Sliding Home (5 page)

Center fielder and team
captain Risk Kincaid cut a glance over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Criminal,
dude.” Risk was a decent man. He played hard, gave time and money back to the
community.

Psycho McMillan, radical
right fielder and known nudist, had major testies. “Shaved head—are you
manscaping? Waxed chest? Trimmed hedge around your lawn ornament?”

Psycho baited and waited.

Kason never gave Psycho the
satisfaction of a response.

The two men had butted
heads from the moment they'd met. From grand slams to snagging fly balls out of
thin air, they had daily pissing contests. They were rivals on the same team.

Kason had yet to fit into
the organization. Within the fraternity of sportsmen, he was considered
antisocial. He kept to himself, preferred it that way.

The more Psycho razzed him,
the stronger Kason's game. His palms itched to slam the first home run of the
season into the upper deck. Let Psycho match his batting stats.

Crossing to his locker, he
caught Rhaden Dunn's double take. The first baseman's locker flanked Kason's.
Dunn was one of few players Kason tolerated.

“Damn, bro, you lose a bet?”
Dunn asked as he stepped into his sliding shorts.

“More a win-win.” Kason
methodically prepared for the morning workout.

In twelve minutes flat,
he'd changed clothes, grabbed his glove, and hit the field. He was the first
man out.
 
The stillness settled his
nerves. No breeze. No fans in the stands. No grounds or maintenance crew. No
general manager or coaches.

He leaned against the
dugout, looked out toward left field, where he made his living. The grass had
been mowed, a checkerboard of light and dark squares. The warning track was smooth.
The outfield walls were heavily padded.

He scanned the advertising
billboards on the outer walls and inwardly grinned. The left field sign
promoted a major insurance company. An international tennis shoe line stretched
across center. A hemorrhoid cream backed right.

The sign couldn't have been
more appropriate. Psycho McMillan was an asshole.

Rolling his shoulders,
Kason inhaled the new season.

The playing field was level
on Opening Day.

All teams had the same
goal: to win the World Series.

He would contribute all he
had to the Rogues.

Born under an athletic
star, he'd known at an early age, winning was everything. Losers weren't
celebrated.

By age eight, Kason had
played with heart.

At ten, he'd grown thick
skinned and kicked ass.

Turning twelve, he'd known
baseball was his future.

He didn't, however, always
play well with others.

He did solitary best.

Solitary.
The word drew his thoughts to Dayne. His time with
the tomboy had come to an end. After practice, he'd see her off.

Kason stretched, then worked
the outfield for ninety minutes. He caught every ball batted into left, as well
as stole a couple pop-ups meant for Risk Kincaid.

“Damn, Rhodes, play down,”
Kincaid shouted at him. “It's not October.”

Kason preferred to play
flat out from day one.

He spent another hour in
the batting cages, until his shoulder felt fluid and a little tired. Next the
players divided up, each choosing a dugout for their three-inning scrimmage.

Kason looked down the home
team's bench. Rhaden Dunn and starting pitcher Brek Stryker stood with him in
the dugout.

He and Stryke had a
history. Prior to signing with Richmond, Kason had played for the Louisville
Colonels. During a game in Louisville the previous season, Kason had turned
Brek's no-hitter into a one-hitter. Back in Richmond, Stryke had bare-handed
one of Kason's hits for an out.

Brek had broken nearly
every bone in his hand on that catch. Surgery and a six-week rehabilitation had
followed. Afterward, respect connected the men, and now they played on the same
team.

Presently, they were six
players short for the scrimmage. The coaches grunted, sent several second
stringers their way.

The Bat Pack leaned against
the railing in the visitors' dugout, all cocked eyebrows and shit-eating grins.
They believed the scrimmage an easy win.

“They're out for blood,”
Rhaden predicted.

“Psycho's got that kick-ass
look in his eye,” Stryke agreed. “Someone needs to remind him that we're all on
the same team.”

Kason understood Psycho. At
that moment, they were two very separate teams competing for the scrimmage title.

A growl rose from deep in
his gut.

He grabbed his glove and
jogged to left field.

Game on.

With the first pitch, the
men became boys. They got down and back-lot dirty. The coaches allowed a few
broken rules as adrenaline rushed and competitiveness charged the field.

An hour later, both dugouts
emptied into the locker room. Psycho's practice uniform was grass stained and
bloody.

Romeo's pants were ripped
at both knees. Catcher Chase Tallan had cleat tracks up his shin. Kason's team
had won, 2-1.

“Your bald head gave you
superpowers.” Psycho's sarcasm hit Kason as both men snagged towels on their way
to the showers. “You totally unleashed.”

Kason's need to win had
proven strong. He'd fired a ball from left-center to put Psycho out at home
plate. A showcase throw worthy of any pennant race.

Psycho had slid home
headfirst. He'd scraped his forearm and jammed his little finger. Called out,
Psycho had gone apeshit on the coach/umpire. His protests had fallen on deaf
ears.

The wild man had leaped
high to catch a ball meant for the lower deck. Psycho had slammed the wall with
such force, he could've dislocated his shoulder.

“You robbed me of a home
run,” Kason had said as a backhanded compliment. “You fired your jet packs.”

“Butt bruise.” Chase Tallan
checked out his backside in a mirror over the sink. “Stryke nailed me with an
eighty-mile-an-hour changeup.”

“You're lucky it wasn't his
fastball,” said Psycho. “He'd have reamed you a second.”

Kason caught his own
reflection in the mirror. He'd have a shiner by morning. As Kason was rounding
third, Romeo had stuck out his elbow. The poke to Kason's eye had blurred his
vision before he'd headed home.

He rolled his shoulder now,
felt the soreness that came from compressing nine innings into three. Rivalry
brought out his warrior, even in scrimmage. He'd ice his shoulder once he got
home. He refused to show weakness in the locker room.

“Rematch,” Psycho called to
Kason as the men left the showers.

Kason cut Psycho a look. “You
must like losing.”

***

By two thirty, Kason
realized he'd lost Dayne. He'd picked up her bike, which looked as close to new
as it was going to get. Then he'd pulled into Frank's Food Warehouse and had
her paged.

Instead of Dayne, he'd
gotten the store manager. The man said business had been slow and she'd
volunteered to punch out. After some quick shopping, she'd split.

The manager went on to add
she'd faced a long and tiring walk with two big bags of groceries. Yet she'd
insisted on leaving.

Kason shook his head. The
last thing Dayne needed was more food.

He hopped back into his
Hummer and drove home. He didn't see any dropped cans or a trail of bread
crumbs along the road, so whatever she'd purchased had made it back to the
trailer.

Cimarron's bark greeted his
arrival. He caught a glimpse of the Dobie in the front window, right before the
drapes were drawn.

Drapes?
What the hell? He'd never had curtains.

Kason tore out of his
vehicle and jogged to the front door.

Something felt off. Very
off.

A cardboard box sat by the
steps. Inside it, he found his duffel bag, the zipper open, his clothes thrown
in. A replacement can of tomato soup topped a pair of brown boxers. Tomboy was
trying to bounce him.

A twist of the door knob,
and he realized she'd changed the locks. A marbled gray knob had replaced the
worn brass.

Kason would bet his
paycheck she'd set a dead bolt as well.

If the tomboy thought a
change of hardware would discourage him, she was greatly mistaken. This was his
mobile home. He was about to toss her ass.

Three

Dayne Sheridan pinched back the curtain and peered around the frame of
the front window. She'd heard Kason approach, had pressed her ear to the door
as he'd tried the knob. Then there'd been silence.

Silence was not good. Silence suggested sneaky.

Where had he gone?

She nearly jumped out of her skin when her cell phone rang. Without
checking the number, she flipped it open and whispered, “Hello.”

“Dayne, baby.” Mick Jakes's radio-tempered voice stopped her heart. “I've
given you a shout every morning on my show for a week. Why haven't you called
in?”

She hadn't listened to the radio since he'd dumped her. She hated the
fact that his call made her chest squeeze. And that she couldn't catch her
breath.

“We have nothing more to say.”

“Give me five,” he pleaded. “I've boxed the books and clothes you left
behind—”

“Which I would have packed, had you not changed the locks on the condo,”
she reminded him.

“Where are you living?” he asked. “I need your address for shipping.”

A mail service kiss-off. UPS was impersonal. Slap on a packing label,
and a brown truck would deliver her past.

“Donate the items to charity.” There was no reason to tell Mick she'd
moved to Richmond.

His softly spoken, “I've missed you, Dayne,” surprised her.

“You're dead to me.” She wanted to kick him in the nuts.

“We had good times,” he returned. “I've never worked with a better Baby
Gherkin.”

The dancing pickle?
The
memory remained vivid. The radio station had sent Mick and Dayne to an
on-site remote at Pinelli's Deli. While Mick interviewed the owner and wrapped
his jaws around a mile-high sandwich, a costumed Dayne hip-hopped and handed
out sweet gherkins.

She'd felt silly, and her hands had smelled like pickle juice for a
week. Yet she'd have done anything to promote Mick's career.

“Life happens and situations change,” he said.

“You
changed, and it affected me
most.”

“It was a business decision with benefits.” His remorse was minimal. “I
guess you've figured it out by now. I had an affair while we were engaged.”

“Who'd you do?”

You son of a bitch.

“You don't want to know.”

Oh, yes, I do.

“You owe me a name.”

His confession stabbed her in the back. “Willow Clarke.”

Sex for career advancement. Mick Jakes had screwed the big-breasted,
bottle-blonde station manager to reach syndication. Dayne had trusted Willow.
She'd shared her wedding plans with her boss. And Willow had betrayed her.

Sick to her stomach, Dayne turned off her cell phone. She should never
have spoken to Mick. He made her feel like a loser.

Several seconds passed, and her cell again buzzed. She saw Mick's number
was the incoming call. She dropped her phone and stomped it to death. Fragments
and wires soon scattered the floor.

A faint beep indicated he'd left a message.

She kicked the cell against the wall.