Night Games (2 page)

Chapter Two

Chase

I’m used to looking down on the world.

As the team’s private jet descends into Stockton, I wish I could stay up in the clouds instead of plastering a fake smile on my face. The next few days are going to suck, no doubt about it. But as long as they get me back to the big leagues, I don’t care. I can put up with the small-town shtick if I’m able to rejoin the Kings next week. Terry, the GM, is being a dick for sending me down to the minors when I could just as easily work out the kinks in New York.

Sure, I haven’t faced live pitching in three months, but I’ve never hit below three hundred either and it’s not like I’m going to start now. I was already taking batting practice at the Florida complex. Yeah, I spent more time with the physical therapist than on the field, but she was too sassy to ignore. Having me constantly strip down to my underwear didn’t help either. It wasn’t long before she was joining me in the hot tub for those water therapy sessions after giving me a massage. My knee might not be a hundred percent, but my dick sure got a workout.

“Mr. Whitfield, can I get you anything else?” I recognize the sultry look the stewardess is giving me. I get it all the time from women. If only we had a little more time, but the game starts in a couple of hours and I have to get to…what’s it called again? Beaver Field? It’s sounds so pathetic that I almost want to laugh. Almost. I remember joking about how I’d never be caught dead playing there. And here I am. It’s like, for the first time in my career, life is mocking me instead of the other way around.

I’m not used to being considered subpar at anything I do. I’m a winner, a champion. Making me complete a rehab assignment with the Stockton Beavers is such a slap in the face. Contract negotiations are coming up once the season ends, and it looks like the team is trying to get the upper hand in lowering my market value. I’m thirty and coming off a prolonged stint on the disabled list. Management is going to try to make it sound like my best days are behind me. Well, they have another thing coming. I intend to prove the haters wrong. I just have to get back to the majors to do it. I don’t want to waste any more time in Stockton than I have to.

The oncoming runway is short and the plane rapidly loses altitude in order to meet it. The sharp change in the cabin’s air pressure sends a shooting pain through my skull. I grimace as the landing gear roughly touches down on the mountaintop runway. I’m going to have a headache all day now. I can feel it. Great. Just great.

I catch a glimpse of the tiny airport through the window. Hopefully, I’ll be able to connect with my driver without too much commotion. I don’t travel with bodyguards or any type of security. I like to keep things low-key, but in a small town like this, my presence is sure to attract attention. I can’t blend in with the crowd like I usually do in New York. I’m going to stand out.

And there’s nothing I crave more than my privacy. For years, I’ve stayed out of the gossip columns and shied away from the spotlight. Sure, my celebrity hook-ups are well documented, but they’re all for the camera. If I were really into a girl, the press sure as hell wouldn’t know about it. I’d keep her out of sight. No one would even know we were together, much less know her name. But fat chance of that happening any time soon. I haven’t come across a woman who makes me want to expend the effort. I’m not exactly the monogamous type, and there’s no way I’m paying some gold-digger alimony after she catches me cheating on her. It’s bound to happen, so why tempt fate? I’m happy living it up as a bachelor, the envy of every guy in America.

What I don’t often admit is that sometimes it gets old. I see my teammates with their wives and kids and it hurts. They have what I’ll never have, even if they don’t see their families for more than half the year. During the season, we travel so much that sometimes it feels like I’m on a plane more than I’m in a car. If I ever do get married, I think I’d wait until after I am done playing so that I could be home more. There’s nothing worse than a long-distance relationship, and at this point, I know I’m not ready to make the necessary sacrifice. My roving eye would certainly get the better of me. There are just too many beautiful women out there to be tied down to just one.

I reach for my leather case and shove in the documents Steve, my agent, sent me to read. There’s talk of another book deal, but I’m not into it. I hated having a ghostwriter follow me around the last time. And being that I’ve been in such a rotten mood lately, it’s not the smartest idea to have someone analyzing my every move. I’m so tightly wound I’d rather not have a journalist witness me flying off the handle.

I like being in control, and there’s nothing I’m more obsessive about than my image. I have a Google alert sent to my phone every time my name is mentioned. It helps me stay on top of my publicist in squashing any false rumors or nasty gossip some lowlife scum tries to pawn off as the truth. People post some crazy shit about me on the internet. Supposedly, I’ve had every sexually transmitted disease known to man. I’ve paid off women to keep their mouths shut about our one-night stands. I’ve been having a closeted relationship with Kings’ third basemen, Drake Schultz, for years. Yeah, I’ve heard it all, but I also know how to spin bad press to my advantage by getting ahead of the story and framing the narrative.

Other guys eat that shit up when they hear about all of my supposed conquests in the bedroom. It’s like they’re giving me a high-five through the virtual universe. I’m living their dream. Banging every
Maxim
pinup girl and lingerie model in existence. I’m the embodiment of the ultimate male fantasy. I’m a sports god. I get to play a game for a living and make millions of dollars doing it. I can have any girl I want, and one day my face will be immortalized in bronze in Cooperstown. It doesn’t get any better than that, right? Yeah, if they only knew what it was really like.

The chances of getting close to someone are slim to none. Everyone I meet always wants something from me. An autograph. A picture. A moment of my time. It irritates me to go to a restaurant only to have someone at the next table recording a video of me slurping my soup on their phone. I could stay home and subsist on takeout. I could order room service when I’m on the road. But I refuse to live my life like a prisoner of my fame. I like going out in public and enjoying myself. I only wish these social media addicts would give me a break. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve started reprimanding them out loud, and the majority slink away with their tails between their legs. Sometimes it pays to speak up in order to wrest some power away from these obnoxious pests.

Now don’t get me wrong, most of the time I don’t mind engaging with fans, especially the kids. But when I’m eating, that’s an invasion of my personal space and I refuse to be bothered. I decline their requests politely, but sometimes the interruptions are constant, one right after another, after I’ve already said that I’m not signing. And that’s when I start to lose my cool. I could be trying to have a conversation with the people at my table and someone’s tapping me on the shoulder, shoving a crumpled napkin and a Sharpie in my face.

But the worst are the ones who follow me around with backpacks crammed with memorabilia—balls, cards, posters, and everything in between. They’re not looking for a personalized memento. Oh no. They’re hoping to make a quick buck off my signature. It’s bad enough that I have to sit for hours at sports shows or sign thousands of numbered items for deals my agent agreed to. But to have some paparazzi-like con artist try to swindle me for a profit? That gets my blood boiling.

“I can’t wait until you’re back playing in New York, Mr. Whitfield.” The pilot salutes me as I reach the cockpit, drawing me out of my negative headspace.

“You and me both, Merle. I hope you won’t be seeing me in person for a while.”

“I take it you’re being driven back to the city when you’re done in Stockton?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good luck to you, sir. Hit one out of the park for me tonight.”

“Now, Merle. You know I’m more of a line drive guy.”

“That’s right. Mr. Whitfield definitely knows his way around the bases,” the stewardess interrupts, trying to get me to notice her again.

I shoot her a withering look. I’m not big on people jumping into a conversation I’m having with someone else. She’s coming on a little too strong, hungry for my undivided attention.

“He sure does,” Merle complies, but he’s too old school to pick up on the sexual innuendo behind her statement.

“Thanks for flying with us, Mr. Whitfield.” She extends her hand, and with the pilot watching, I have to take it, even though I’d rather not. Her fingers wrap around mine as she presses a piece of paper against my palm. It’s the oldest trick in the book. I didn’t even bother to catch her name, but I’m sure she has it written down next to her number, probably surrounded by Xs and Os.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and exit the plane. There’s a garbage can right outside the gate, and I toss the scrap of paper into it. Like I have the time or the inclination to sleep with a pushy stewardess. There’s nothing more cliché than that, even if she does have a killer body. It might be the last hot piece of ass I see for a while.

“Mr. Whitfield! Mr. Whitfield, over here!”

All eyes in the mostly empty airport zero in on me.
Gee thanks, asshole.
Now they might as well announce it over the loudspeaker. Forget about making a quiet entrance. Immediately, a crowd starts to swell around me as I push through to the guilt-ridden chauffeur.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I just got excited and I didn’t want you to walk by me.” The guy seems sincere, and I decide to cut him some slack, especially if he’s going to be the one driving me around all week. I need him on my side.

“Mission accomplished then,” I say with a hasty smile, quickly scribbling my name across a baseball someone’s holding out to me. “Lead the way…?”

“Noah. Noah Martin,” he replies, ushering me toward the revolving door. “Your bags are already in the trunk. We can make a clean getaway.” He runs toward the Toyota Prius, getting behind the wheel without bothering to open the passenger door for me. What? The Kings couldn’t hire an experienced driver or at least a town car? I can’t remember the last time I was in something that wasn’t a Lexus or a Mercedes.

Before I can even buckle my seatbelt, Noah floors it, pulling away from the curb with gusto.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he chuckles, gazing in the rearview mirror. “We left those suckers in the dust!”

“Well, you can slow down. We didn’t rob a bank.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Whitfield, sir.”

“Dude, call me Chase.”

“Righteous!” His curly hair is fro’ed out and his forehead is all sweaty, even with the air conditioner on. “You wanna know something? In high school, when I was the catcher on our team, I made sure to choose three as my jersey number—in honor of you, of course. Dude, you’re like my idol.”

“That’s funny. You look more like a football player to me.” And he does, probably weighing in at over three hundred pounds.

“Yeah, I was in better shape back then. Now I just sit on my ass all day, carting people around and eating too much fast food. I never intended to bulk up like this. I work for my dad, so he’s always busting my ass, keeping me busy. I never have time to hit the gym and work out anymore.”

I feel a momentary prick of guilt. That’s all I’ve been doing since April—focusing on my body, getting it in the most optimum condition possible. Sure, it’s a bit excessive, but I have a physical job that requires me to stay fit. When I’m on the field, I need to know that every muscle is ready to go, even if I’m only out there for three hours a day. The rest of the time I’m sitting on my butt just like Noah, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Noah, how old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-two. Don’t worry. I’m of age if you’re planning on hitting the clubs. I make an excellent wingman.”

I exhale sharply through my nose. Like that’s going to happen. Someone please shoot me now.

“Stockton is on fire, man. The whole city’s buzzing about you. It’s like a friggin’ coronation or something.”

“What do you mean?” I prod, alarm bells going off in my head.

“Just check out the front page of the paper, man,” Noah says, whacking me in the arm with a rolled-up copy that he had sticking out of the cup holder.

As I smooth it out, my jaw starts to clench as I’m assaulted by a thick, black headline.

THE CHASE IS ON! STOCKTON GEARS UP TO STALK WHITFIELD!

“Pretty cool, huh?” Noah grins at me.

I grunt in response. It’s official. This week is going to be my own personal version of hell.

Chapter Three

Grey

“Chase, baby! Here we come!” Erin shouts from the window of my pickup, getting the cars around us to honk their horns in agreement.

“Girl, you are whacked.” I shake my head with a groan.

We’ve been in bumper-to-bumper traffic since we got off the interstate, and the game starts in a little over an hour. I fidget, tapping the steering wheel with my nails. The line of vehicles is crawling up the mountain toward Beaver Field. I should have known that everyone in creation would turn out to see Chase.

It’s not often that something as exciting as this happens in Stockton. We don’t have too many celebrities stopping by for a visit. Facebook is blowing up with all of the alleged Chase sightings around town. Erin is furiously scanning through them on her phone, hoping to gain some kind of an advantage. She’s determined to meet him tonight and she’s not going to give up until she does. I’m already of thinking of ways to soften the blow when it doesn’t happen. She’s going to be a sobbing mess after downing a couple of beers. I don’t want her kids to have to see her like that, even though they should be asleep by the time I bring her home.

“Missy says that she saw him downtown near the Sheraton, so that’s where he must be staying. She tried to get an autograph but he has some pudgy bodyguard keeping people away. That blows.” Erin sighs, not even picking up her head, her thumb actively swiping the screen.

I take my foot off the brake and ease forward as the traffic starts to accelerate. There are cops up ahead, shifting everyone into two lanes. Through the trees, the parking lot already looks like it’s packed. People aren’t even tailgating like they usually do before a game. They all want to get inside and catch a glimpse of Chase.

I wonder if he’s anxious. He hasn’t played in over three months. Even though he’s only facing the Jacksonville Jackalopes, the focus is still going to be on him. My eyes widen as we pass an ESPN reporter getting ready to do a live segment outside the station’s satellite truck. Wow, this really is a big deal.

The teenage guys directing traffic are into it. They’re all wearing New York Kings caps as they direct me to the back of the lot near the swamp. Chase-mania is in full swing and I intend to enjoy every minute of it.

Erin is out of the truck as soon as I come to a stop. “C’mon, Grey! Let’s go!” She’s standing in front of the late afternoon sun, and the glare off her sequined top is blinding. Talk about trying too hard. Who wears club gear to a baseball game? Only my sister…

“You’re not going to be able to run in those heels anyway.” I motion at the rocky ground with my chin. Beaver Field is nothing fancy. The parking lot isn’t even paved.

“Ha ha, very funny.” She digs through her purse for the bar-coded ticket stubs she printed out back at the garage apartment. “We only have general admission access to the lawn, so we’re going to have to fight to get the spot next to the condiment counter behind home plate.”

“Erin, are you serious? You want to stand for the entire game? There’s no way security’s going to let us loiter there. That’s where all the execs from the big corporations have season tickets. And trust me, the last thing they’re going to want to listen to is you screaming all night.”

But Erin’s not paying attention to me. She’s touching up her makeup, her eyes fixed on the mirror in her compact. She stumbles, not watching where she’s going, and grabs my arm to steady herself.

“Does my t-zone look oily? It’s so damn hot. I feel like my BB cream is melting off my face.” Her heels click on the sidewalk as we get closer to the main entrance.

“You’re fine…”
For a streetwalker,
I want to say but don’t.

“Thank God you don’t have on that ratty old t-shirt of yours. I was afraid you were going to wear it.”

And now she has the nerve to insult my wardrobe choices? Really? So what if I have on a pair of combat boots? If we’re going to be standing all night, at least my feet won’t be killing me. I hate to admit it, but earlier today I was stalking Chase online just like everybody else. I saw a brief clip of an interview he did after he’d arrived at Beaver Field. He was wearing a cobalt blue polo that really brought out his eyes. I own a shirt in the exact same color, so I decided to wear it. It’s stupid, but I thought maybe he’d notice me in the stands if he’s attracted to that color. Working in a department store, I know men don’t really care about fashion, but they do tend to gravitate toward the color they like.

“Oooh! Crystal posted that he supposedly grabbed a burger at the Jay Street Deli for lunch. Here’s a pic someone put up.” Erin shoves her phone in my hand and I tap the image to make it bigger.

Chase is wearing the same shirt, but he doesn’t seem as comfortable as he did in front of the news media. He looks confused, sporting a deer-in-the-headlights expression. There’s a mob of people around him, and his arm is extended like he’s trying to push through them and run for his life. He’s going to be inundated wherever he goes in Stockton. People have literally set up tents outside his hotel. He’s not going to have a moment’s peace the entire time he’s here. I sort of feel bad for him. Maybe I should try to talk Erin out of her seek-and-destroy mission. He’s not an animal to be hunted. He’s a human being. And what chance does either of us have of getting him to notice us anyway? We’re just deluding ourselves, getting caught up in all the hype.

“Do you think after the game we can call it a night?” I ask tentatively, feeling her out as we get near the end of the line that leads to the gate.

“Grey, what the hell is wrong with you, huh?” Erin holds her hand in front of her eyes, squinting against the sun. She’s talking so loud that the people around us are starting to stare. “Are you gonna stay up on that mountain and yodel with the birds for the rest of your life? Nuh uh. Not if I have anything to say about it. We’re going out and we’re gonna have fun—even if it kills you. Your social life is more pathetic than mine and you don’t have two kids under ten or an asshole of an ex-husband as an excuse. So drop the good-girl act and live a little.”

The young boy standing in front of us studies Erin in amazement, his mother urging him to turn around.

“You’re causing a scene,” I whisper loudly, hoping Erin will take the hint.

“So what if I am? Someone has to set you straight before it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“Getting laid sometime this century!”

The mother is now covering the boy’s ears with her hands and motioning for her husband to move up.

“We’re not talking about my sex life in public. All right?” My voice is calm but deadly.

Erin backs down. “I’m just worried about you, Grey. It’s not normal to act like you’re bound by a vow of chastity or something. You’re twenty-three years old. You should be out living it up, not hiding away from the world.” She nudges my shoulder, her hazel eyes peering into mine. It’s like she’s really looking at me for the first time in a long time and she’s scared by what she sees.

“I’m just not the dating type. You know that. I don’t like trying guys on like they’re pairs of shoes, searching for the one that fits. I get too emotionally involved. And you know all they want is sex, so when I don’t put out by the third date, they don’t tend to stick around.”

I shrug, but it hurts to have to explain this to her. I mean, isn’t it obvious? I’ve always been overly sensitive. I really have to get to know a guy before I’ll even consider sleeping with him, and the truth of the matter is, not many are willing to wait around until I’m ready. They’re on to the next piece of ass that doesn’t have so many issues. All they want is a quick fuck, and they get all bent out of shape when I don’t put out. I can’t help it if my stupid heart always gets in the way.

“But, Grey, you told me you won’t even give a guy some head. So what do you expect? That’s what dating’s all about. Give and take. He takes you to dinner. You give him a blow job.”

“It just makes me feel cheap.” I rub my arms, crossing them in front of me, shivering even though it’s ninety degrees. I really wish we weren’t having this conversation right now. The pervy old man standing behind us is hanging on our every word. “How can a guy I’m seeing not know what my favorite movie is or how I take my coffee but be cool with me doing stuff like that to him? Sorry if I don’t like feeling like an object instead of a person. I’d rather get to know someone before going there. That’s all.”

“Girl, you gotta learn to keep it casual. Don’t make it so complicated. Just let go. You’re so uptight. It scares me. Use some stupid prick to make you feel good, if only for the night. He doesn’t have to be Chase Whitfield. Any hot guy will do. Just close your eyes and—”

“Excuse me, but can you please watch what you’re saying in front of my son?”

The woman in front of us is in full mama-bear mode, but she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. Erin’s known to start a fight whenever anyone confronts her, and I don’t want to see this poor mother ripped to shreds. She’s absolutely right. We shouldn’t be talking like this. It’s inappropriate.

“Listen, honey—” Erin whips around, but I jostle her quickly out of the way and step in front of her.

Even though she’s in heels, I’m still taller than Erin, so I’m able to block her from view. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” she says curtly as I hear Erin mumbling a laundry list of obscenities behind me.

I’m not sure if I can keep the situation from escalating, but luckily I don’t have to. The gates are thrown open and the line surges forward.

“It’s about fucking time,” Erin says louder than necessary, but the woman is too distracted to notice. “Are you ready?” She eyes me warily, assuming a sprinter’s position.

I nod as the attendant scans the paper that Erin forcefully shoves under his laser gun. He gives her an annoyed look, but before I can apologize, she grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd.

I smack into arms. I step on feet. I squeeze between bodies. But she doesn’t stop. She keeps going, plowing through anyone who stands in her way. I hear various combinations of “Hey!” and “Watch it!” as she drags me along behind her. I don’t like to stand out. I always try to blend in, but Erin’s a pro at causing a commotion. I really hate upsetting people for no reason, but there’s nothing I can do. She’s on a mad dash to the finish line and she’s not going to stop until she reaches her destination.

I nearly trip on a hot dog wrapper as Erin comes to an abrupt halt at the counter in front of the main concession area. It offers a spectacular view, overlooking home plate, but it’s already occupied. There’s barely enough room at the end for one person, let alone two. Winking at me, she nonchalantly uses her elbow to hit the soda bottle on her right. It spills all over the large woman next to her, who jumps back with a shriek.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I’m such a klutz!” Erin reaches for the napkin dispenser, pretending to mop up the mess. The entire surface of the counter is wet and sticky. Disgusted, the woman gathers up her belongings and shuffles away in a huff.

“You’re terrible.” I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. I’m shocked by the lengths Erin is willing to go to for this. Tonight, she seems overly determined to get what she wants.

“Scoot in next to me,” she urges, not even acknowledging my discomfort. “There. We’re all set. We’ll be able to see Chase up close when he bats. Wait here a minute and guard this section with your life. I’m gonna get us some refreshments. They can’t tell us we have to move if we’re paying customers.”

“Erin, the game is probably going to be about three hours long. You’re going to eat the entire time?”

“Eat? Yeah, right. Drink is more like it.” She sashays away in her skintight jeans, her booty swaying behind her as she walks. She hasn’t lost all of the baby weight from when she was pregnant with Jacob, even though it’s been five years. She didn’t care much about her appearance when she was still with Mark. She let herself go. I guess I should be happy that she’s making an effort again. Maybe, in that respect, I should follow her lead.

I let my eyes roam across the field. The visiting team is out stretching and taking batting practice in the cage. The crack of the bat is music to my ears. There’s nothing like seeing a game in person. TV broadcasts just don’t compare. Savoring the aroma of freshly roasted peanuts in the air. Feeling the thud of a fastball hitting the catcher’s mitt. Dodging a foul ball that flies into the seats. I love the excitement of live baseball, the familiarity mixed with the unexpected.

For a split second, my attention shifts to the Beavers’ dugout when the door to the locker room opens and a deluge of flashbulbs start to go off. My breath catches as I grip the edge of the sticky counter.

Oh God, it’s Chase.