Night Games (4 page)

Chapter Six

Chase

I’m so sick of hearing about my damn knee.

Water cascades down my back as I rest my hand against the shower tile, the relentless barrage of media questions echoing through my head.

Chase, you seemed hesitant at the plate. Were you holding back a little, not wanting to put weight on your knee?

Did your injury have anything to do with the botched throw tonight, Chase? Did your knee prevent you from going to your left?

Chase, did the turf affect your knee at all? It looked like you were limping out there toward the end.

If my self-doubt wasn’t at an all-time high before, it is now. And it’s getting harder and harder to conceal. I was combative with the press, which isn’t like me, but they kept asking me the same questions over and over. The brunt of my condescension was aimed at the Stockton reporters who were bringing up topics they should’ve known are off limits. Like if I plan to stay with the Kings after my contract expires at the end of the year or if I intend to test the free agency market. I said at the beginning of the season that I wouldn’t address it until after we won the World Series. But it appears they didn’t do their homework before they approached me. I can’t stand people who take the easy way out. Don’t they know me by now? I don’t talk money during the season. Period. End of discussion. But they kept badgering me, so I went off on them a little.

Several of the regular New York beat reporters were a little taken aback by my surly behavior, but they gave me a pass because of who I am. The local stations don’t have the balls to air a clip of me sounding off. They know the Kings’ front office would shoot down a negative report like that in an instant. No affiliate of any of the major networks is going to risk going up against the only multibillion-dollar franchise in professional sports. Heads would roll if they made me look bad, especially after my name alone sold out the ballpark for the next five nights. They can’t deny that I’m the draw that provided a much-needed boost to the Stockton economy. Every hotel in the area is booked for the length of my rehab assignment. Fans are even driving out from New York to watch me play. I’m a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who crosses me is gonna pay.

I flashback to those warm, chocolate brown eyes, the ones whose depths I got lost in for a second. If I hadn’t had my game face on, I would’ve flirted with her a little. The minute I saw her, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was drawn to that net. I had to speak to her. So what did I do? I threatened her, telling her not to come back, even if what I really wanted was the exact opposite. I’d love to see her behind home plate, every night—Stockton, New York, wherever.

So why did I act like such a jerk? I was scared. No one’s ever looked at me quite that way before, and I’ve been stared at by a lot of people. It’s like she wasn’t seeing superstar Chase Whitfield. She was just seeing me, the man behind the player. Like she didn’t care who I was or what I did for a living. She’d still be into me if I were just a regular guy walking down the street. As if that were good enough—being content with me for me, not everything that goes along with it.

I curse as I shift my weight before bending my knee. It’s throbbing like a son of a bitch. My whole body feels sore, tense even. I could really go for a massage, but the team doesn’t have a physical therapist on staff and I don’t think the trainer would be into giving me a rubdown. Besides, everyone’s already left. I’m the last one here, licking my wounds in private.

My muscles are tight because I’m consumed with regret. I should have made that play. I should have made contact with a pitch. I should have gotten her number. I slam my fist against the wall. She could’ve been just the thing I needed tonight. I could’ve told her to meet me back at the hotel. It would’ve been easy. Now I’m stuck having to troll the local bar scene in the hope of finding some female companionship for the night. I’m so not in the mood. Man, it sucks not knowing any women here. I’m used to having my regular hook-ups in every city. It’s a lot less hassle.

“You almost done in there, boss?”

I jump, and a jet of water hits me directly in the eye. “Noah, what the fuck are you doing in here? You should be waiting in the car!” I yell through the steam, hastily rinsing the remaining suds off my body.

“I’ve been out there for over an hour. I thought something happened to you.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t feel like signing anything tonight, so I hope the people standing outside get sick of waiting around and leave.” I turn off the water and start patting myself dry. My face falls when I see how swollen my knee is. I should go right back to the hotel and put some ice on it, but my dick is throbbing more, especially after imagining what that girl’s hands would feel like on my body, working out all the tension. I need to get laid tonight—end of story.

“There weren’t too many out there when I came in. I think you’re good. Security is feeding them the line that you already left.”

“Yeah, like that ever works. The diehards are batshit crazy. They’ll wait out there all night. Just try and stop them.” I toss a towel around my waist and step out.

“Dude, I never knew you had so many tats!” Noah’s jaw drops as he stares at my bare chest. “That’s awesome! Do you wanna see mine?”

He has his shirt pulled out of his pants before I can raise my hand in the air to ward him off. “No, that’s okay, Noah. Really.”

“My sister is a tattoo artist, so she gives me all the ink I want for free. I even have one of Yogi Bear that goes all the way down my back.”

“Yogi Bear?”

“Yeah, her little girl calls me Uncle Yogi so I thought it’d be appropriate.”

“Whatever rocks your world,” I say absently, bracing myself against the sink while wiping the condensation off the mirror. I really should shave, but I don’t have the energy. The Kings have a pretty strict policy when it comes to facial hair, but since I’m a Beaver now, I don’t think it applies.

“C’mon, man. You gotta tell me who that blazing heart is for on your shoulder. Who’s J.J.? The girl who broke your heart and turned you into a man-whoring stud?”

“I don’t swing both ways, jackass. I whore for no man.” I throttle him with a jock strap someone left on the floor and move into the locker room. The sooner I cover up, the better. I don’t want him questioning me about every mark on my body.

My tattoos are personal. Not many people have seen them. I’ve never posed shirtless or got caught by the paparazzi strolling along a beach. I tend to vacation in exclusive areas, like off the coast of Italy or the French Riviera. Beyoncé and Jay-Z even lent me their yacht once. The Kings don’t like players talking to the media unless we’re in full uniform, so no one’s allowed beyond the clubhouse door except key personnel. It’s amazing that pics of my tats haven’t leaked before now, but it makes me even more protective of them all the same.

“That’s not what I meant,” Noah says, exasperated. “Trust me. If you were gay, I think I would cry. Forget the sheer amount of tits and ass that gets thrown your way… I never believed for a second those rumors about you and Drake Schultz were true. He may be a pretty boy, but you’re sure as hell not.”

“Gee, thanks,” I respond sarcastically, untucking the towel and letting it drop to the floor.

Noah clears his throat and turns away. Now he’s seen everything from the size of my dick to the inscriptions on my back. He might as well be an honorary member of the team for fuck’s sake.

“Get a good enough look? Want me to turn around so you can take a picture of my junk for your sister?” I can’t resist busting him.

“Shut it, asswipe. It’s not that impressive. Mine’s way bigger.”

For the first time since I got hurt, I burst out laughing. It seems like forever since I even wanted to. I didn’t realize how depressed I was until now. How much of life I’m missing out on. Yeah, my knee’s jacked up. So what? Everything doesn’t have to be ruined because of it. I can still laugh and have fun.

Maybe I should open up to people more instead of shutting them out. I’m not good at lowering my barriers and letting people in. I’ve been burned too many times and developed too many issues when it comes to trusting people. That’s why I snapped at that girl behind the net. That’s why I’m ignoring Noah’s question now. Well, screw it. He wants to know? Then I’m going to tell him.

“J.J. is my sister. She was diagnosed with cancer five years ago.” I pause. I can’t believe I’m doing this, so I just keep talking. “I got the tattoo then, scared to death that I was going to lose her. But after hooking her up with one of the best oncologists in the country, she was able to beat it.”

I’ve never spoken to anyone outside of my own family about J.J.’s condition. The media never caught wind of the story, and I didn’t even tell the Kings. She’s not a public figure, and I didn’t want her to have to go through all that shit just because she’s related to me. She’s borne the brunt of my fame for so long. Being Chase Whitfield’s little sister isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. She was taunted all through college by those jealous of her for having a famous sibling. She wasn’t named the MVP of her high school softball team because the coaches didn’t want to show any favoritism, even though she deserved it. She’s had so many supposed friends try to butter her up in order to get close to me. Yeah, the users and the haters abound. But I don’t think Noah is one of them.

“Wow, Chase.” He backs into one of the lockers, clearly stunned by my revelation. “I had no idea. But she’s okay now?”

“Yeah. More than okay.” I smile to myself, remembering the last time I saw her pregnant belly. Before she started radiation treatments, she had a bunch of her eggs frozen. It was an expensive procedure, but it was worth it. At the time, she was fighting for her life, and her request showed me that she still had hope. She wasn’t giving up on her future. She underwent an artificial insemination procedure just after Christmas, and it took. Even if she can’t conceive the normal way, she and her boyfriend are overjoyed that they had another option. And my money gave it to them. I don’t like to brag, but I’m pretty proud that I was able to do that for them.

“You’re a man of mystery, you know that?”

Noah doesn’t mean anything by it, but I bristle at his remark. So what if I am? Do I have to be an open book for everyone? Some things are better kept under wraps. My private life and the ones of those I love are off limits. There’s no reason to go exposing every little secret for public consumption. I may be on TV every night, but it’s a sports broadcast, not a reality show. What I do off-camera is nobody’s business.

“So where are we headed? Back to the Sheraton?” Noah asks, a little despondently.

I kind of want to laugh again, but I know he’s not trying to be funny. Cinching my belt, I shove my damp head through the collar of my shirt. That girl was wearing a shirt this color. It’s the second thing I noticed after her eyes. Oh God, those eyes…

“I thought you said you wanted to be my wingman while I’m here?” I need to get my mind off of her. Her face is stuck in a continuous loop that’s replaying in my brain. I have to bang some other chick tonight. It’s the only way I’ll banish this regret about screwing things up with her. After my dick is satisfied, she’ll become nothing more than a distant memory. Just one of the many girls I could’ve fucked but didn’t. For now, it’s on to the next…

“You’re freakin’ kidding me, dude!” Noah rushes toward me, grabbing my shoulders. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious, dickhead. But let’s start by getting something to eat because I’m starving. The women can wait.”

“You are not going to regret this,” Noah says, slapping me on the back.

“Too bad I already do,” I mutter under my breath, but he doesn’t seem to hear me as I follow him out the back door.

Chapter Seven

Grey

“Can we please go home?” I wail, rocking back and forth on my toes. “It’s been two hours. He’s not coming out.”

Erin shakes her head defiantly from side to side. The security guard didn’t have the energy to escort us to the outer reaches of the parking lot. Instead, he watched as we exited the stadium, going back inside the minute we walked through the turnstile. Let’s just say that Erin didn’t waste any time doubling back as soon as he was gone.

The last thing in the world I felt like doing was waiting with a bunch of crazy obsessive fans for Chase Whitfield to grace us with his presence. How pathetic to stand in line begging for his autograph after he just told me to get lost? Yeah, groveling at his feet would place me in a whole new category of desperate—the kind reserved for only the most deranged of psycho fans.

Plus, it’s not like I even want his lousy signature anymore. I managed to lose whatever respect I had for him. He’s nothing more than a pampered jerk who treats his fans like crap. Sure, Erin was out of line, but he didn’t have to have us thrown out like that. And besides, she wasn’t saying anything that bad. She was just proclaiming her love for him, not telling him how much he sucks like the people who were booing. He needs to grow up—big time.

Chase would be nowhere without his fans. We’re the ones who buy the tickets and merchandise that pay for his salary. We’re the ones who vote him into the All-Star Game. We’re the ones who come out to cheer him on and show support when times get tough. And what does he do? He throws a hissy fit.

I feel like such an idiot for being duped by him. But more than that, I feel like I was played by some vast conspiracy—like the Kings colluded with the news media to sell the superhuman persona that is Chase Whitfield. But that’s all it is—a mirage, a façade, a brand. He’s playing a role they created for him—the star athlete who’s so special that every guy wants to be him and every girl wants to date him. Regardless if in real life he’s nothing like the person they portray him to be. He’s not the humble, hard-working, genuinely nice guy we’re encouraged to adore. No, he’s the complete opposite—self-absorbed, irritable, conceited.

And I fell for it—hook, line, and sinker. For years, I’ve carried this false perception of him in my mind. I was told that he treats his fans well, so I believed it since I never came in contact with him. I was force-fed the line that he has a good head on his shoulders because he’s never photographed carousing in strip clubs or getting into trouble by overindulging in drugs and alcohol. But who’s to say it’s only because he never gets caught? Who knows what he’s doing behind the scenes? Yeah, I don’t snort coke or get rip-roaring drunk, but that doesn’t make me a good person. It’s like he’s been living a lie, showing what he’s not and keeping who he really is under wraps.

“Wait, let me check with my new friend, Debbie. Her husband went to the Sheraton to see if Chase is there. She’s on the phone with him now. Let me see if she found out anything.” Erin moves beyond the temporary barrier set up to cordon off the fans. She’s seems to have sobered up somewhat. All right, I’ll throw her a bone. She’s had a tough year. She could use a dose of excitement. Just as long as the trail stays cold…

I look around at the people who are still waiting outside the players’ entrance. When we first got here, the crowd was about three rows deep, pressed against the metal barricade. It was mostly men with hundreds of dollars worth of memorabilia to get signed, and kids screaming for Chase. For a good hour and a half, we had to listen to their chant of ‘Gimme a C’ as they spelled out Chase’s entire name repeatedly. But I don’t think he would have liked how they added an extra T to his last name. If he had come out, he probably would’ve reprimanded them for spelling it wrong.

Now we’re down to Debbie and her two kids, some Asian dude with a life-sized cutout of Chase, and a couple of hoochie mamas prowling around, blinged out just like Erin. They’re mumbling to themselves while scrolling through their phones, no doubt trying to find out if anyone posted where he is on Facebook or Twitter.

Debbie’s eyes light up as she hangs up and mutters something in Erin’s ear. Whatever intel her husband shared with her causes Erin to let out a squeal before running over to me.

She leans into me so that no one else can hear. “Buster’s Crab Shack!” she whispers excitedly against my hair.

“You’re kidding!” I pick up the pace as she starts to drag me by the arm. “Wow, he’s really come down in the world.”

“What? Buster’s is great!” Erin wouldn’t care if Chase wanted to eat out of a dumpster at this point. She’d follow him anywhere. Lucky for her, she didn’t catch our little exchange behind home plate, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I don’t want to dampen her enthusiasm—but I really hope he’s not there.

My truck is the only vehicle left in this section of the lot. Everyone hates to have to park next to the swamp because of all the mosquitoes. I slap my leg as one lands on my thigh. A chorus of bullfrogs is croaking away, and I kind of wish I were back at my trailer and that I’d never come to this damn game. Then my delusions wouldn’t have been shattered and I could go on pining for Chase Whitfield in a state of ignorant bliss.

Erin hops in as I turn on the headlights. Buster’s is about fifteen minutes away in the heart of downtown Stockton. It’s the place where any visiting dignitary tends to make an obligatory visit. Politicians, actors, and musicians have all eaten there. Not that the food is that great, but everyone’s always enthralled by the kitschy decor. Buster’s specializes in nostalgia from its Ms. Pac Man video game tables to its restroom with a Shirley Temple theme. Having Chase Whitfield stop by is a major coup for the owners. They’ll be heralding his patronage in their advertisements for years to come. They thought having David Hasselhoff stop by was a big deal. They’re never going to get over this.

Traffic is light as I head down the mountain and merge onto the highway. I’m actually driving faster than the speed limit just to get this over with. We’ll either walk in and he won’t be there—which I hope is the case—or he’ll be in a private room where we won’t be allowed. There’s no way he is sitting out in the open where anyone can stroll in and bother him.

“Someone can’t wait to get her Chase on!” Erin teases as she fixes her hair in the visor mirror. “Floor it, girl!”

We’re already at the exit for downtown Stockton and I’m starting to get nervous—like, really nervous. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still feel like I did. My guilty conscience is bothering the heck out of me. Why didn’t I stop Erin from drinking so much? Why didn’t I get her to stop yelling? Why did I let her get so out of control? Maybe it really is my fault. Perhaps Chase had every right to get mad.

I chew on my lower lip as make a left at the first light. I can already see the sign for Buster’s up ahead, with its giant illuminated crab claws opening and closing. I still have time to chicken out. I could fake a stomachache or something. But I know I can’t do that to Erin. If she’s determined to have her fantasy dashed, there’s nothing I can do to stop her. She’s a big girl. She knows life isn’t fair. I only wish I were driving her to meet a guy who’d treat her with kindness and respect instead of the first-class prick she’s about to encounter.

I turn off the ignition after sliding into the first available space and glance over at her warily. “Why don’t you put on the hoodie I brought with me? They’ll probably have the air conditioning cranked up full blast like they always do.”
Please say yes,
I silently urge. I have to disguise her somehow. If he’s in there, he’s going to recognize her from the get-go just from her top.

“Grey, are you kidding? I gotta show off my body to my advantage. Did you see those seventeen-year-old hos back at Beaver Field? We’re competing with girls half our age for his attention, and you know how he likes them young.”

How could I forget? His latest girlfriend—one in a long list of famous arm-candy assortments—is Irina Portanova, a nineteen-year-old model from the Czech Republic who was discovered by Karl Lagerfeld in an airport in Prague before she moved to Paris when she was twelve. What she and Chase have to talk about, I have no clue. I read somewhere that, before she started dating Chase, she didn’t know a thing about baseball. So obviously it’s all about the sex. Who cares about meaningful conversation?

“Erin, just don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

“Ugh, I already told you. Debbie’s husband confirmed that Chase is here.” She gives her lips one more coat of gloss. “That’s her husband standing by the door. Let’s go talk to him.”

Before I can give Erin more of a warning, she’s out of my truck, her heels clacking toward the door.

Something about this feels wrong. I mean, how did Debbie’s husband even find out that Chase was at Buster’s? I’m sure the hotel staff wouldn’t have tipped him off. What kind of mega-stalker is he? He told us earlier that he’d already gotten Chase’s autograph when he visited the Florida complex during spring training. So why does he want another one? Jeez, isn’t one enough?

Erin’s waving me over, and I can’t shake the vibe that going in there is a bad idea. I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen if Chase sees Erin, let alone me. He’s going to think we’re nuts—if he doesn’t already. He told me to back off, and what am I doing? Blatantly ignoring his request and bringing my excitable sister with me…

“He’s in the bar.” Erin claps her hands.

Then why is Debbie’s husband outside? It doesn’t make sense.

“You ready?” Erin asks, already holding open the heavy wooden door.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Debbie’s husband waves halfheartedly as we turn and enter the restaurant. Does he already know our mission is going to fail? But more importantly, how does he know?

That nervous twinge is back in my stomach, that first-day-of-school feeling. There’s no hostess to greet us when we arrive at the podium. For all intents and purposes, the place looks like it’s closed for the night. So why didn’t they lock the front door? There are glasses clinking in the room directly ahead of us, so I cautiously step forward. Two waitresses are in there cleaning up, refilling the salt shakers and ketchup bottles. They don’t say anything to us. They just let their eyes drop and keep working. So much for customer service…

There’s still the tiki bar to our right, but I can’t believe he’d be in there. It’s a new addition to the place that the owners haphazardly slapped on this spring. It’s nothing more than a plywood deck with a thatch-covered roof. Certainly nothing to brag about and just about the last place in the world I’d ever expect to find Chase Whitfield. He’s used to dropping thousands of dollars at the trendiest nightclubs in Manhattan. I’m sure he wouldn’t be caught dead in a dive like this.

Only a black swinging door stands in the way of further infamy. Erin starts to hyperventilate, breathing loudly through her mouth. It’s all sinking in now. It’s finally hitting home for her. He’s not going to be the hot baseball player on TV anymore. He’s going to be right in front of her in the flesh.

I take her hand in mine and give it a reassuring squeeze. “You can do this.”

“I know, but you go first.”

A grin tugs at my lips, even though I’m just as scared as she is, if not more so. Gathering whatever courage I have left, I press my palm against the door and…

There he is, sitting directly on the other side of it.

I’m frozen in place as his eyes rake over me. For some reason, he seems just as shocked to see me as I am to see him, even though technically I knew he might be in here. He saw me now, so there’s no turning back and slinking out the door. That flame of indignation flares up in me again as he starts to shake his head in…bewilderment? Disgust? I know he said to stay away, but he only mentioned Beaver Field. He didn’t say anything about Buster’s Crab Shack.

“Oh my God, it’s him!” Erin cries, quickly leading me over to the only empty table left in the room.

I deliberately choose the seat where my back is facing him. My face feels like it’s on fire and my heart is drumming in my chest. I actually feel lightheaded as I try to get my bearings.

He’s at a table with two other guys and they’re laughing loudly at whatever he just said. It’s strange being in the same room and hearing his voice in person. It’s not coming through a television or the radio in my truck. It’s deep and rich, his familiar intonation and inflections filling my ears. It’s unreal that I’m actually listening to him talk. And for the first time tonight, I feel myself relax. I’m going to enjoy this moment, for whatever it’s worth.

But just being here isn’t enough for Erin. “People are going to flip when they see this.” The glimmer of her pink-jeweled phone case catches my eye. She has it raised in the air, her finger hovering over the screen. Before I have a chance to say anything, she hits the camera button sending a flash of light in his direction.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?”

Oh God, he did not just say that. Erin looks like she wants to crawl under the table as Chase’s irate voice silences the room. Every person in the bar stops talking and looks in our direction. My spine stiffens, but I’m not ready to face him. How dare he embarrass my sister by yelling at her in front of everybody. Where does he get off? What the hell is his problem?

Chase starts complaining about us to the guys he’s with and they snigger at whatever he’s saying. I can’t make out all of the words. I only catch bits and pieces like “called security” and “wouldn’t shut up.” The people around us resume talking, but the damage is done. We’ve been officially exiled to outcast territory by the king of New York.

“Oh my God,” Erin moans, shoving her phone in her purse. “I thought I turned the flash off. The picture didn’t even come out.”

I try to focus on the generic steel drum music that’s playing overhead. She has no idea how bad this really is. Chase is sitting between us and the door. There’s no way we can make a hasty getaway without him seeing us. We’re essentially trapped. We’re going to have to sit here a while and let him cool off. Maybe he’ll let us slip out unnoticed once he calms down.