems head on, he runs away from them, placing a scowl on his handsome face. Yeah, Chase Whitfield might be good at winning, but he’s one heck of a sore loser.

Getting up, I stomp angrily into the kitchen for a snack. I can’t watch Chase self-destruct before my eyes. It’s making me too upset. I can’t believe I was so wrong about him. I admit that I’m not the greatest judge of people, but it’s hard to accept that I was so off the mark about who he really is. He can’t handle any bumps in the road. He wants everything smooth and predictable, but life isn’t like that. I should know.

But it makes me wonder how he’s reached such a high level of success with that kind of attitude. It doesn’t make sense. Does he surround himself with people who simply coddle and protect him, not letting the outside world infiltrate his bubble of superiority? He is going to be in for quite a shock when all that goes away. He’s not going to be able to play for the Kings forever. That day of reckoning that he’s so anxious to avoid could be right around the corner, whether he likes it or not. There’s no escaping getting older, and then what will he do? If he isn’t careful, he’ll be left with absolutely nothing—sad and alone in his penthouse or mansion or wherever he ends up. It almost makes me feel sorry for him.

The announcers’ agitated voices draw my attention back to the screen as I scoop some month-old salsa onto a stale tortilla chip. I’m starving, but there’s nothing in the fridge. I’ll have to stop by the grocery store tomorrow after I cash my check. I spent the money I had left on my big night out at Beaver Field, so for the time being I’ll have to settle for this. Grumpily, I wander back near the TV, my ears perking up when I hear the word ‘injury.’

“If you’re just joining us, folks, it appears Chase Whitfield has reinjured himself sometime during his last at-bat. He took himself out of the game so that the trainer could attend to him. We’re getting word that it looks like he did more damage to his knee and that he’s most likely headed back on the DL. The Kings will release more details about his condition after the game.”

I back away as if someone were holding a gun to my head. I don’t stop until my butt hits the bathroom door, and I slide to the floor. This can’t be happening. Not now. Not on his first game back. Shit. I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve given him the benefit of the doubt. And what did I do? I turned on him. Just because he didn’t want me in his life doesn’t mean he’s this terrible, rotten person. I can’t blame him being upset. He has every right to be.

I roll over onto my back and gaze up at his poster. My eyes caress the contours of his face before being drawn to a series of scribbled lines in the corner. Wait a minute. What’s that? I scramble to my feet, running my fingers over the message.

Grey, I’m sorry about how we left things. If you ever want to talk, call me at Noah’s number. I hope you do, but I’ll understand if you don’t. Either way, I’m signing this poster as a thank you for taking me in. You can sell it. Keep it. Do whatever you want with it. It’s up to you.

I notice that he signed it above the fold, writing Stockton as well as the year in the swoop of the ‘F’ in his last name. Having something from the only Minor League stint of his illustrious career is sure to be a collector’s item, probably fetching upwards of two thousand dollars. I could have the poster cut in half to get rid of the note he left for me on the bottom and frame it. Chase is well aware that personalized items are worth far less when it comes to selling memorabilia. For the most part, dealers are only after a player’s signature, nothing more. Knowing the state of mind Chase was in when he signed this, I’m touched even more by the thoughtfulness of his gesture. It shows that maybe he really does care about me, although probably not as much as he had before he found out about my past.

I should call and thank him, but it’s not a good time. I don’t even know if Noah’s anywhere near him right now. The sportscasters are saying that they’re sending him to the hospital for an MRI. He’s dealing with a lot right now. Trainers, coaches, clubhouse workers—everyone must be all up in his face. Sure, he’s used to that, but after suffering such a setback, he probably wants to retreat into himself, but he can’t. He has to keep up a front while all eyes are on him, but once he’s alone he’ll probably collapse under the weight of it all. And no one will be there to pick him up or lift his spirits.

On TV, they’re showing a lot of activity in the Kings dugout as Tony Liotta actually leaves his post and strides back through the tunnel. He never leaves his seat during a game, so this thing with Chase must be serious. Staff members are milling about behind the scenes as the camera zooms in to get a closer look. And in that moment, I catch a glimpse of Noah with a forlorn expression on his face.

A plan starts to take root in my mind. So what if I have work tomorrow? Chase needs me, and if Noah’s there with him, the chances of my gaining access just got a whole lot better. Maybe Noah can arrange something so I can thank Chase in person for the autograph. Let him know it’s not over. I’m still here if he needs me. I’m willing to work through this if he is.

I can’t bear the thought of him grappling with all this pain and frustration without me. I can help him. I know I can. I just have to work up the courage to go to him, even if I fall flat on my face. He could very well send me away or refuse to see me, but I have to make this leap of faith or I’ll never forgive myself. I know I can cheer him up and get him back on his feet. Sure, he’s been knocked down again, but he’s a champion. He knows what it takes to claw his way to the top. He’s a fighter who doesn’t back down. He’s the guy who wants the ball hit to him when the game is on the line.

I just have to remind him of that.

Chapter Sixteen

Chase

I’m out for the rest of the season.

The news still hasn’t sunk in yet. I brood silently as Noah drives us back to my apartment from the hospital. Dr. Brownstein, the orthopedic surgeon who operated on my knee, said that the chances of my ever playing again aren’t very good. He didn’t count it out entirely, but he explained just how bad the tear in my ligament really is, showing me the results of my MRI. Thankfully, our conversation took place in private without having any representatives from the Kings present. For the time being, Dr. Brownstein is shielding me, aware of how much is at stake if tonight’s game turns out to be the last time I ever took the field at Kings Stadium.

I stifle a moan, and Noah clears his throat, trying to pretend like he didn’t hear me. I don’t even care about maintaining the whole macho act. If I can’t play baseball, my life is essentially over. I have nothing without the game. It defines me. I don’t know who I am without it. It’s all I’ve done since I was five years old. I’m not capable of doing anything else, and frankly that scares the shit out of me, because what am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?

Other guys have wives to go home to, kids to take care of. I only have myself to worry about. Nothing to fill the endless void that now looms in front of me. I always go crazy in the off-season, counting the days until spring training. Now that kind of empty existence is going to be my life and I don’t think I can handle it.

“Do I drive right up to the door?” Noah asks, breaking the silence.

Somehow he found his way to the Roosevelt Building without much help from me as I zoned out next to him. I guess it helps that it has one of the most recognizable addresses in the world, located right on Fifth Avenue. I grit my teeth as Luis the doorman comes out to greet me. I really don’t feel like forcing myself to be polite to anyone right now.

“Yeah, go ahead, man. Leave the keys in the ignition and one of the valets will park it in the garage.” My voice sounds dead even to my own ears.

“I can find somewhere else to crash if you want to be alone.” Noah looks at me hesitantly, unsure of how I’m going to react.

“Don’t be an idiot. C’mon up. I might not exactly be the life of the party, but am I ever?” I give him a weak smile before doing my duty and making small talk with Luis.

My limp is more pronounced than ever, and Noah shortens his stride to match mine as we head toward the bank of elevators. It’s late, and there’s no one milling around in the lobby, thank God. I just want to sink into bed, curl into a fetal position, and pretend like this day never happened. And maybe when I wake up tomorrow I’ll find myself transported back to Grey’s trailer with nothing more pressing than covering my eyes against the rays of the morning sun.

Grey. I can’t even go there. If I do, I won’t be able to hold it together. I was an idiot for what I did to her. She was a stripper. So what? She’s not anymore. She could’ve been here, holding my hand through all of this, but I had to turn up my nose at her. I was holding Grey to some impossible standard, like she wasn’t good enough for me because she didn’t meet all of the requirements on some imaginary checklist. This virginal, pristine ideal I’ve been carrying around with me for far too long. Who was I kidding? Girls like that don’t exist anymore.

Yeah, I know all about women’s lib, but for some reason, I got caught up in some bullshit fantasy, picturing the qualities I wanted my future wife to have. Talk about stupid. I could have been with the one person who broke through the bullshit that is my life. Instead, I made her feel unworthy, when the truth of the matter is I’m the one who isn’t worthy of her.

Before I met Grey, I had a vague concept of what I thought love was. I viewed it as finding a woman who was willing to devote her life to making me happy, someone who would look out for me, and in return, I’d lavish her with every luxury imaginable. Even if we didn’t have a lot in common, if the sex was good and she didn’t hassle me too much… That’s all I wanted. I had no expectations of anything greater than that—no soul mate connection or some shit like that. As long as the woman I married didn’t do anything to stir up the tabloids and kept a low profile living in my shadow, I was fine with committing myself for the long haul.

But now I see just how much I was selling myself short. When the real thing hit me between the eyes, I was blindsided by it. I’ve never experienced anything like the force of attraction that pulled me toward Grey. It made me feel helpless, powerless, yet alive at the same time. It’s like she snapped me out of a stupor I didn’t even know I was in. The haze lifted from my life, and I was able to see clearly for the first time in years. She made me not want to settle for anything less than what she had to offer.

The elevator chimes, and I step blindly forward with Noah at my back. Reaching for my wallet, I swipe my keycard in the slot, granting us access to the penthouse floor. Noah whistles in appreciation as he shifts the duffle bag on his shoulder.

“When did you have time to pack?” I ask, trying to ignore my haggard reflection in the brass-covered door.

“I didn’t. These are just the clothes I tossed in the back of the car on my way out the door this morning. I thought I’d work out on the machines at Beaver Field while I was hanging around, waiting for you, but that plan sort of fell through.”

“I have a personal gym upstairs, with a sauna and everything. Feel free to use it whenever you want.” I’m not trying to brag, even though it sounds like I am. I’m just so tired that my inner douchebag is on autopilot.

The door opens and Noah sighs in amazement behind me. Sometimes I take what I have for granted. I don’t even bother to notice my possessions or be grateful for what I have. It all blends into the background when the problems of my life tend to overshadow everything else. It’s not often that I stand back and enjoy all the things I’ve worked so hard for. It’s probably because I don’t have anyone here to remind me how extremely fortunate I am. I’m only living for myself.

“Dude, that is one fucking incredible view. You can see the whole city from here. Central Park. The Empire State Building. The Brooklyn Bridge. You really are the king of New York.”

Not anymore,
I want to groan, but I let Noah soak it all in and rhapsodize to his heart’s content, his nose pressed up against the glass like a little kid. Maybe I can adopt Noah. Then I won’t be alone. That’s an idea.

“Chaize, iz dat you?”

I cringe inwardly at the sound of that irritating accent. Shit. I didn’t think she’d be here. But then I was supposed to be in Stockton. I thought we’d miss having to spend time together while she was in New York for a photo shoot. But I guess even the best laid plans are doomed to fail.

Noah’s jaw drops to the floor as Irina Portanova waltzes out of my bedroom wearing nothing but a silk nightie. I can tell he’s very familiar with her work as a lingerie model. He probably gets her catalogs mailed to his door. He’s completely unhinged as she glares at him and mutters in that contrived blend of French and English she calls a language.

“Chaize, who iz dis man?”

“I’m Noah…Noah Martin, Chase’s driver…uh, butler…I mean, manservant.”

“What the fuck iz dis?”

“I met him in Stockton. He’s going to be helping me out for a while.” That’s about as much of an explanation as she’s going to get. She doesn’t have the right to question my decisions. She’s practically a member of the staff herself.

“Iz dis some kind of joke? He looks like a chubby baby.”

“Noah, don’t even listen to the shit that comes out of her mouth. I certainly don’t. Feel free to sleep in whatever room you want. I’m gonna crash. See you in the a.m.” Without another word, I limp toward my bedroom. I’m embarrassed that Noah’s standing there watching as Irina follows me back after he just saw me have a fuckin’ meltdown over Grey. But what can I do? This is who I am. This is the real me.

As soon as the bedroom door closes, I start removing my clothes, anxious to crawl into bed and sleep it off. Dr. Brownstein gave me some pain meds, and if I’m not going to be able to play anymore, I might as well take them. Who cares if I develop an addiction to them now? It’s not like it’s going to be an issue. I’m already out of the game. The rules and regulations governing the sport no longer apply to me.

I saunter into the adjoining bathroom that’s larger than Grey’s entire trailer, trying not to feel guilty about the level of extravagance I’ve grown accustomed to. The maids have the mini fridge in here fully stocked, and I pull out a bottle of sparkling water to chase down my prescription. Popping off the lid, I stare down at the white pills swimming before my eyes. Not taking a minute to think it over, I toss three into my mouth and take a swig from the bottle. It’s done. No going back now. The life I’ve known is officially over.

I prop my hands against the full-length mirror, unable to escape my reflection. Who is this person with the listless eyes and defeated posture? I don’t even recognize him. I don’t think many people would. He’s a new creation, a failure of my own making. The Chase Whitfield who has nothing to lose except himself. What’s the use of holding on when there’s nothing to hold on to? No one’s going to catch me if I stumble. It’s nothing but a freefall from here. Why should I even try to hold it together anymore?

I bash my forehead against the glass, wishing I could just disappear and not have to face the vixen waiting for me on the other side of the door. But I’m not that heartless. I can’t kick Irina out in the middle of the night. I’ll break it off with her tomorrow, after I call my agent. What’s the use of pretending any longer? It’s not like I feel any loyalty toward her. We’re complete strangers, even though we’ve shared a bed for the last six months. She means absolutely nothing to me. For what it’s worth, I might as well have been living with a plastic blowup doll.

“Chaize, are you all zight?”

And I fucking hate the way she says my name.

“Uh huh,” I grunt, stepping out of my boxers and tossing them in the laundry bin. I try not to glance down at my knee. If it looks as bad as it feels, I don’t want to know. There’s nothing I can do about it now. It already cost me my precious career.

As I take a piss, I think back on all the milestones—first game, first hit, first home run, first World Series. They all felt great at the time, but they were all pretty insular experiences. Sure, I shared those moments with my teammates, but it’s not like I can cuddle up with one of the guys on a cold winter night and relive them until the wee hours of the morning. And the guys who are left on the team from those glory years don’t even talk about them anymore. They’ve moved on. They’re memories that only exist on DVD now, recorded for all posterity. They’re frozen in time in a place I can no longer reach. The future looks bleak if my best days are already behind me. What’s there to look forward to? Getting old and watching my body break down before my eyes? Sounds like a blast.

I gotta make a change. I can’t go on like this. I shuffle out of the bathroom and see Irina sprawled on my king-sized bed. I yawn, blatantly showing my lack of interest in having sex with her.

“Would you rather I zuck your dick?” Irina drawls, crawling off the bed and getting naked right along with me.

No, I want the complete opposite actually. I want someone to hold me in her arms, run her fingers through my hair, and tell me everything’s going to be okay. Someone I can cling to, who would listen to me. Ease my anxiety. Soothe my fears. Someone I can open up to and lean on for comfort and support at a time like this. But she’s not here. She’s in Stockton. All I have is this foreign piece of ass gazing at me with a hungry expression. She doesn’t want me. She just wants my body. Maybe I’ll let her have it. What the hell? Maybe it’ll take my mind off my goddamn knee.

Irina is already bending down, holding onto my thighs, ready to get to work, when there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

“What the fuck, Noah? Go away. I told you I’ll see you in the morning.”

I’m not used to having houseguests, and I must have forgotten to lock the door. It starts to slowly open, and I get ready to unleash a firestorm on Noah’s ass. He’s about to get an eyeful with Irina’s mouth hovering over my dick, but it serves him right. What else does he think we are doing in here? Playing footsie?

“It’s not Noah. It’s me.”

And that’s when I lose my shit, because I’d know that voice anywhere, and it’s too late to stop this from happening as Grey steps into the room, letting out a horrified gasp.