The Sweetest Game (9 page)

Melissa coughed against me, shocked by my words. “Oh my God, shut up.”

“I’m not kidding. He needs you,” I said pointedly before walking away.

The next morning, I woke up with a back sore from sleeping on the couch two nights in a row. The constant barrage of conversation surrounding me reminded me that my brother and Melissa were here.

Great.

It had to be clear to everyone that I was avoiding my wife. My mind was spinning out of control with thoughts I never imagined having. The idea of my baseball career being over wrecked me.

Literally fucking ruined me.

I couldn’t function like a normal human being anymore. The thought turned me into an unrecognizable asshole. And the worst part was, I knew it. I was completely aware of my behavior, but it was like I couldn’t stop it. My head would tell my mouth not to say what it was about to say, but my mouth would say it anyway.

And even though I wanted to take it all back, I didn’t. It’s as if I started digging a hole and once I got in it, I couldn’t stop digging. I wanted to get low enough so that I could bury myself inside and never see the light of day again. That was what losing baseball felt like.

“Hey, asshole,” my little brother’s voice called out and I cleared my throat.

“What do you want, dick?”

“I want to sightsee and you’re taking me,” he demanded.

I almost fucking laughed. There was no way I was going to let Dean boss me around. “I’m sure Cassie would be better at that sort of thing.” Even that sentence came out sounding like a slam against her.

“I’m sure she would be too. But I want you to take me. You need to get out of this house. And you look like shit.”

Melissa laughed and I shot her an evil look. “Shut up, Fun-Size. Why are you even here?”

“Fuck you, Jack. I’m here because you’re being an asshole to my best friend. And someone has to give a shit about her.”

Her words stung, but I pretended not to be fazed. Each breath I sucked in pierced my heart more deeply. I had to stop hurting Cassie, but I couldn’t. Why couldn’t I just fucking stop? Pushing up from the couch, I glared at the three of them sitting at the table, then growled at Dean, “Be ready to leave in ten.”

“So, where we going?” my brother asked after we left the girls at the apartment, his face filled with excitement.

“You like it here, don’t you?” I teased, my mood already lifting. The trees were losing their leaves and the weather was changing. That was definitely one of the coolest things about living here—the feeling in the air as the seasons changed.

He looked around. “I’ve never seen anyplace like it.”

And he was right. There was nothing like this in Southern California, and New York did have a magical feel to it. That is, once you looked past all the dirt, trash, and large rats running around. Hell, even that shit didn’t bother me.

“Well, I haven’t seen much, to be honest,” I admitted. “I don’t have much time to play tourist, but you’ve got to see Central Park. It’s huge.” I punched my brother in the arm.

“How far is it? Do we drive there? Or walk? Or take the subway?”

I shook my head. “Shut the fuck up. Jesus, you’re like a damn chick. We’ll walk there. It’s nice out and that way you can see more. You can’t see shit if we’re underground in the train.”

Dean agreed and basically walked with his head up his ass, staring up and around the whole time. “Dude, you need to be aware of your surroundings. At least act like you’re paying attention or someone’s going to mug you,” I said, shaking my head.

“What?” He shot me an incredulous glance.

“It’s a big fucking city. Shit happens. Don’t act stupid.”

A group of young couples passed by us and I pulled my hat lower, trying to avoid being noticed. “I think that was Jack Carter! Oh my God,” a girl squawked from behind me.

“Shit,” I mumbled to no one in particular.

“That is him,” I heard another one say. “Look, he has a cast on and everything. Jack? Excuse me, Jack?” The sound of shoes slamming against the pavement stopped me.

I turned to face the group of twenty-somethings.

“Can we have your autograph?” one of the girls asked hopefully.

Lifting up my broken arm, I shrugged. “Can’t really sign anything with a broken hand, sorry.”

“Oh yeah, stupid me.” The girl smacked her forehead. “Can we get a picture with you, then?”

I sucked in a breath and glanced around before agreeing. “Sure.”

After one shot, I’d hoped we were done, but everyone had their own camera phone, and wanted their own picture. Soon a small crowd had formed, all clamoring for the same thing. Trying to keep my irritation in check, I obliged everyone wanting a photo with me before turning toward my brother, who had willingly turned photographer. “Sorry. Maybe we should have taken the train,” I said before continuing up East Fifty-Ninth.

“Nah. It’s cool,” he said with a smile. “Plus, you were actually nice to them.”

“Fuck off.”

“See? What’s your problem, man?”

“Don’t start with me,” I said through clenched teeth. I didn’t want to talk about this. My thoughts alone caused me enough grief. The last thing I wanted to do was actually talk about them.

“I will start with you,” Dean said harshly. “You’re being a real dick. And to Cassie, of all people. Do you want her to fucking leave you?”

I stopped walking. Mid. Fucking. Step.

“What the hell did you just say to me?” I glared at my little brother, my heart fucking pounding out each beat against my chest.

Dean hardened his expression. “She won’t put up with this forever. Eventually she’ll leave you. And it will be your own fault.”

I moved to shove him but he dodged me. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare fucking say that.”

“What? You don’t want to hear the truth? You’re unbearable right now. I’ve never seen you like this. And heaven forbid your hand not heal right and—”

I cut him off, not wanting to hear the next fucking word that came out of his mouth. Right now all I wanted to do was punch him in it. “Shut up, Dean. Shut the fuck up right now. You don’t know what it’s like. You have no idea how I feel.”

“Then tell me! Tell someone!” he shouted and I swore the entire city stopped moving so they could listen.

“Keep your goddamned voice down,” I demanded and resumed walking. His fingers wrapped around the sleeve of my shirt and he pulled me back. “What the hell?”

“We’re talking about this,” he said as he leveled his gaze to mine. “So figure out someplace we can go to do it. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

My stubborn nature refused to let me respond. Instead I marched forward, heading in the direction of the park. Central Park was massive. There were plenty of places we could go to talk and not be surrounded by prying ears.

As we crossed over Fifth Avenue, I turned to Dean and pointed. “That’s the Plaza Hotel. It’s Cassie’s favorite, she’s absolutely in love with it. And that fountain.”

Dean looked in the direction of the hotel. “I can see why. It’s fantastic.”

“Come on. The park’s right there.”

I could tell Dean still didn’t get it. He didn’t know how grand this park was. I’m sure he assumed that the park would be the size of one of our parks at home. I should have told him that Central Park was more like Griffith Park, only more awesome.

Entering through the southeast corner of the park, it didn’t take long until the sounds of the outside world started to fade. The park was alluring in that way. You could cross the street in front of screaming cabs and tourists, and before you knew it you’d entered a world where birds were chirping, people were jogging, and the only other sound you heard were those of horseshoes clacking against the pavement. Submersed inside this world, it was easy to forget anything existed outside of it.

A few more steps and we were at the pond. “Wow,” Dean said with a smile. “So this is Central Park, huh?”

I laughed. Shit. I hadn’t laughed in days and my face knew it. It hurt. “This is barely Central Park.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dude, this is the pond. There’s a lake, a merry-go-round, an ice skating rink, baseball fields, a zoo, the meadow where they have concerts and shit. This place is huge. I still haven’t seen the whole thing.”

“That doesn’t sound like a park. That sounds like a city.”

I shrugged. “It sorta is, like a city within a city.” Spotting some large boulders in the distance, I sped toward them as Dean followed behind. I climbed up on the largest one and sat on top. Dean climbed up next to me.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Does what hurt?”

“Your hand. I see you tucking it against you every now and then, and I wondered if it hurts.”

I looked down at the cast covering my pitching arm. “Do I really do that? I didn’t notice.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said.

I hadn’t admitted it to anyone. Not even to the team’s doctor, but yes, my hand hurt. It fucking killed me. As far as they knew, I was taking their prescribed painkillers. But the truth was that I wasn’t.

“Yeah, it hurts,” I admitted.

“How bad?”

“It’s a constant pain. I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. It fucking kills me.”

Dean’s head tipped to one side as though he were confused, or worried. “That can’t be good. They gave you painkillers, right?”

I nodded sharply.

“They’re not working, then? You have to tell them.”

I huffed out a breath. “I’m not taking them.”

“What? Why on earth not?” His face scrunched up with confusion and I looked around at the green trees surrounding us.

“Because I don’t do that shit. I don’t do drugs. I’ve never taken a painkiller in my life and I’ve heard they’re addictive. What if I get addicted to them?”

Dean laughed. Full-out belly laughed, and I resisted punching him in the gut to shut him up.

“You’re not going to get addicted,” he said. “Just cut them in half. Whenever you start to feel the pain, take half of whatever they prescribed you. Soon, the pain will stop and you won’t need them. You’re not Superman, Jack.”

“Says you.”

“I say that because I know you, brother,” he insisted.

“And I say no because I’ve seen way too many guys get addicted to shit. I refuse to be one of them.”

He sighed, clearly more convinced of my own strength than I was. “Here.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it onto my lap.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s a letter from Gran.”

“You read it?” I asked, my tone defensive.

He frowned at me and snapped, “Does it look like I read it?”

I turned the envelope around, and ripped open the seal.

Dear Jack,

Sometimes life doesn’t unfold the way we want it to. You, of all people, have learned that lesson all too well. First with your parents, then with Cassie and that other horrible girl, and now with baseball.

Gramps and I are so sorry that your hand is broken. And we know how much you must be hurting because of it. But, Jack, I’m hearing things about your behavior and attitude toward your wife that I cannot condone. I did not raise you to be mean, rude, or disrespectful to the one person who has loved you at your worst.

I know you feel as though your life IS baseball, but the reality is your life is so much more than just your chosen profession. True, baseball is a part of your life, but it is only a part. No matter how wholeheartedly you think differently, you are not baseball, and baseball is not you. It will not last forever. Nothing does, dear. Nothing except love, of course.

Eventually your hand will heal, but if you ruin things with your wife, I fear your heart never will. Remember how it felt to lose her. And don’t let it happen again.

Remember who you are. You’re Jack Carter, the boy with the unbreakable spirit and resolve. The boy who doesn’t take no for an answer when it’s something he wants. You’ve been like that since you were five years old. And I know you haven’t changed. So stop throwing this little pity party of yours and get your priorities straight.