Covering Home (8 page)

Caleb exhaled. “You rock, Yoshi!” He jogged toward the dugout.

After a few high fives and fist bumps, an odd tension blanketed the dugout. Instead of congratulating him on his stellar performance, a troubled expression clouded Shin’s face. Jason stared at the ground.

“Shin?” Caleb planted his hands on his hips and glanced from Jason to Shin. “What’s going on?”

“You must not show disrespect to Kentaro,” Shin said.

Huh?
“This is baseball. The whole objective is to strike him out.”

Shin shook his head. “Not today.”

Caleb’s gut twisted. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Jason and Shin spoke to one another in Japanese.

“No, no, no.” Caleb waved his hand in front of their faces. “Say what you need to say. Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“It is Japanese custom. Honor and respect our heroes. No striking him out. I hope you understand.” Shin placed his hand on Caleb’s arm.

Caleb shook him off, reached for a discarded Gatorade bottle, and hurled it across the dugout, releasing a string of profanity with it. The bottle careened off the opposite wall and skidded under an empty chair.

He understood, all right. No matter how hard he tried or how well he performed, he’d never trump the customs and traditions of this foreign land.

Bottom of the fourth inning and the bases were loaded. The Rays had finally scored two runs, and the Senators had responded with three straight hits. Caleb leaned over and scooped up a handful of dirt from the mound, letting it trickle through his fingers. He needed a minute. The crowd was so loud he could hardly hear himself think. Shin’s words about honor lingered in the back of his mind. But his competitive drive struggled to embrace the concept of subduing his performance to placate such a … foreign way of thinking. Never in his life had a coach or a manager asked him to hold back in favor of glorifying the opponent.

As Kentaro Hashimoto stepped into the batter’s box and pointed his bat toward the outfield wall—again—Caleb’s adrenaline surged. He had a choice to make. If he let the hometown hero swing for the fences, then the go-ahead run might cross home plate. He would earn positive marks from Shin in the obedience category but set his team up for failure. Not to mention earning the dreaded “L” in his first outing as a Rays pitcher. He shook his head, both at Taka’s sign and at the absurd situation.
Not gonna happen.

He wound up and hurled his fastball toward home plate, willing it to find its way to the recesses of Taka’s mitt. Hashimoto swung too late and the umpire signaled a strike.
Yes.
Shin came and stood at the railing that divided the dugout from the field. Caleb avoided eye contact and watched Taka’s fingers instead. Yes, he’d throw his change-up. Good call, Taka. The ball released from his fingers, soaring toward the strike zone, just as he hoped. For a second, he thought Hashimoto would bunt, but he swung and missed again.

The crowd was absolutely beside themselves. The chants, cameras flashing and undulating blur of blue and white was almost more than he could take. He wavered in his game plan. What would this mean for his future if he threw another strike?

Turning the ball over and over in his hand, he covered his mouth with his glove. Drawing a deep breath, he knew what he needed to do. Wanted to do. Exhaling, he planted the ball in his glove, wound up and threw what he hoped was the best curveball of the night. Hashimoto didn’t stand a chance. His bat sliced through the air, his torso twisting as he grimaced. The ball smacked Taka’s glove. Strike three.

Caleb bit his cheek to hide his satisfaction. Man, that felt good. He allowed himself a quick scan of the crowd. Their excitement fueled his competitive nature. No amount of disapproval on the part of his manager could squelch this moment. He had a game to win.

Shin hadn’t moved from the railing. He looked at the ground, his arms clasped behind his back as Caleb approached. While his teammates lined up to greet him, Caleb hesitated on the top step when Shin reached out and touched his arm. “Get some ice. You’re done.”

Caleb stared in disbelief. “Really?”

“Really. We talk another time.”

Caleb brushed past Shin, shaking his head. So this is how it is. He half-heartedly slapped the outstretched hands extended by his teammates, but their subdued reactions spoke volumes. One of the trainers from the sports medicine staff was already waiting with two bags of crushed ice and an elastic wrap. Caleb sat down on the bench at the end of the dugout and held out his arm, wincing as the ice bags contacted his skin.

Jason eased onto the bench next to him. Caleb lifted his other hand to silence him. “Don’t. Just don’t. Whatever he told you to say, I don’t want to hear it right now.”

Jason nodded and slunk away.

There was nothing anybody could say to make him feel better. He’d done what he’d been trained to do since his Little League days … strike out the batter. And all it earned him was a lonely seat on the bench. He slumped against the dugout wall. “What am I even doing here?” he whispered.

Chapter Eight

Britt flashed her press credentials at the security guard and tried to squeeze past him onto the baseball field. Reporters from every major newspaper and television station in Tokyo had swarmed the field after the Senators won the game. Even getting near a baseball player would be tricky.

“No.” He held out a gloved hand to stop her, shaking his head in disapproval.

She frowned, waving the plastic card on the end of the lanyard around her neck. “What do you mean?”

He spoke quickly in Japanese, holding up both hands now to emphasize his point. She didn’t have a clue what he said, but he obviously wouldn’t let her get by.

“Is there something I can help you with?” a familiar voice asked from behind.

Britt whirled around to find Caleb standing there, a half-smile on his face. He still wore his Rays uniform, although there wasn’t a speck of dirt on it, and his cap was pulled low over his eyes. Something wasn’t quite right.

“Wait a minute. You’re—”

“Don’t you have some questions you’re supposed to ask me?” He gestured to the empty seats in the first row of the stands. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Britt opened her mouth, then closed it again.
What in the world?
She looked at the chairs, scrambled to compose her thoughts, and then gave Caleb a careful appraisal. “Did you get hit in the head with a line drive? Why are you making this so easy for me?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Like I said, why don’t we grab a seat?”

Britt fumbled with her smartphone, determined to record his responses. If only she hadn’t been separated from Paul. In their rush to get down to the field, she’d lost him in the throng of reporters and cameramen gathered around Kentaro Hashimoto.

“So.” Caleb sat on the chair, propped his elbows on his knees and flashed a disarming smile. “How about those Senators, huh?”

Whether it was the absence of hair protruding from the back of his cap or the easy-going smile, Britt wasn’t sure which detail solidified her hunch. “Let’s talk about what’s really going on here. How long are you planning to keep up this ridiculous charade?”

His smiled faded. “What?”

“Oh, come on,
Ben.
I’m not stupid. You may be twins, but you can’t fool me. Your uniform isn’t even dirty.”

Two small apples of color flushed Ben’s cheeks. “I told him this wouldn’t work.”

“Where is the coward, anyway?” Britt craned her neck, scanning the whole field. “Would the real Caleb Scott please stand up?”

“He’s probably halfway back to the hotel by now.”

Britt groaned. “You’re joking, right?”

“I wish I was.” Ben lifted his cap and scratched his head. “He’s irate. Refused to talk to anybody but me after the game.”

“That’s a little childish, don’t you think?”

“I can’t say that I blame him at this point. He was hired to throw strikes. That’s what he did and the manager benched him. I’d get my dander up, too.”

Britt did a double-take. “Did you say, ‘Get my dander up’? Is that Wyoming for ‘ticked off’?”

Ben smiled. “Yep.”

“I wish he’d give us a few minutes, offer his perspective on tonight’s outing. That’s the kind of the thing our fans back in the States want to hear.”

“Maybe I can help you out,” Ben said.

“If this is what you call helping, I’d rather figure this out on my own.”

“Point taken. But I’m still his twin brother, the only one who knows what really goes on inside that head of his. Believe it or not, my intentions are good.”

Britt massaged the dull ache forming at her temple. Marne was going to go ballistic if she didn’t come up with something quick. There was a story here, she could feel it. Dragging it out of Caleb didn’t appear to be an option, so she was forced to beat him at his own game: using his decoy as her ally.

Here went nothing.

“All right, then. Talk to me, oh wise one. How will Caleb recover from tonight’s disappointing loss?”

“No way.” Caleb zipped his duffel bag shut and glared at Aaron.

“Look, I know you’re upset. I don’t blame you. But they’re waiting for you.” Aaron took off his uniform top and tossed it into his locker.

“Whatever. Tell them to go talk to Kenny, their hometown boy.”

“You can be bitter and sarcastic, man. That’s cool. But you should still go out there.”

Caleb shouldered his bag. “Were you watching the same game I was? I’m talking about the star of the show, Kentaro Hashimoto. In case you missed it, he hit a three-run homer in the ninth inning.”

Aaron stood his ground. “But you struck him out. Twice. The Japanese like to talk at length about technique. Most of their questions will be about your training and preparation.”

“No, they won’t. Because there won’t be any questions.” Caleb brushed by him and out of the locker room. The tunnel was almost empty, except for a few players coming off the field to hit the showers. He caught a glimpse of reporters fanned out around a Senators player standing on a make-shift podium, smiling and gesturing to his audience.
Hashimoto.
Caleb turned and headed for the exit.

Outside on the plaza surrounding the Tokyo Dome, people moved in the general direction of the train station, eager to get home before the trains stopped running for the night. The briny scent of fish and seaweed—mixed with the familiar aroma of beer—hung in the air, hinting at the festive atmosphere that had presided over the plaza prior to the baseball game. Caleb readjusted his Phillies hat and fell into step behind a young couple.

It was a short walk across the plaza to the hotel. He’d intentionally put on jeans and a black T-shirt after the game in an effort to look like every other American male in Tokyo. While he couldn’t blend in with the masses, surely he could go three minutes without signing an autograph.

“Excuse me? You sign?” The young Japanese man asked with a timid smile.

Then again, maybe not. Caleb stopped walking and took the pen and paper thrust at him. “Sure.”

After he signed, Caleb passed the pen and paper back to the man.

“Thank you,” the man said.

“You’re welcome.” Switching his bag to the other shoulder, he made his way across the plaza.

The entrance to the hotel was in his sights when he noticed a small crowd gathered near the revolving door. He stopped and watched, plotting his strategy to get inside unnoticed. A woman broke free from the group and waved, strutting toward him. “Oh, Caleb Scott. Is that you?”

He froze. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He’d know that voice anywhere. “Hello, Lane.”

“It is you. I knew it. Come on, give me hugs.” She pressed her tiny body against him, craning her neck to air kiss both cheeks. Lane was every inch the Hollywood actress in her towering high heels, black leather pants, and sequined tank top. Pulling back, her sweet perfume—probably from her own fragrance line—hovered over them like a cloud. “It’s been ages.” She let her hand linger on his arm.

“Has it?” Caleb shrugged, feigning ignorance. As if he didn’t know seven hundred and forty-two days had passed since their last encounter.

“Silly, you know it has.” She jutted her collagen-filled lips into a pout. “Why don’t you ever call me?”