Caught by You (17 page)

“Her loss. It works for me.” The smile he directed at her sent warmth gushing straight to her heart. “So your parents split up when you were, what, twelve or so?”

“Eleven. My mom had itchy feet. She always used to tell me that, and I never knew it was a figure of speech. I thought she had athlete's foot or something. She has an awesome voice, and one night the Redneck Diamonds came through town—­they're a country band—­and she was in the audience, just singing along. One of the band members heard her singing and pulled her up onstage. She left the next day, with them. Never looked back. Well, I mean she sends me postcards and calls and stuff. And I stayed with her in L.A. when I had Zack.”

“She abandoned you.”

“No, no, I don't see it that way at all. I think she stayed eleven years longer than she wanted to. I'm a lot like her. We both like to joke around and make ­people laugh. Play the clown.”

“What about your dad?”

She rolled her eyes, gave a salute to Colonel Kilby, and headed toward the next landmark. “You saw him. What you see is what you get. I once clocked him at twenty-­six hours without saying a single word. His happy place is on his back under a car. It's a freak of nature that I'm related to him in any way. I'm my mother's daughter, one hundred percent.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

“Fine, I have my dad's red hair. Other than that . . .”

“You stayed. For Zack.”

She stopped in her tracks, at the intersection of Twelfth and Main, and stared at him for what seemed like an eternity while his words sank in. Yes, she had stayed, like her father, and completely
unlike
her mother. It didn't matter if Zack was three or twelve or seventeen. She'd stay as long as he needed her. But she'd never looked at herself and her family in that light.

Mike was returning her gaze in a steady, quizzical manner. Her face started to heat, and she wrenched her gaze away before she got too crimson in the face. Why did he have such a good opinion of her? Hadn't he noticed all her many flaws?

Desperately, she waved her arm toward the end of the street, at a squat building surrounded by scaffolding. “Do you want to see the fort?”

“I'm a boy. Of course I want to see the fort. I never knew there was one.”

“Well, it was actually a hiding place for a group of bandits during the Mexican-­American War. But beggars can't be choosers, so we call it a fort. The city's been working on restoring it. Just in case tourists get bored with the Alamo and want something with zero historical significance and an awesome gift shop.”

She showed him the crumbling brick building with arched windows and an old pump-­handle well in the courtyard. In the starlight it had a mysterious ambiance, as if ghostly bandits might be lurking in the hedges.

Mike must have felt it too; he gave a shiver and hugged her closer. “Well, it's no Sears Tower or Chicago Mercantile Building. Or Wrigley Field. Or—­”

“I see your point. Our historical landmarks suck compared to yours.”

“Hey, don't talk about my adopted town that way. I like Kilby. There's plenty of space here, nice ­people, rocking weather. And there's you.” He dipped his head to brush his lips against hers. Tingles danced across her mouth and her lips parted. Just like that, she wanted him.

Perplexed, she tilted her head back and frowned at him. “Where did you come from, Mike Solo? I mean, one minute you were that cute, funny guy I had a secret crush on, the next we're engaged to be married and possibly going house hunting. How does that happen?”

He straightened. “You had a secret crush on me?”

“Yeah, but don't let it go to your head. I've also had crushes on Channing Tatum, the shift manager at Kroger, and my driver's ed teacher, until I found out he wore a rug. And that's just a small sample.”

“I get it. I'm nothing special. Just another one of your many crushes. Did those guys do this?” He spun her against his chest and danced her around the empty, starlit courtyard, faster and faster, until she begged him to stop. Then he kissed her, long and deep and hot and hungry.

When he'd kissed her dizzy, he released her, so suddenly she nearly fell backward. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?”

“No,” she managed. “They didn't do that. You win. I'll tell those other guys to forget all about me. It's going to be especially hard on poor Channing. I don't know what he'll do without me crushing on him, actually.”

“He'll live,” Mike said, callously. “Now, as for the others, anyone I need to have a talk with? Do I need to march down to Kroger and find that manager? Set the record straight that you're with me now?”

That possessive tone made her melt. Mike was too good to be true. Too endearing, too appealing, too dream-­come-­true.

But he wasn't a dream come true. He was a mirage. So close, and yet never to be hers. Not really. Not in the way she wanted.

Suddenly furious, Donna shoved a hand against his chest. “Look, Solo, get over yourself. You don't need to act all possessive and jealous. It's not like you're in love with me.”

The words fell between them like little bombs. He looked thunderstruck. She instantly wanted to take them back. Why, oh why, did she have to blurt things out in that disastrous way? What now, what now?
Play the clown. Make a joke
. “Wait a second . . . that's it! You
are
in love with me. You have been all along, and this whole thing was a secret plot to lure me into your web of seduction. Admit it, Solo. You looooove me!” She twirled away from him, across the old bricks of the courtyard, and belted out the first song that came to mind—­“Love Is an Open Door.”

She'd subjected him to
Frozen
enough times that she knew every word. Duplicating the choreography right there in the bandits' courtyard, she ran to the locked door that led into the fort. “Can I say something crazy?” She kept singing, alternating between Anna's lines and Hugh's, as she twirled across to the pump handle, linking her little finger with it when she got to the “jinx” part. “Jinx. Jinx!” She turned a stop sign on the corner into an imaginary cuckoo clock, mimicking Anna's motions as she sang about mental synchronization.

Never in her life had she tried so desperately to clown her way out of a mess.

Finally Mike laughed, her cue to bring her crazy reenactment to an end.

“You should put that on YouTube,” he told her, slinging an arm around her shoulders and guiding her away from the courtyard. She grinned, mostly from sheer relief that she'd successfully wiped away the memory of her slip-­up.

Because as much as she and Mike enjoyed each other in and out of bed, as great a guy as he was, as many kind and thoughtful things he did for her, she knew the subject of love was completely off the table. It was going to stay that way, forever.

The sooner she accepted that, the better.

 

Chapter 17

“O
K
AY,
Z
ACK.
W
HAT
have we learned today? How many innings are in a baseball game?”

“Nine!”

“Unless . . . ?”

Zack screwed up his face and sucked on his juice box. “It rains?”

“Well, yes, but also, unless it's tied. Then we go to extra innings. Can you say that?”

“Extra innings!” Exuberantly, he flung his arms into the air, sending a few drops of apple juice against the dugout walls. Mike had gotten special permission to show Zack the inner workings of Catfish Stadium, all part of his campaign to convince the kid of baseball's superiority over every other sport.

Donna had gotten a desperate call from the Gilberts; they were having a cocktail party and needed someone to watch all the guests' kids for two hours. The only person they trusted with their rich friends' children was Donna. Mike had jumped at the chance to spend some time with Zack.

“That's good. High five.” They exchanged hand slaps. “Now, the most important question of all. What's the best sport in the entire world?”

Zack cast him a wicked sidelong glance. “Football!”

Mike groaned and dropped his head to his hands. “You're doing this to torture me, aren't you, kid? You know what, you remind me of someone. A certain redhead who's nothing but trouble.”

Trevor Stark came their way, a bat slung over his shoulders. He stood before them, twisting his torso back and forth. “I heard the word ‘football.' We got a football fan here?”

“No,” said Mike, at the same time that Zack shouted, “Yes!”

“Who's your team, kid? I'm a Lions fan myself.”

“Lions? Didn't know you were from Detroit.”

“You don't know sh . . . squat about me, Solo.” He corrected himself with a quick glance in Zack's direction.

“You got that right. Hey, how 'bout we keep it that way.”

“Fine by me. I wish we could make that work both ways. The fact that I know you picked Texas A&M colors for your wedding kinda makes me ill.”

Mike couldn't disagree with any part of that statement. The colors were god-­awful, but Donna was still trying to impress the judge. And he didn't care for the amount of attention the town was paying to the wedding details. But that was the whole point. The more their wedding was in the spotlight, the better Donna's chances of convincing the judge she was no longer the irresponsible girl who had given up her child to her ex's parents.

Get Zack back
. He was totally on board with that mission, and every moment he spent with the kid made him more so. Right now Zack was swinging his legs against the bench, a happy, sticky presence. He seemed unfazed by all the wedding talk, probably because he was too young to understand what any of it meant.

Dwight Conner wandered over, bent down, and did a complicated handshake with Zack. Utterly delighted, the kid grinned from ear to ear, looking so much like Donna that Mike's heart did a slow rotation. “Yo, dude, I heard Bieberman's not feeling so hot today. You gonna play shortstop for us?”

“What's shortstop?”

Mike explained. “The guy who stands between second and third and fields most of the ground balls in a game. You up for it, kiddo?”

“Yeah!”

“All right! See, I knew you were a baseball fan at heart.”

“Can I make some touchdowns?”

Mike slapped a hand onto his chest. “You're killing me. Hitting me right where it hurts.”

The guys laughed, and Zack grinned up at them. Just like his mother, the little imp.

Trevor caught sight of Angeline, the promotions girl, who had just come onto the field. “I'll catch you guys later. Important business meeting.”

“Sure, you go take care of business, bro. Bieberman's probably crying his eyes out in the can.”

“Never said he couldn't take his shot,” said Trevor arrogantly. “It's a free country.”

Dwight shook his head as Trevor loped across the field. “You know what that guy needs? A little rejection. You can't call yourself a real man until you've gotten your heart crushed to grape jelly.”

“Nice image.” According to that definition, Mike had qualified as a man four years ago.

At that point, Zack had to go pee, so Mike took him inside the clubhouse, which was empty except for Terry, the irritable physical therapist, who was replenishing the clubhouse's supply of mentholated ointment. Mike gave her a wave and showed Zack to the toilet. The TV was tuned to the channel that would show the Friars' game set to start in the next hour. The two announcers were doing a wrap-­up of the day's sports news. Mike leaned against the wall and lazily watched as they discussed the standings. He smiled broadly when they mentioned Caleb Hart's outstanding performance in the first two months of the season.

“He's been rock steady this year. Not the phrase we usually use for Hart, but he's earned it.”

“Maybe his time in Kilby made the difference. Crush Taylor, love him or hate him, has a knack with pitchers.”

“Tell that to Yazmer Perez.” The color announcer chuckled. “He's busy blowing up social media with his CrushIt campaign. Have you ever heard of a player going up against a team owner?”

“That I haven't. It's fascinating to watch, kind of like a clown car wreck. Then again, if you want a crazy news story, you can always count on Kilby.”

“That's true, but this story does bring up some hot button issues. Reminds me of the days when the players were upset about women reporters coming into the locker rooms. Same thing, except now we're talking about gay reporters.” He turned to the show's guest, a former player for the Red Sox, who could always be counted on to say something controversial. “What's your take, Buck?”

“Well, I gotta hand it to Yaz for having the stones to speak his mind. Everyone's so politically correct these days. So here you have a guy who feels strongly about this issue, and he's a player in the locker room, so it affects him, and he's basically representing other players who don't want to go public about their stance. Agree or not—­and I'm not saying one way or the other—­my hat's off to Yaz for his honesty.”

Honesty
. Mike clenched his fists, his entire body going rigid. There wasn't one ounce of honesty in Yaz's body, except the part that said he wanted everyone to pay attention to him.
Honesty
. Did anyone really believe that? Did they believe that Yaz represented the beliefs of other players?

Donna's comment flashed through his mind.
He's a baseball player, you're a baseball player. You should go on TV. Do a PSA or something
.

And then that infallible, impossible-­to-­ignore inner voice spoke up, loud and clear.
She's right
. Oh bloody hell.

Could he . . . ? Should he . . . ? His family would be mortified. He'd have to get Joey's permission. He wouldn't do anything without Joey's consent, no matter what his freaking intuition told him.

A small hand tugged at his. He looked down to see Zack gazing up at him with wondering eyes. He must have been standing there like a stalagmite for some time. “Did you wash your hands, buddy?”

“Yes. When's Mama coming?”

He checked his watch. Donna was probably on her way by now. “Let's give her a call. I need to get suited up for the game anyway.” And he had a bunch of calls to make. If he was seriously going to do what his conscience was telling him, he needed to get busy.

After handing Zack over to Donna and putting on his uniform, Mike barely had time to squeeze in a call to Joey. He picked an out-­of-­the-­way corner of the tunnel that led to the dugout, out of earshot of the players.

“Hey, big brother,” he said when his brother's voice came on the line. “Got something important to run past you.”

“This is not the best . . .” Joey's voice sounded scratchy and distant. Probably a bad connection, since the clubhouse was notorious for its poor reception.

“You okay? How's my kidney?”

“Processing the aftereffects of a dirty martini.” Now that sounded more like Joey.

“Nice. Party it up, bro. Listen, I've been thinking I want to shake things up.”

“Didn't you already do that by getting engaged? I want to meet her, Mike. Soon. Send me your travel schedule. I'm not teaching any summer school this year.”

That was odd. Joey loved teaching so much that he seized every opportunity to take on extra classes.

“Sure, I'll send it to you tonight. But I'm not talking about Donna. I'm talking about going public.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do a PSA or something.”

Joey was ominously quiet. “A PSA for what?”

So maybe he hadn't quite thought this through. “Gays?”

Joey laughed, breaking off into a cough.

“Seriously, are you okay, Joey?”

“I'm okay. Honored to be considered someone who needs a PSA. What's going on, Mike?”

Mike filled him in on the situation with Yazmer. Joey didn't say anything for a long time. Background noise filled the gap—­a woman's voice, the beeping of a monitor. His heart sank. Joey must be at the hospital, and now Mike was adding to his stress.

“Listen, forget it, Joey. The last thing you need is reporters bugging you, and if I do this, there might be a few. Not as many as Yazmer gets, but the whole point is to go public. So the goal would be to . . . never mind.”

“Listen, Mike.” Joey cut him off. “I'm fine with it. Just give the family a heads-­up, because they won't be happy. But there's something—­”

“Solo! Get your ass into the dugout. A kid who called 911 and saved his whole family from a house fire is about to sing the frickin' National Anthem.” Duke's voice thundered down the corridor. “And then we have a cat who's going to throw out the first pitch. It's a circus, Solo, you don't want to miss it.”

“Coming, Duke.” He spoke into the phone again. “What were you about to say, Joey?”

“Call me later. It sounds like you need to go.”

“I will. And I'll deal with the family, don't worry about that. Love you, Joey.”

“Love you too. Blast it out of the park, my brother.”

Mike skidded back to the clubhouse, tossed his phone into his locker, and barely made it on the field in time for the 911 kid.

Yazmer had the start. When he jogged onto the field, noise swelled in the stands. Some applause, some boos, but it didn't seem to matter to Yaz. Noise was noise. He waved cockily, and set his cap on his head at the particular angle he preferred, just within regulation. Mike muttered as he took his position behind the plate. If only he didn't have his damn Father Kowalski ethics, he could mess with Yaz a little. Call a bad game, or just let Yaz call the shots. Tip the batter off to his next pitch. So many ways he could sabotage Yaz. One crap game wouldn't affect Mike's stats, unless he missed a catch, but it would affect Yaz's.

The Reno Aces' batter, Dave Foster, came to the plate. “Heads-­up, Solo. I'm aiming straight for that asshole's mouth.”

“I didn't hear that,” Mike answered with a laugh, before lowering his face mask. Foster stepped into the batter's box, Mike went into his crouch and signaled for a fastball. Yaz shook it off. He called for the curve. No go. He went through all of Yaz's pitches, then finally called time and jogged out to the mound.

“What the fuck?”

“You on the D-­L, Schmooz-­o Solo?”

Clearly, the man didn't mean disabled list, but Mike hadn't a clue what he did mean. “What are you talking about?”

“D-­L. Down-­low. Can't trust a catcher that plays it both ways.”

Mike stared at him blankly. Finally it clicked.
Plays it both ways
. Dave Foster had been spotted in a gay bar once, though he denied he was gay. Mike didn't care one way or the other, but apparently Yaz did. And Mike had been laughing with Foster before his at-­bat.

“You miserable little shit, start pitching or get off the mound.” He gestured at the stands. “These ­people didn't come here to watch you exercise your neck muscles shaking me off.”

Mitch, the pitching coach, jogged onto the field. “What's up, boys?”

Yaz and Mike were still locked in their stare-­down. Yaz smirked. “I want me a different catcher.”

“That ain't your fucking decision,” said Duke, who had carted his bulk from the dugout. “It's either Mike or that cat that threw out the first pitch. End of story.”

“Bozo Solo's a big fail on the get-­Yaz-­to-­the-­bigs gig. Different catcher, I'd be King of the Friars by now.”

Mike would have given his left nut to be able to punch the smirk right off the pitcher's face.

Yaz went on. “What I hear, that cat'll make the biggies before Solo does.”

Mike's gut clenched. Is that what ­people were saying? He'd been distracted by Donna and all that glorious sex they'd been having. His stats were still good, but he hadn't been obsessively checking the transactions the way he usually did. He didn't know what trades had been made, or what moves the Friars were making. And he'd made so little progress with Yazmer that the guy was requesting a different catcher.

Way to go, Solo.

“Keep this up, neither of you will make it,” barked Duke. He had just enough authority to get through to Yaz, whose smug smile dropped.

Bieberman piped up nervously. “I'm allergic to cats. Anyone else allergic to cats?”

Everyone turned to stare at him. “I think that cat might have pooped on the infield grass,” he added, shrinking back from the array of intimidating glares. “Can someone . . . maybe . . .”

Mike cut him off. “Yaz and I were just trying to get our signals straight. No need for a summit meeting here. We got this.”