Single (Stockton Beavers #1) (2 page)

"What? I thought she was cute. That's all."

"You don't know anything about her, then," he replies ominously.

I pause in what I'm doing. "What do you mean?"

"She's supposedly with Landry now… But in the past, she's been linked to Jake Woodbury, Scott Harper… Dude, she's practically worked her way through every guy on the Kings."

I squeeze the toaster in my hands, denting it even more. "You don't know if that's true."

"When has the gossip that flows between the Beavers' clubhouse and the Kings' clubhouse ever been wrong?"

He's got me there, but I'd rather not dwell on it, so I ask, "Do you think Landry will bring her with him to Stockton?"

"Really, dude? Mike Landry—a verified pitching god—just gave you your old job back, and you're thinking about going toe-to-toe with him over some chick? If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you've lost your mind, Single."

Okay, when I was on the Beavers, the guys liked to bust my chops about my never-changing relationship status—which is how I ended up with the nickname, Single. But let's face it, when I was playing, it wasn't easy to get women to look at me—not when I was standing on the field next to all of them, the little scrapper trying to hack it with the big boys. And ever since leaving the team, I haven't helped my cause any. By taking on the role of Mom's primary caregiver, I haven't had time to shave, much less date.

Which is why I can't help thinking back to how Roberta was that day with Arnold Heimlich. She didn't even hesitate to wipe the drool from his chin while he sat in his wheelchair, and the unselfishness of her gesture made a distinct impression on me. At the time, Mom was in the beginning stages of early onset Alzheimer's, and here was a girl around my age who was taking care of someone with dignity and grace. That image of her stayed with me, and after losing Dad, it made me think that maybe I could take care of Mom by myself, that maybe I could hold everything together just like she did.

I jump when the volume on the TV in the living room goes from soft to loud in a matter of seconds.

"Dude, I was trying to be polite and not say anything, but what the heck is going on over there? Are you having a party without me?" Dan shouts above the racket.

I sigh, tossing the remains of the toaster into the trash and shucking off the oven mitts. "Nah, it's Mom, acting out again. Listen, I gotta go."

"Luke, you have to tell the Beavers about what's going on with her. Maybe they can help…"

"Sorry, man. I don't think so. I don't want anyone's charity."

And I especially don't want Mike Landry butting into my life
.

"C'mon, Single. At least come to the mandatory team workout tomorrow morning. It's at Beaver Field at ten o'clock," he urges.

"You mean, before or after I tell them no?"

"Whatever, man. But I think you owe it to yourself. The paycheck would come in handy. At least think about it."

I pinch my brow. "All right, I'll think about it."

"Now go check on Mrs. S. before she burns the house down," he jokes.

And I can't bring myself to tell him the truth. "Okay. Later, man."

One last morning with the team could be just the thing I need, then maybe the nightmares I've had since I got hit would finally stop. As long as I don't fall into the trap of letting myself believe that somehow I can have it all—that I can play baseball
and
be there for Mom.

I shove my phone back in my pocket and hurriedly slosh my way across the wet, grimy floor. I peer around the corner and Mom's still on the couch. She has the remote in her hand, scared to death of all the noise she's created. Leaving a trail of grimy footprints in my wake, I gently take it out of her grasp and punch the down button until I'm finally able to hear myself think. In the face of so many unknowns—her health, my career, our finances—nothing's clear. Everything's a blur.

And my heart aches inside my chest because that's probably how she feels all the time now.
Lost… Confused… Alone…

So I do the only thing I can think of. I put the compress back in her hand and gently wrap my fingers around hers, letting her know it's okay.

Even though it's not.

None of this is okay.

None of it.

Chapter Two

Roberta

"Bobbie Jo, are you sure you're ready for this?"

I stand up as soon as the ball hits my mitt. "Landry, I wouldn't be here if I weren't."

He gives me a big, toothy grin before bending down and scooping up the rosin bag. "I don't know what I'm gonna do without you. I really don't."

Over the past few months, pitcher Mike Landry and I have gotten close, but
not
in the way most people think. Last summer, the Heimlich family sent me to be the live-in caregiver for Mike's wife, who was in the final stages of ovarian cancer. And for the short time that I knew Julie Landry, I really liked her. Her gentle spirit burned with the intense love she had for her family, and she begged me not to abandon them after she was gone, making me promise to stay on at their ranch, at least for a little while. So I did, helping Landry, his little girl Taylor, and his teenage son Jason, get back on their feet again.

But now, it's time to move on. And that's what I plan on doing in Stockton—finding a new job and starting over.

I take off my glove and shake out my hand. "That's some nasty stuff you're throwing there, Big Mike. I'm thinking retirement wasn't such a good idea after all."

"It is for me," he drawls, holding out his hand for the ball. "For the first time in my life, I'm gonna get to spend an entire summer with my kids." His smile only gets bigger as he doffs his wide-brimmed Stetson at me.

Only Landry would don a cowboy hat to get loose in the bullpen, but he's only here to observe the team workout session and get his arm "ready" for tomorrow. He's throwing out the ceremonial first pitch as a part of the opening day festivities. But Landry's Texas roots run deep, and after Julie's passing, it seems he's drawn closer than ever to what's important to him. It turns out walking away from his life as a player wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. He doesn't have to pitch to win anymore. Now, as the new owner of the Stockton Beavers, he's hoping to leave all that stress behind and simply enjoy the game again.

Although, working with the Heimlichs is never stress-free…
I should know
.

I toss him an underhanded pass and stare at him through the rimmed cage of the catcher's mask. "So after the game tomorrow, you're just gonna get on a plane and take off?"

He grins when I place my hands on my hips, refusing to squat back down. "I thought I'd put in an appearance for the home opener. Show the guys I'm behind them. But like I told the Heimlichs going into this, I have no intentions of uprooting the kids, not with Jason about to graduate high school and all. Besides, I don't need to micromanage things. I trust the coaching staff to keep me informed."

But I wish he were able to stay a little while longer. The impending separation is starting to feel real now. I don't get emotional over things like this. But I'm still gonna miss the big cowboy—and the security his ranch provided. I lift the mask away from my face and let it rest on top of my head, brushing away the curly strands that've fallen free of my ponytail. Reaching for my water bottle, I threaten to squirt him with it. "So this is it, then?"

He raises his hands and chuckles at me. "You're ready to fly on your own, little lady. And so am I. It's time to begin a new chapter in both of our lives."

I roll my eyes skyward. "Oh, yeah, that's right. We're putting the past behind us now."

He shakes his head at me. "Uh-uh, that's not what I said." He strolls over to the bullpen door and nods at a group of Beaver players who are stretching near the stands. "Are you already forgetting about the pact that we made?"

I smack his arm, hard. "I'm done dating baseball players, in case you haven't noticed."

"Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it," Landry muses, stroking his chin.

Okay, if he's going to keep pulling this overprotective crap with me, then I intend to make him squirm. The guys are all wearing their batting practice jerseys, which, unfortunately, only have the number on the back and
not
the player's name. And since I don't plan on taking the time to familiarize myself with the entire Beavers' roster, I'm just going to have to…
go fish
.

"Fine." I deliberately point at the broad shoulders of the guy who has by far the nicest body on the team. "I think number twenty-two is gonna be the first one I hook up with."

Landry smirks at me. "Yeah, that's so not happening."

"Why?" I snap. "Who is he?"

"Rob Reardon, a first-round draft pick and my new shortstop—a guy who committed fifty errors last year in Double-A. Sorry, Bobbie Jo, but the boy needs to work on his game."

"All right. How about the big, burly mountain-man over there…the one with the beard? Number forty-six?"

"Dan O'Malley?" Landry chortles. "That guy's, like, my biggest fan ever."

"Well, scratch him off the list," I mutter.

"One more strike and you're out," Landry says, making up the rules as we go along. "Then I'm puttin' an end to your nonsense."

"Damn, and I was just starting to enjoy this," I sass him back.

I continue my search for a new target when my eyes land on a player who just popped out of the Beavers' dugout. Yikes, his number's ninety-nine. He's certainly not a first-round draft pick. But then, based on the way he's holding his bat, a nervous sort of flutter enters my stomach because, even from this far away, his stance looks familiar.

It can't be him, can it? No, there's no way.

Landry taps the face of his watch. "Ten seconds…nine…eight…seven…"

Barely giving the rest of the team a second look, I blurt out. "Umm…number thirty."

"Cranky old Eddie Hoffman?" Landry can't hold back his laughter any longer. "He's over there glowering at you now for swiping his gear. I'd hate to see what would happen if you two ever went on a date together. You'd kill each other."

But my eyes are glued to number ninety-nine. He fits the profile. Longish hair. Stocky build. But this guy has a goatee. He didn't…at least
not then
.

"Then which one of your players am I going to set my sights on, huh?" I mask my anxiety with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "Hmmm…the suspense must be killing you, Landry. Just wait until Taylor becomes a teenager. How in the world are you gonna keep her away from your team full of hot, young ballplayers?"

"Very funny," he groans while giving me a shrewd look. "Just so you know, Taylor's not going to date, and I'm talkin'
ever
."

I rest my chin on top of the divider. "I don't know about that, Pops." I hold my breath and dip my toe into more dangerous waters. "Although ninety-nine looks harmless enough. Why'd you give the poor guy that number? What…double zero wasn't available?"

Landry props his arms next to mine and glances at me out of the corner of his eye. I'm acting weird. He knows something's not right, even if he can't put his finger on it. He's become like a big brother to me, the kind I wished I had growing up. Maybe then someone would've been watching out for me, not allowing me to make so many painful mistakes.

Landry shrugs. "He chose ninety-nine, said it keeps him humble."

I struggle to draw air into my lungs when Landry still doesn't reveal his name. "Aren't you a sucker for hard-luck cases?"

"I know what you're thinking, Bobbie Jo. Yeah, at 5'7", he's on the short side, but don't let his size fool you," Landry advises. "There's a heart of a warrior beatin' inside that little body of his."

But I wasn't referring to his height. There's a mighty big reason why I'm interested in him, and it's certainly
not
to make fun of him for being as tall as I am.

"All right, then. What's his—?"

But Landry stops me right there. "Don't, Bobbie Jo. I don't wanna hear you rip him apart. You don't know everything's he's been through."

A sinking sensation begins churning deep down in my stomach.
But what if he's wrong? What if I do?

"His father was a helluva guy. When I was on the Beavers, I really enjoyed playing with him. At the time, I was just a young kid and he taught me a lot," Landry says, his face taking on a faraway look. "And now that I'm in a position to do something for his son, I'm darn well gonna do it."

"Ah, nepotism at its finest."

Landry turns to face me. "You don't understand. That headhuntin' bastard ain't gettin' the last word on this. Not if I have anything to say about it."

I clear my throat. "What headhunting bastard?"

"The guy who hit him," Landry mutters. "A pitcher you've probably never even heard of—David Nichols."

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, well acquainted with the name that just fell from his lips.

"He's nothing but a lowlife scum, as far as I'm concerned," Landry rails. "You don't throw at a guy's head—period."

Dizzy, I lean back against the bullpen wall. Landry doesn't have to say anything else. He just confirmed it for me. Luke Singleton
is
number ninety-nine.

I swallow past the lump in my throat as Luke steps into the batting cage. What happened to him last season is the stuff of nightmares. I saw the clip on YouTube. The pitch coming in at over a hundred miles an hour, how it slammed into the side of his neck, knocking him off his feet…
leaving him unable to breathe
…until the paramedics carried him off the field on a stretcher, unsure if he was going to survive.

"It's a miracle Luke's even alive, much less in a baseball uniform." Landry goes on, all fired up. "But that's the kind of determination I want on this team. Guys who don't quit—on themselves, on the game,
or
on life." He doesn't have to say it. Just listening to him, I know that he's thinking about Julie, about himself, and the kids. "The Heimlichs think he's done, but I wanna see what he can do."

The entire field goes absolutely still when Luke bails on the first pitch that he sees, hitting the dirt like he can't get out of the way fast enough. Unsure of what to do, the batting practice pitcher just stands there, stunned. No one rushes over to help Luke, not even the trainer who's observing him closely from the top step of the dugout. The ball didn't even touch him. There was no deadening sound of horsehide connecting with flesh. Nothing got hurt this time, except his pride.

Landry cups his hands around his mouth and shouts over, "Do you need some more balls out on the mound?"

The pitcher faces the bullpen, shielding his eyes with his glove. "Yeah, that'd be great, boss!"

The whole team is aware of what Landry's doing, trying to take some of the heat off Luke. But is it going to be enough? Luke is still down on his knees, not making any attempt to get up. I'm standing in the doorway of the bullpen, with one foot on the warning track, when Landry turns to me.

"Bobbie Jo, grab that bucket of balls and run it out there for me. Would ya?"

My jaw drops. "What? No!"

Landry furrows his brow at me. "Whyever not?"

I pause, forced to think on my feet. "You…you just told me to stay away from your players, didn't you?"

"Really? Now you're gettin' all shy on me?"

I take a deep breath, struggling to maintain my composure as I watch Luke slowly rise to his feet.

Landry joins me in the doorway. "C'mon, Bobbie Jo. His confidence is at an all-time low. If I go out there, it'll only make things worse. Do this one favor for me. I'm not asking you to marry the guy or anything."

When I don't immediately bite his head off like I usually do whenever he brings up the subject of marriage, he gives me a searching look. My emotions are bubbling up inside of me, threatening to spill over. I'm trapped. If I flat-out refuse Landry's request, he's going to know something's wrong, and then he won't rest until he draws everything out of me.
Yeah, he's my friend, but I'd die if he knew about this. He can't find out. I won't let him.

Slowly, I exit the pen, clutching the bucket against the front of my chest protector. Other than the sound of my shin guards rubbing together as I walk, there's a nervous silence filling the space between me and the pitcher's mound.
Don't read anything into it. He doesn't know who you are. No one does…not really.

Luke's head is bent as he stares down at home plate, tapping the end of his bat against it. I cross my fingers. Maybe I can do this without him even noticing me.

But then from inside the dugout, the catcher starts spouting off. "Don't even tell me she's wearing one of my masks… What's Landry thinking? I should be the one out there with him, not her."

And my breath catches when Luke Singleton looks up, and I'm greeted by the clearest, most open set of eyes imaginable. For a split second, I'm blindsided when the sunlight hits them and they seem to change from a deep russet brown to a sparkling green. But it's not until he offers me a shy smile that I completely come undone.

Oh God, I can't do this.

I flip the catcher's mask down over my face and drop the bucket of balls at the pitcher's feet. I can't bring myself to look at him again, so I turn on my heel and march straight back to the bullpen. But as soon as I do, I feel the weight of Luke's eyes on me, and I can't ignore the inexplicable jolt I get in the pit of my stomach. It's like I'm riding a roller coaster of emotions, one I never wanted to get on.

When I get within earshot, Landry exhales loudly through his nose. "Gosh, dang it," he mumbles. "I made a huge mistake, rushin' him back like this."

Okay, he's not disappointed in me. He's disappointed in himself for what happened to Luke out there, and somehow that makes me feel even worse.

"Why would you say that? Why
now
?"

Landry lowers the brim of his Stetson so far down over his eyes only the cleft in his chin is visible. "Some guys don't ever get over getting hit like that, Bobbie Jo."

"Well, he got his arm working again, didn't he?"

Landry casts a sidelong glance at me. "Did he now?"

"Besides," I protest, talking way too fast, not wanting to give myself away. "Who knows what he'll do in a game situation? You can't judge him based on what you just saw."

"And what about now?"

He nods at Luke, who's shuffling off the field, hanging his head in defeat. The other players part like the Red Sea for him as he trots down the steps and into the dugout, receiving numerous thumps on the helmet from his teammates as he walks by. But what really gets to me is when he stops and takes a long, lingering look back at the field before passing through the door leading to the clubhouse.