Night Games (3 page)

Chapter Four

Chase

This is turning into a circus and I’m the main attraction.

I pinch my brow beneath the brim of my brand new Stockton Beavers cap, willing my headache to go away, but I don’t anticipate that happening any time soon. Reporters are yelling directions at me as I climb the dugout steps, but I ignore them. I’m not here to pose. I’m here to work. So that’s what I’m going to do.

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd as I take the field. A spontaneous round of applause erupts amid calls of, “Love you, Chase!” and “Go Whitfield!” Well, that’s nice. I wasn’t expecting such a warm response. I didn’t think people in Pennsylvania even rooted for the Kings. I thought they’d be fans of Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. I guess becoming the home of our Triple-A franchise must’ve converted them.

The Kings organization supposedly refurbished Beaver Field last year, but they didn’t replace the friggin’ turf. I feel my cleats digging into it already. A lot of guys get injured on its unforgiving surface. It’s not easy on the joints either. I’m sure I’m going to feel it later. And playing defense is always tricky because the ball tends to make a lot of weird hops. It’s certainly not the ideal situation for my first game back, but I’m a professional. I can handle it. I’ve played on turf before in domes in Minnesota, Tampa Bay, and Toronto, just never in an outdoor environment like this. Coupled with the sun setting right behind the pitcher’s mound, the playing conditions aren’t what I’m used to. It doesn’t help that I’m already sweating like a motherfucker.

I remove my cap and wipe my head against my sleeve. Since my sexy therapist didn’t travel with me from Florida, I checked in with the Beavers’ trainer as soon as I got here. He’s familiar with my case, and he briefed me as to what warm-up exercises I’m supposed to do. Expectations are high, and there’s no room for error. Ratings of Kings’ games have fallen since I’ve been on the DL, and ticket sales at the stadium are down too. I’m needed back in New York as soon as possible in order to boost ratings and attract more fans to the ballpark. Millions of dollars are riding on my recovery.

I look around at the kitschy environment as I stretch my legs. There’s a giant inflatable baseball beyond the center field wall along with a lawn area where families are sitting on blankets in the broiling sun. A bucktoothed beaver mascot is encouraging fans to clap as some dude in a suit and tie throws out the ceremonial first pitch. The public address system is issuing a last call to buy ‘Bucky Balls,’ whatever the hell those are. Yeah, I’ve officially entered the Twilight Zone.

Some chick in the stands is screaming, “Chase, bend over!” so I purposely look in the opposite direction. But she doesn’t let up. “Chase, shake it for me, baby!” The heckling is coming from somewhere behind home plate. Great, like I really feel like listening to some bigmouth for the next nine innings.

Members of the press are stationed in front of the dugout, busily snapping away at me. I’m surprised by how many there are. All the major media outlets are here to cover my return. If I fail, the whole world’s going to know. This isn’t a night to go 0 for 4.

After completing my sprints, I motion for one of the ball boys to come over and join me. The kid points at his chest and mouths the word, “Me?” like he can’t believe I’m talking to him. I nod and he runs over like he just won the lottery.

“I need you to play catch with me. Think you can handle that?”

He nods emphatically, too tongue-tied to say anything.

“All right, get your glove and let’s go.”

I toss him the ball, and he drops it. I try not to groan. The kid is undoubtedly star-struck, but the game’s starting in ten minutes and I need to loosen up. He better pull himself together. It’s a simple game of catch, not a headfirst dive into the stands.

He seems to settle down, and we go back and forth as I steadily increase the distance between us. The cameras are clicking away, capturing the indelible image of a baseball legend playing with a young boy. People eat this shit up. I don’t have to utter a word. This picture will do all the talking for me. I can already see it splashed on news sites across the web.

It doesn’t hurt that I have a children’s charity that connects low-income kids with free baseball equipment. The board members of my foundation are going to love this. It might even lure in some of those big-name investors we’ve been after. The goal is to reclaim some blighted land in urban areas across New York in order to build more fields where kids can play and learn the game. If not for Little League, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I’m all for giving back—just as long as I don’t have to have any kids of my own.

I can see the curiosity in the faces all around me as they watch me play with the boy. My fellow Stockton teammates are spying on us through the webbing of their gloves. Reporters are scribbling away, peering up from their notepads. Fans are sitting forward in their seats, following the arc of the ball between us.

Everyone always asks me when I’m going to start a family of my own. They’re practically foaming at the mouth, imagining the continuation of a dynasty through a Chase Whitfield, Jr.—sure to be a bona fide baseball prodigy destined to carry on my legacy. But who says I even want kids? They’re noisy and needy and a pain in the ass. Sure, the little ones can be cute when they’re not drooling all over the place, but the older ones are downright awful. From what I’ve seen, it’s a generation of demanding brats, crying because I didn’t pose for a picture when I was running to catch a flight or whining that I didn’t autograph their balls when I just finished signing for over a hundred people. It’s never enough for these kids, no matter where I encounter them. Why would I ever want to have one of my own?

“Hey, Whit! Are you about done?”

The third base coach brings me back to reality, and I glance quickly at the scoreboard clock. Shit, it’s 7:01. I should be off the field instead of acting like I own the place.

I signal to the ball boy that it’s time to stop. “Thanks, kid,” I call out, patting him on the head as I rush by, causing his cap to fall down over his eyes. I don’t even stop to find out his name.

A teenage girl is standing at home plate, ready to sing the National Anthem. She’s gazing at me adoringly. She’s kind of hot, so I give her a wink. Her face turns crimson just as it fills the Jumbotron.

“Chase, you can wink at me any time!”

It’s that heckler again. I’m closer to the seats now, but it’s coming from higher up. I pretend to wipe my brow again as I raise my eyes. And there she is. Decked out in a sparkly top and waving like an idiot.

“Chase, can you see me?” People are starting to laugh at the way she is carrying on. Her speech is already slurred and the night is young. If she continues, I’m gonna have security escort her out. I can’t have any distractions taking me out of the game. Sure, I’m used to people yelling profanities at me—and worse—but in Major League-size stadiums. Here, every voice is amplified. The fans aren’t rows back; they’re practically sitting in my lap.

I take the dugout steps two at a time and slug down a quick gulp of Gatorade from the cooler in the corner. I haven’t really had a chance to converse with any of the other guys. But if they’re going to back me up on the field, I need them on my side. Hurriedly, I close my fist and bump knuckles with everyone on the bench. Some of them seem just as star-struck as the ball boy, and some of them look just as young. How old are they anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen? I suddenly feel like an old man.

“And now for your Stockton Beavers!” the announcer says with an overabundance of enthusiasm and the crowd goes wild as a cartoon image of the mascot, Bucky Beaver, fills the screen, his one giant tooth chomping through a baseball bat emblazoned with the logo of the opposing team.

I make the sign of the cross as I do before every game. I’m not overly superstitious, not like some guys, but I like to keep my same routine from city to city. It grounds me when I’m in unfamiliar territory, and Stockton certainly qualifies.

It looks like the guys are waiting for me to lead them onto the field. They’re giving me that honor. I might actually feel good about it if I didn’t have a furry woodland creature stitched across my chest. Can this get any more ridiculous?

They follow me out of the dugout and the crowd roars in approval. A thrill of excitement courses through me. I’m back in the game. I may be playing for the Stockton Beavers, but I’m back doing the only thing I know how to do, the only thing I’m good at. Playing baseball. On the field is where I thrive.

“Leading off. Shortstop. Number three. Chaaaaaaaaaase Whitfield!”

If the fans were loud before, now they go absolutely berserk. Pounding their feet. Whistling through their teeth. Screaming at the top of their lungs. I guess Noah wasn’t exaggerating when he likened my playing here to a coronation. I stand stoically between second and third, a lump forming in my throat. I haven’t even had one at-bat yet.

The announcer finishes reading the starting lineup then asks everyone to rise for the National Anthem.

The little hottie I winked at begins to sing breathily at first until her voice quivers as it cracks on the high notes. So much for small-town talent… I cringe as I hold my hand over my heart. So what if I got her flustered? When it’s showtime, it’s all about being able to deliver under pressure. Nothing’s able to rattle me when I’m on the field. Nothing.

“I love you, Chase!”

That nut isn’t going to quit, is she? The starting pitcher is getting ready so I steal a quick glance behind the plate. There she is, raising a large plastic cup of beer in the air. There’s a sharp crack of the bat and suddenly the ball is headed right toward me, but I’m out of position. I was too busy looking for the heckler that I took my mind off the game. I leap as high as I can and manage to knock the ball down but it bounces away from me. Damn turf. Scrambling, I pick it up and make an off-balance throw, but it flies into the opposing dugout instead of into the outstretched glove of the first baseman.

A murmur rolls through the crowd as the scoreboard flashes E6. Fuck! I made an error on my first play back.

That girl is dead.

Chapter Five

Grey

My heart breaks for Chase.

Some asshole starts to boo as he leaves the on-deck circle for his last at-bat of the game. Man, he’s having a horrible night, striking out three times and looking severely overmatched at the plate. The pitcher’s not even throwing that hard—ninety-two tops—but he can’t catch up with the fastball. His timing is way off. Batting practice at the Florida complex isn’t the same as facing live pitching, and it’s starting to show. He’s not ready, even though the Kings seem to think he is.

There’s a slight limp to his gait that’s been getting more pronounced as the game has gone on. I knew the turf wouldn’t be good for him. His knee is probably swelling beneath his uniform. They should take him out and ice it up before it gets too bad. How else is he going to play tomorrow?

I’m so preoccupied with watching Chase that I don’t even realize Erin’s not standing next to me anymore. I whip around in search of her, holding my breath until I spot her in an adjacent aisle, talking to the usher. He’s scratching the back of his head while she pesters him about something. It’s the bottom of the ninth inning; why is she bugging him to sit down now? We’ll be leaving in a couple of minutes.

The usher reluctantly nods his head and she jumps up and down before giving the startled man a clumsy hug. She looks up at me and gives me a huge grin before running down the cement steps to field level. She keeps going until she’s between home plate and the roof of the Beaver dugout. With phone in hand, she leans over the railing, right at the moment Chase takes the bat off his shoulder.

The flash of her camera must have disturbed him, because he stops mid-stride, checking his swing. The umpire emphatically yells, “Strike!” and a cacophony of boos start to rain down upon him. What the heck is wrong with these people? It’s his first game back. Give him a break. He’s on his way to three thousand career hits for crying out loud. Talk about fickle.

I know the motions he goes through in the batter’s box by heart after watching him for so many years. Pulling up his sleeve. Touching the plate with his bat. Rubbing his eyes. So my radar goes up when he just stands there and doesn’t move. It’s like he’s staring someone down. I follow his line of vision and my stomach drops.

He’s looking right at Erin.

Oh no. I have to stop her. She’s holding up her phone again, getting ready to take another picture. Chase has two strikes left. He needs this at-bat, and Erin can’t screw it up for him. The Beavers are down by one run. If they lose this game, the sports reporters are going to blame it on the runner who scored in the first inning—the one who reached base because of Chase’s fielding error. His whole comeback is going to unravel once they start picking apart his performance. Sure, he made some mistakes, but everyone’s allowed to have an off night, especially playing on turf at Beaver Field.

Without even thinking, I jog down the steps, giving the usher a tight smile as he lets me through. The guy in the suit and tie who threw out the first pitch yells to me as I fly by his seat, “Why don’t you tell your friend to shut up, sweetheart? I’m sick of listening to her already.” I pretend like I don’t hear him and keep going. Luckily, the Jackalopes’ manager is out on the field, talking to the pitcher. I’m almost there.
Hold on, Chase. I’m coming.

My heart is thudding in my chest as I reach the bottom step and hop over a half-empty carton of popcorn and a carpet of peanut shells. The last thing I want to do is fall on my butt in front of all these people.

“Hey, Grey! You came down. I didn’t think you had it in you.” I try not to think of how close I am to Chase Whitfield right now. He’s like twenty feet away through the protective netting draped behind home plate. He might actually see me. I don’t turn my head. I’m too afraid. Instead, I keep my eyes trained on Erin.

One of the straps on her tank is falling off her shoulder and her mascara is smudged under her eyes. Her flat-ironed hair is frizzing out and her face is all red. She looks rabid. There’s no better way to describe her. She’s had five large beers in three hours so she definitely has more than just a buzz going on.

“Grey, you should see the awesome shots I got! I even got a closeup of his butt when he was bending down.” Since a lot of people in this section have already left, her voice carries even farther than it should. I have to get her out of here—now.

“C’mon, Erin. Let’s go back up.” I reach for her arm, but she jerks away.

“No way! I waited all night to get down here and I’m going to enjoy the view!” She lets out a, “Woot woot!” as she blows Chase a kiss.

I feel the intensity of someone’s eyes drilling into my back. I know it’s Chase, but I don’t want to confirm it. He probably thinks we’re two white-trash sluts who can’t hold their liquor in public. I’m dying inside. I never thought I’d ever be this close to Chase Whitfield, and to know that he probably hates my guts is making me sick.

“C’mon, already! Would you sit down?” a guy in the third row shouts over to us. “Let ’em finish the damn game!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that play has been halted on the field, but I don’t know why. Did something happen? Did they take Chase out for a pinch hitter? Some of the players in the Beaver dugout are on the top step, pointing at us.

I jump when someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” A burly security guard is bearing down on me from behind. I can see how big he is by the size of the shadow he’s casting on the ground in front of me. I’m out of options. I have to turn around and face him. I just hope he’s blocking Chase from view.

“What?” Erin croaks, a little wobbly on her feet as she steps forward.

I concentrate on the guard’s eyes and nowhere else. They seem friendly, like he doesn’t want to do this but he has to. Much like the position I’m in at the moment. Things will go a lot more smoothly if we work together.

“I’ve been instructed to escort you ladies out. Please follow me.” He raises his hand, indicating that he wants us to take the stairs in front of him. Apparently, he doesn’t trust us enough to let us walk behind him. He’d rather bring up the rear. And based on Erin’s behavior, I can’t say that I blame him.

“Just go!” another fan screams out. “You’re holding up the game!”

So Chase is standing there, waiting for us to move before stepping back into the batter’s box? Oh God. Erin’s been yelling all night long. He probably got fed up and sicced security on her. It’s a douchebag move, flaunting how much power he has. C’mon, he has to be used to drunken fans heckling him by now. Why is Erin bothering him so much? Showing his displeasure for all to see. Making a spectacle out of her. What a prima donna. My sister’s crazy, but she doesn’t deserve to be publicly humiliated. She can handle that just fine on her own, thank you very much.

Thinking fast, I know I need something to entice Erin up the stairs. She’s standing on her toes, shifting from side to side, trying to see Chase from around the security guard’s massive frame. “Erin, don’t you want to get a good spot outside the players’ entrance? Chase is probably going to be signing after the game. We should get outta here now and beat the crowd.”

I don’t have to say another word before she brushes past me and stumbles hurriedly up the steps, sloshing whatever beer is left in her cup on her sequined top. She doesn’t seem to care because she doesn’t slow down any.

“Thank you,” the guard says sincerely. “But I’ve been asked to direct you to the parking lot. You’re being ejected from Beaver Field. You won’t be able to linger anywhere else on the property.”

In the background, I hear the game resume as the umpire calls strike two. I’m facing a losing battle, so I don’t put up much of a fight. I don’t think I could ever face Chase after this fiasco anyway. It’s not like he wouldn’t recognize us, even if we were mixed in among the throng of fans that is sure to be waiting for him after the game.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

The security guard moves out of the way just as the umpire yells, “Strike three.” Chase angrily tosses his bat, yanking off his gloves. I should look away, but I can’t. No good can come of this. I’ll only be kicking myself later. But I have to see him, even if Erin’s theatrics ended up costing the Beavers the game. I’ll never be this close to him again. It’s now or never.

His blue eyes return to the scene of the crime, instantly locking with mine. They’re dark with a pent-up rage simmering beneath the surface. No one’s ever looked at me like that before. Like I’m the one who caused all this. Like I’m the reason he’s going to take a beating in the press. Like I’m to blame for his lousy performance tonight. Grey Kelleher, the source of his every torment.

I want to break the silent battle that’s brewing between us, but I refuse to be the first to look away. I’m not backing down. I had nothing to do with his failure to deliver on the field. He doesn’t even know me. I raise my chin and challenge him head on.
Bring it, Whitfield.

My heart starts to pound as he gets closer and closer to the stands, never taking his eyes off me. What is he doing? Is he coming over to chew me out or something? Oh God, what if he does? I don’t like fighting with people. I can’t remember the last time I got into a screaming match with anyone. I’ll probably shrink into a ball and let him say whatever he wants to say. Have him vent and get it over with.

He walks all the way to the backstop. The only thing separating us now is the thin layer of mesh that makes up the net. His eyes are even more breathtaking up close, swirling in a storm of blues and greens. They pierce like a laser through my heart. I can’t tell if he wants to rip my head off or devour me with his mouth. There’s something there that I wasn’t expecting. Like he’s letting me see the real him, something he doesn’t allow a lot of people to see.

He’s furious, and he’s outwardly showing it. It is unusual behavior for him since he’s so revered for his composure. Chase Whitfield never cracks under pressure or says the wrong thing. He swallows his emotions and smiles for the camera. But not this time… This time he’s pissed.

He’s just about to say something, ready to unleash a tirade on my ass, when he stops and bends down. His mouth is hidden from view, but I can still hear him as he levels a warning at me.

“Don’t even think about coming back here this week. You got that?”

He stands up, holding his discarded Louisville Slugger in his hands. It’s usually the ball boy’s job to retrieve the players’ bats, but he came to get it personally in order to deliver a message to me. I don’t know whether I’m flattered, mortified, or both.

When I don’t acknowledge his request, his eyes find mine again, daring me to contradict him. It’s obvious he’s used to getting what he wants. No one ever says no to him. His arrogance is making my stubborn side rear its ugly head. He’s expecting me to nod and dutifully comply. But I’m not going to do it. He can kiss my ass.

I stare him down as he backs away. It’s like we’re battling each other for dominance over something I don’t quite understand. He’s used to being the victor and willing people into submission, but he’s mistaken if he thinks I’m just like everyone else. Because I’m not… I don’t care who he is. He’s not going to intimidate me.

It kills him to have to break eye contact when a reporter shoves a microphone in his face. But this isn’t over—not by a long shot. If he wants a fight, then that’s what he’s gonna get. I’ll hunt him down all night long if I have to. There’s no way in hell he’s getting away with this.

Let the stalking commence. I’m not going to rest until I have him down on his injured knee, begging for mercy.