Playing Catch: A Baseball Romance (5 page)

T
his had to be crazy
. Jeanine snuck a peek in her side mirror as she pulled her car from the driveway. A man wearing a gray hoodie over a densely tattooed chest and well-cut abs stood beside a telephone pole playing with his cell phone. He wore dark glasses, so she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t watching her instead of the phone in front of his face.

Hadn’t she seen someone suspicious the other night after karate? Maybe it wasn’t the same guy. The one at night obviously had a shirt on, but he’d also worn a hoodie.

She stepped on the gas and quickly turned onto the street, but not before checking him out in her rearview mirror. He was definitely an athlete or construction worker covered with ink. Could it be someone she’d bedded? She’d been careful to keep her activities to visiting teams, coaches, and an occasional tourist, but who knew if every man told her the truth about himself?

Her intuition hadn’t failed her yet, and most of the guys she slept with were exactly her type—out looking for a good time without emotional involvement.
No creepers need apply.

Except Kirk Kennedy. She hadn’t gone too far with him, thanks to his big tease, but he was already making demands. Said he wanted to be friends. Why? What could he be so interested in her about?

He was a big league baseball player—a highly sought after catcher, and definitely a trophy bachelor to be landed and bragged about.

There had to be more behind this than a challenge. The guy was positively creepy the way he’d fixated on her. Luckily, he was occupied with games, games, and more games. Spring training wasn’t a time to goof off. It was all about working hard and hustling to make the twenty-five man active roster once the season started.

Jeanine steered her car onto Birch Street, where her friend Marcia lived. The formerly unkempt yard was now well manicured and the house sported a new coat of paint. What a difference a year made once Brock had returned home.

She was halfway up the walkway when the screen door slapped open and little Bianca skipped over the porch to the steps.

“Booyakasha!” Bianca jumped up and made a swishing sound as she yelled the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ catch phrase.

“High five, girlie, you ready for your yellow belt?” Jeanine raised her hand and gave Bianca a slap on her palm.

“I’m going for my black belt.” The five-year-old sprite yanked Jeanine’s heavy black belt.

She was small for her age and the perfect mix between Jeanine’s friend, Marcia, who had a tinge of Navajo blood, and Brock Carter’s freckled Irish roots.

“How’s your baby brother? Is he sleeping through the night yet?”

“Nope! He’s still colicky. Wah. Wah. Wah.” Bianca plugged both her ears.

Jeanine cringed. After the baby was born, Marcia had been constantly exhausted, and now that spring training had started, Brock was busier than ever.

“Then you have to be a good big sister and tell him not to cry.” Jeanine led Bianca to the front door where Marcia’s father, Pappy, stood.

He was a widower and had appeared to age markedly since his wife’s death a few years back. Gaunt, with thinning gray hair, his clothes hung off his lanky frame. When he smiled, Jeanine noticed he’d lost another tooth.

They hugged each other in greeting, and Pappy said, “I’m afraid Mar-Mar’s sleeping. She stayed up all night. Are you okay to drive us to the dojo?”

“Of course I will.” Jeanine followed them into the house. “Can I peek in on the baby or will that disturb him?”

“He’s snoozing like a hibernating bear. Snoring. Go ahead.” Pappy grinned, cracking open the door to the baby’s room.

“Ah, there you are, all tuckered out,” Jeanine crooned to the baby. “You tired your mama, and now look at you.”

Of course, he was adorable. He had the chubbiest cheeks, sweetheart lips, and when his eyes were open, they were the most gigantic pools of blue. Right now, his face was pink and healthy, and little blond curls wisped on his downy head.

Jeanine couldn’t help caressing his scalp. She marveled at the soft spot on top, covered with a thin membrane, and ran the back of her hand over his smooth cheek. If the world were perfect, she, too, would someday have a family and little ones to love. The only obstacle in the way was the need for a man to be involved. Well, there were sperm banks, but somehow, that seemed like cheating.

“Feeling like having one?” Brock hung his lanky frame at the doorway. “They are adorable when they finally fall asleep.”

“I was a good baby,” Bianca bragged. “Mar-Mar says I always slept through the night and never cried.”

Jeanine left the baby’s side and took Bianca’s hand. “I bet you had some pretty loud nights yourself, missy.”

“I can yell louder than baby Boo,” Bianca whispered her nickname for her brother. “But I better not or he’ll wake up and poor Mama will be mad.”

“Okay, off we go. Brock, are you coming?” Jeanine stepped out of the baby’s room and shut the door.

“I, uh, have to show up at the ballpark.” Brock’s eyes shifted sideways and he licked his lips.

“So early? The game isn’t until seven.”

Was she imagining it, or was there something Brock wasn’t telling her or Marcia?

“But, Dad.” Bianca bounced in front of him. “You said we’d go out for ice cream after I get my belt.”

Jeanine nailed Brock with narrowed eyes. “What could be more important than Binky’s karate belt test?”

He gave her an equally hard glare. “What do you know about baseball?”

Okay. Sure. So, there was trouble in paradise. Fine. But Jeanine wasn’t going to back off. She’d circle back later when Bianca wasn’t witnessing the altercation.

She turned to her little ninja. “Come on, Donatello, let’s go kick some cowabunga ass!”

“Language,” Brock barked.

“I was talking about a donkey,” Jeanine said. She huffed by him and grabbed Bianca’s gear bag. “Double triple scoops with fudge and a cherry on top if you break all your boards.”

“Kiya!” Bianca made a chopping motion. She slipped on her Crocs and skipped happily out the front door to where her grandfather was standing on the driveway holding her booster seat.

Jeanine look across the street and her heart stuttered. She clutched Bianca’s gear bag tighter. Someone was sitting in an idling car with a camera pointed at them.

The shutter blinked rapidly before the man lowered the camera. No hoodie this time, and she couldn’t be sure if he was the same man as the one she saw in front of her apartment.

She dropped Bianca’s gear bag and charged across the street. “Hey you, delete those pictures.”

The window floated up to a closed position, and the car’s wheels spun as it jerked toward her.

Tires screeching, the car narrowly missed hitting her before speeding down the street. Marcia’s father held onto Bianca as they both stood frozen next to Jeanine’s car.

“Did you see that?” Jeanine pointed at the departing vehicle. “He took pictures of us. Do you know him?”

“No, never seen that car before,” Pappy said.

Not that the car was distinctive or anything. It was a black Acura, late model.

“I didn’t get the plates. Damn.” Jeanine unlocked her BMW.

“You said a bad word again,” Bianca said, seemingly oblivious to the tension caused by the stranger with the camera.

“Sorry, Binky. I’ll wash my mouth out with soap when I get home. Let’s go break some boards, okay?” She held her hand up for a high-five, and Bianca gave her one.

Her heart was still racing as she took Bianca’s booster seat from Pappy and secured it. No sense ruining the little girl’s day. Except she’d have to let the police know, in case any child molesters were loose in the neighborhood.

She’d call them later with a description of the man and the car and ask them to check it against any known sex offenders.

“You doing okay?” Pappy asked after they were on their way. “You seemed shaken up.”

“Aren’t you?” Jeanine lowered her voice.

“Not really.” Pappy shrugged. “Maybe that guy was a realtor taking pictures of the houses in the neighborhood. Or he’s an insurance adjustor.”

“Then why did he run when I confronted him?”

“That I don’t know.” Pappy’s shoulders drooped. He, too, always seemed to be tired. “I just don’t know.”

“
Y
ou’re kidding me
.” Kirk cupped his hand over his mouth and spoke into the cell phone. He was in the locker room and he didn’t want his teammates to overhear his conversation with his brother Matt, a professional baseball scout.

“You gotta stop glory-hounding. Pitchers like to think they’re in control, even though you’re calling the pitches. You’re their mother, their babysitter, their nanny, but they’re the guys who get the credit for winning the game. If you call a pitch and it hangs high and gets whacked out of the park, take the blame. Otherwise, you’re not getting the starting bid. You might not even get on the roster.”

“They paid good money for this trade. They wouldn’t put me on the bench,” Kirk lowered his voice.

“They don’t need a badass who pisses off all their million dollar arms. Anyway, I need a favor. Mom wants me to find someone for her.”

“Find someone?” Kirk’s voice rose sharply, and a few of his teammates looked over. “Listen, I’m in the locker room. Can you text me the details?”

As far as he was concerned, his mother definitely didn’t need his help finding her next lay—unless she was hankering for a young baseball player.

“Actually, let me talk,” Matt said. “It isn’t what you think. It’s not a guy she wants to find.”

“Oh, really? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Shhhh … can’t you shut up and let me talk?” Matt practically growled over the phone. “It’s a bunch of love letters she found stashed at our house when she was packing for the upcoming move.”

“So, why would she care? It’s not like she’s ever fallen in love before.”

“They weren’t addressed to her. She just wants to return them.”

“Why would I help? Is it someone I know?” Kirk’s throat clamped down. He’d never written anyone love letters. But he’d thought he was in love once.

Until his girlfriend turned out to be as phony as every other social climber in his parents’ circle, hooking up with a guy whose bank account was five times the size of a rookie headed for the minor leagues.

“In fact, yes, you know her.” Matt’s voice punched him from his momentary zone out. “She’s that bartender you locked lips with in that alley.”

“What? How?” Kirk almost dropped his phone. “How do you know?”

“Mother had a private investigator in on the search. She wants you to hand over the love letters she found. She’ll FedEx them to you tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t she bother calling me herself?” Kirk bristled at being told to be a go-between for Jeanine and some long lost lover.

“You know Mom, it’s all about favors. I owe her one, you owe me the scouting report that got you the goods on Josh Johnson and the Rattlers. Detailed videos of all your pitchers, strengths, weakness, opportunities.”

“Whatever you owe Mom, it must be big. Sure. Have her send the letters and I’ll decide what to do with them.” Kirk hung up before his brother could reply.

What a sorry excuse of a family he had. They looked perfect to the outside world, running with the Hamptons set in the summer, and were featured prominently in the society pages in New York papers. Stylish, high fashion, every one of them with shining white teeth, blond and tanned—but inside, they were a bunch of thieves and dirty dealers.

What could Mom possibly want from Jeanine?

It should be none of his business, but he couldn’t squelch his curiosity about Jeanine and her love letters. What if it was one of the players on his team? Would it make a difference to him if it was one of the pitchers? Could he objectively call pitches for the guy?

Kirk put his phone away and swiped both hands over his head to tamp down the jitters. He wasn’t playing today, but he still had to concentrate on the pitches and at bats and review the videos, especially the ones his brother had uploaded to his cloud account.

“What’s wrong with you today?” a voice said from behind him. “And where the hell did you run off to the other night?”

Timmy and Jay surrounded him, already dressed in full uniform.

“I went home early,” Kirk said, digging into his gear bag.

“You picked up a chick in the kitchen?” Timmy slung his well-built frame against his locker and picked up Kirk’s mitt.

“Hey, don’t touch my stuff.” Kirk grabbed his mitt and held it protectively to his chest. “And stop looking inside my locker.”

“Whoa.” Jay whistled. “I’m guessing he hasn’t gotten laid in a week.”

“Guys, instead of worrying about me and my dick, you should be watching Johnson. He’s letting the hitter back him up to the ump. That takes six inches off your fastball, giving the batter a big advantage.”

“Really?” Timmy said. “Why’s he doing that?”

“Fear. The batter knows it, so he’s back-toeing in back of the box, taking his practice swings, knowing Johnson’s thinking about the time he got clobbered. Haven’t you been studying the videos?”

“Not as much as you.” Jay put his foot on the bench and leaned over his knee. “Don’t tell me you went home Friday night to go over the videos.”

“I went home alone, if that’s what you’re asking. Go ahead, laugh. But making you guys look good is all I want.”

“We love you.” Timmy pushed over a big, sloppy hug. “See you in the bullpen.”

The two hotshot pitchers swaggered off together—young and strong, believing they’d throw hundred-mile-per-hour fastballs for the rest of their lives.

They’d need him, a veteran catcher, to show them the head games that would keep them around like that wily old fox, Ryan Hudson, the guy who might throw only a single pitch in a clutch situation and make that crucial save.

Kirk looked up to see Ryan staring at him, hunched over and lacing up his cleats.

Hadn’t he been rumored to have been something to Jeanine? Like more than a friend?

“
I
sn’t
it wonderful that we love each other?” His smooth voice hovered over my splayed out body as I lay motionless, frozen solid.

I’d learned long ago not to fear. Whores had no fear, and ever since I could remember, I was a whore. It was the reason my mother left me when I was two months old.

I never knew who took care of me. Other little whores had grandmothers. I had a man who pulled my panties down. That was my first memory.

“You wet yourself. You naughty little whore.” He was mean and big and he hit my butt until I couldn’t walk.

Later there were sirens and a nice lady who let me play with her shiny badge. She said I was a good little girl, a pretty little girl, and she would save me from the meanie who made me wet my pants.

But I never saw her again. I still had her badge, or maybe it wasn’t real—a toy badge that said Sheriff on it.

“Do you love me?” His rough fingers caressed me in places that didn’t belong to me, around my budding breasts, between my legs, always examining me to make sure I hadn’t wet my bed.

He promised me a princess bed. But I said “no.” I was no princess. I was a whore, and I wanted a witch’s bed.

His grasp tightened around my waist and his breath steamed over my face. He smelled horrible, like stale breath mints and cigarette smoke. I prepared myself for the kiss and it crushed onto me, against my teeth.

He didn’t like my mouth closed. He said if we loved each other, I would welcome him in—everywhere he wanted to be.

He also said he’d buy me black leather boots, the expensive kind, if I said I loved him.

“All I want to do is make you feel good.” He pinched my nipples. That felt strange. I didn’t know if it was good or not—at least it didn’t hurt. “Do you want to feel good?”

Yes, of course, but I couldn’t speak. Maybe because I wasn’t sure if I was there inside that body lying on the bed. Yes. Feeling good was like licking an ice cream cone, or flying down a roller coaster track. Better than being hurt.

Then I died. Crushed under his horrid body and burning, burning like I was being ripped apart. Torn and sliced and thrown to claws, fangs, and wild beasts. I wondered if in a past life I’d been eaten by a tiger or jumped by wolves. They said a soul would never forget a violent death.

But I lived, and he said, “It will be better. I promise you. It’s better if you love me.”

“I love you,” I said, thinking about my new boots.

“
I
hate you
.” Jeanine cried out and kicked, flinging her blanket off the bed. She sat up, her heart pounding and fists clenched. Sweat dampened her skin. A chilly draft sliced through her and she shuddered, on full alert.

The room was darkly familiar. No witch’s bed. No black boots. Sleek and clean, wood and brass. Restoration Hardware modern. Clinical, with simple contemporary lines.

She was in her room. Her grownup room in her own apartment. Except he was out there somewhere. Or was he already inside? Lurking on the other side of her bedroom door. No. It was nerves. Pure nerves.

She glanced at her alarm clock. Three fucking thirty in the morning. The clouds of her dream were starting to clear, thankfully. It was only her overactive imagination.

Footsteps stopped outside her bedroom door. Jeanine’s heart pulsated, and she drew her blankets up to her chin. She held herself still like prey did when being eyed by a predator—as if she could wish herself away—disappear by the act of not moving.

“Jeanine, are you okay in there?” Tina’s voice was soft, as if unsure whether she was awake.

Air deflated from Jeanine’s lungs and she closed her eyes. She would let Tina think she had been asleep the entire time. Nothing bothered her. Absolutely nothing. She had to be strong for Tina who was always afraid—like a little mouse, scurrying in the dark, hiding.

Jeanine held her breath until the sounds of Tina’s footsteps shuffled away. Stealthily, she slid her nightstand drawer open, located the knee-high sock and pulled out her magic wand vibrator, ready to go with new batteries.

Damn, but she needed to get laid. If it hadn’t been for Bianca’s belt testing and then going to the police station to report the guy taking pictures, she would have headed off to a bar across town and found herself a slab of abs and a foot-long hard-on. She would have ridden him to the bone and felt good—so desperately good—almost good enough to believe she was better than a naughty little whore.

“
W
hat’s up with you
?” Kirk slammed his mitt into his locker after the afternoon game and glared at his buddy, Brock Carter. “You weren’t paying attention.”

Brock played third base and he’d missed Johnson’s throw, allowing the runner to not just steal second to third, but round the corner and score. That error had started a rally, and the Rattlers had lost the game.

“I don’t feel good about it either.” Brock squared his jaw and clenched it.

“I was watching you. You’re dragging. You better get on top of whatever’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.” Brock averted his gaze from Kirk. “I gotta go home.”

“Sure. I get it. You have a new baby. But don’t think no one’s noticed you’re always late getting to the ballpark.”

“Marcia’s working tonight. They’re training a new bartender to manage the late nights. Both Jeanine and Marcia are dog tired ever since their old manager left.”

“You mean that guy who started The Home Plate?” Kirk had picked up on some of the gossip about the rivalry between the two joints.

“Something like that.” Brock pulled on his civilian clothes, not even bothering to shower. “I really have to go.”

Kirk shook his head after his friend’s quick departure. If getting married and having a baby meant being worn out and playing below par, then he wasn’t having any of it.

“Going out this evening?” Ryan Hudson, the veteran pitcher who ruled the bullpen stopped on the way to the showers.

“Sure, whatever you’re thinking of, I’m game.”

“Great. Text you later.”

Kirk let Ryan walk to the shower by himself while he observed the other players—who was speaking to whom. The opening from Ryan could not be ignored. The guy had to be burning about the three passed balls Johnson allowed, costing him the save.

Who was Josh fooling? He wasn’t one hundred percent. Traumatic brain injury didn’t have a straight line recovery, and the game of baseball was as much mental as physical—actually more mental.

At least Johnson had an excuse.

Brock? Not so much.

Kirk had never known his former teammate to be so distracted. It had to be the baby keeping him up all night, and a wife who made him get up for night feedings or diaper changes.

No wonder his father took off whenever there was a baby in the house. Of course, he ended up fathering babies in two families—and married to two different women in two different states.

Kirk kept his mind on baseball while at the clubhouse, but as soon as he had a chance, he rushed back to his apartment to fetch the package FedEx had left.

This entire love letter situation seemed like a practical joke. He’d called his mother to ask for an explanation, but she hadn’t picked up or returned his text messages.

The fact that these letters had to do with Jeanine had his juices flowing. He flipped the large box into the air and caught it, then stepped into his apartment with a bounce in his step.

Women were distractions if they were clingy and needy. But a woman like Jeanine, a knock-out beauty who could resist his charms, in addition to the mystery before him—that was a curiosity worth figuring out. Much more fun than cruising a bar and hooking up for the night.

He unlocked his door and scooted inside as if he had a treasure in his hands. He opened the box only to find a large sealed Tyvek envelope inside marked “Private.”

It was addressed simply to “Jeanine.” No last name. His mother had tacked on a note:
Kirk, See that she gets what she deserves. No peeking. Love, Mom

“And I’m supposed to hand this to her with a straight face so she gets what she deserves?” Kirk cupped a hand on the side of his mouth and spoke to the airwaves, knowing no one was listening. “If this is a game to get me married off, it isn’t working. And why in tarnation would you pick Jeanine Jewell?”

Kirk shook the envelope. It did seem to contain several bundles of letters inside. He picked at the seal, but the adhesive was too sticky and wouldn’t tear off cleanly. Jeanine would know if he opened it.

Resisting temptation, Kirk opened the coat closet and flung the envelope inside. He pulled his phone from his pocket and called his brother who picked up on the first ring.

“I got the love letters. What am I supposed to do? Give it to her? Why didn’t Mom FedEx it to her place? I’m sure the private investigator knows where she lives.”

“Beats me. I’m just trading favors here.”

“Did she tell you who the letters are from? How would they have been left at her house? Were these letters ever mailed?”

“I don’t have any details,” his brother said. “I’ll tell Mom you got the letters.”

“And? What if I throw them away?”

“You won’t.” Matt laughed drily. “Maybe Mom wants to give you an excuse to go on a date with her. After all, the other Mrs. Kennedy has two grandchildren already.”

“There’s always you,” Kirk said. “You could try a surrogate or adopt.”

Matt was as gay as Kirk was straight, and he was always asking Kirk to introduce him to certain ballplayers.

“Keep an eye out on the talent for me, and I’ll try to figure out what Mom’s really up to,” Matt said, adding his own tit-for-tat.

“No good. That’s for sure. I’m betting the guy who wrote the letters dumped Mom for Jeanine. Do you think he’s a ballplayer?”

“Maybe one of the older ones, sure. Anything’s possible.”

“Or maybe this guy is dead and Mom wants Jeanine to feel the loss, only she doesn’t care.”

“You might be onto something,” Matt agreed. “Else, why bother sending her the letters. I’m sure Mom read them.”

“Yes, and she sealed it in a Tyvek envelope and wrote ‘Private’ on it.”

“What’s stopping you from opening it, then resealing them in another Tyvek envelope and writing ‘Private’ on it?”

“Oh, you’re evil.”

“I’m wicked.” His brother chuckled. “Have fun.”

Kirk hung up and took the envelope out of the closet. Shaking it like it was a Christmas present, he went to the kitchen and sliced it with a knife.

Was he being a douchebag? Of course he was.

But all was fair in love and war, except this was neither love nor war. He was plain bored, and Jeanine was the most interesting creature he’d met this side of the Mississippi River.