Team Player Page 6

  “Ibanez found Ashe?” Brandon guessed.

  “Yeah, in the back somewhere.”

  “Who was he with?”

  “Beats me. Take your pick.”

  “I wish,” Brandon cracked, and they laughed.

  Gwen drank.

  CHAPTER 6

  TY ARRIVED AT THE FIELD at eight the next morning. The game didn’t start until one, but he hadn’t been able to sleep last night, and being the first guy in the clubhouse might help convince Strip to put him back in the lineup. He tossed his things in his locker, changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and headed for the gym. The room was empty and cool, the air conditioning turned up high to accommodate two dozen sweaty men.

  Despite the multi-million dollar clubhouse, the gym was nothing more than what one would find in any community center—cinderblock walls painted the Thrashers’ teal, a row of treadmills, elliptical machines and stationary bikes, racks of weights and a large area for stretching. There were televisions at intermittent intervals, but the only things on at this hour were last night’s sports recaps and morning talk shows, and Ty wasn’t in the mood for either. He chose the treadmill in the corner, the one facing a blank wall, and stepped on.

  He pulled on his earphones and started out at a slow jog. After five minutes he increased the pace, and soon he was full-out sprinting. At the twenty-minute mark he turned up the incline, feeling his thighs start to burn, sweat pouring down his forehead. He reached for his towel and mopped his face, but didn’t slow, adding another mile to his speed. The machine was vibrating from the intensity, his feet thudding on the spinning rubber mat as sweat splashed onto the sidebars.

  The workout wasn’t unusual for him. Everything Ty did well was because he’d had Connor right behind him, beside him, pushing him to do better. He didn’t like to lose and neither did Connor, and they’d spent hours one-upping each other. Who could run faster, longer. Who could throw farther, more accurately. Who hit more home runs, got on base more, had more RBIs. They’d improved every year, their stats climbing in tandem.

  Until this year.

  This year Connor was gone and Ty’s numbers were abysmal.

  He stumbled as the machine reached the forty-minute mark for his programmed set and slowed before he was ready. He caught himself on the handrails and forced his shaky legs to keep moving, pacing himself as his heart rate lowered.

  After a minute he was breathing normally and ready for the rest of his workout. He stepped off to grab a spray bottle to wipe down the machine, faltering when he saw Denzel Reed pedaling on one of the recumbent bicycles and reading a book.

  Reed was the guy they brought in to replace Connor. It was inevitable, of course, that they would sign a new starting right fielder, but Ty’d been part of the majority who didn’t think Reed was the right choice. He was too flashy, too cocky, too out of touch. He was one of those guys who didn’t realize he’d already peaked and was now on a slow but steady downward spiral. He was, in fact, the only guy on the team whose season was off to an even worse start than Ty’s.

  Reed glanced over and Ty scooped up a spray bottle, pushing the headphones around his neck.

  “Hey,” he made himself say.

  “Hey.” Reed turned the page, and Ty frowned as he recognized the cover. He hadn’t read the book, but the image of ghostly white hands cupping a red apple had been splashed everywhere years ago.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  Ty desperately wanted to know more, but if Reed wanted to stick to one-syllable answers, he’d hold onto his questions. He wiped down the treadmill and walked over to the training area to start doing burpees. He hated the things, but Connor had set a record of a hundred burpees in ten minutes, and Ty had yet to beat it. He pictured Connor in his cell, improving his burpee time, and that kept him going with the dreadful exercise. He’d just lowered himself to the ground when Reed spoke again from the bike.

  “It’s for my daughter,” he said.

  Ty sprung to his feet. “What?”

  “The book. I’m reading it for my daughter.”

  Ty squatted, placed his hands on the floor, and lowered himself into a plank. “Why?”

  “Cause I don’t have anything else in common with a thirteen-year-old girl.”

  Ty jumped up again, hands in the air. “Makes sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  Ty and Reed glanced over as the left fielder, Anthony Girardi, and the Thrashers closer, Stan “Blanche” Blanchard, walked in. Girardi deliberately ignored Reed as he went to the mats to start stretching. No one was particularly pleased with Reed’s addition to the outfield, and Reed himself didn’t look too happy about it most of the time.

  Blanche, who’d been blessed with a last name that matched his shock of bright white hair, climbed on the bike next to Reed. “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Ah, nothing.”

  “Is that the vampire book? Isn’t it for kids?”

  “I—”

  Girardi snorted.

  “It’s for my daughter,” Reed said tersely. “We’re connecting.”

  At thirty-five, Blanche was the oldest Thrashers pitcher, and often took the role of father in the clubhouse, whether anyone wanted him to or not. Now he pointed between Reed and Girardi and said, “Maybe you two should read the same book, then, and start connecting better in the outfield.”

  Ty snickered as he wiped sweat off his nose.

  “Maybe he should learn to read,” Reed snapped.

  Girardi stopped stretching. “Hey. Watch—”

  “Everybody calm down,” Escobar ordered, strolling into the room with a green electrolyte drink. “We can all read.” He glanced at Girardi doubtfully. “Mostly.”

  “Excuse me!”

  Ty laughed and patted the younger, definitely literate, player on the shoulder. “Relax. You’re trying your best.”

  Girardi stood and snatched up his water bottle. “You’re all assholes.”

  Ibanez appeared at the doorway, wearing nothing more than a towel and a heavy gold chain. “Who wants to see my ass?”

  “Absolutely no one,” Escobar replied.

  “No man, woman or animal,” Reed confirmed.

  “All right, since you asked so nicely...” Ibanez dropped the towel and stood, hands on hips, proudly facing the room.

  “My eyes!” Blanche cried, covering his face.

  Girardi threw his bottle. “That’s not your ass, you idiot!”

  “Oh, you still want to see my ass?”

  “No!” they shouted.

  Ibanez turned and wiggled his rear. “This is why they call me the dream maker.”

  They all groaned and looked away, trying and failing to hide their laughter.

  It wasn’t much, but it was the first thing all season they’d done as a team.

  BY THE TIME TY FINISHED showering and returned to his locker, the lineup for the day’s game had been posted. It looked different from the day before in three very notable ways: one, Ty was back in the lineup, hitting in his usual three spot. Two, Denzel Reed was batting second, instead of eighth, where he’d spent most of the season when it became apparent he forgot how to hit. This bothered Ty for any number of reasons, not least of all being that because for almost their entire career, Ty and Connor had hit back-to-back. Reed was now replacing Connor in more ways than one.

  Ty would have dwelled on the issue longer if not for the glaring, horrible third difference on the lineup card: he was playing third base. Third. Base. Ty was a shortstop. Always had been. Always would be. And to add insult to injury, fucking Ibanez was back at short. Be grateful you get to play at all, someone who didn’t know what they were talking about might say. Someone who didn’t know that being bumped from short to third essentially meant they were making room for the younger player to take over. That Ty was being put out to baseball pasture. He could not be grateful for that.

  “Don’t read into it,” Strip said, slapping hi
m too hard on the back as he passed by. “We’re just letting the kid get some experience.”

  “Why doesn’t he get that experience at third?”

  “Because he’s a shortstop. And you’re a veteran. You play twenty feet away and you coach the kid, got it?”

  “That’s your job.”

  “I’m asking if you understand.”

  “I—”

  Strip lifted a bushy brow. “And I’m implying that if you say anything other than ‘Yessir, thank you, sir,’ I’ll bench you. Again.”

  Ty had a lot more to say, none of which sounded like, Yessir, thank you, sir, but he wasn’t stupid enough to say it. “Fine,” he gritted out.

  “Atta boy.” Strip smacked him again and strolled out of the room, and all the exercise Ty had done, the hot shower, the loose muscles, all that work was gone, and he was as tense and unhappy as he’d ever been.

  He didn’t have time to process those feelings, however, because when he turned around, his agent, Brodie Fletcher, was seated on one of the couches, waiting patiently.

  “What are you doing here?” Ty muttered as he stalked past, dropping his towel and pulling on a change of clothes for batting practice.

  “Always good to see you, pal.”

  Ty dropped his head and took a deep breath. Brodie was a good agent, and as much of a friend as you could call someone you paid six figures a year. He wasn’t responsible for this predicament, and it wasn’t fair to take out his frustration on the guy, even if he really wanted to.

  Ty turned and leaned against the locker. “What brings you in?”

  “Doing my due diligence.” Brodie stood and adjusted his suit jacket, diamond cufflinks glinting. “You went to the bar last night.”

  “Yeah? I thought I was supposed to.”

  “Do whatever you want, buddy. But you were seen with a girl, and your shadow couldn’t find her afterward to get her to sign the nondisclosure agreement.”

  Ty sighed. After the mortifying debacle in his second year where a “glamour model” filmed their hotel encounter and blackmailed him for a sum he still found sickening to keep the video—but not the story—private, his team had implemented a plan. When Ty went out, so did his “shadow.” He never knew who it was, just that they kept an eye on him, and when he met someone, the shadow slipped in, got them to sign a nondisclosure agreement, and disappeared as quietly as they’d come.

  It wasn’t exactly the most tasteful arrangement, but it had stopped anyone from selling him out again, and had forced him to be more selective in his dating habits. The shadow must have been bored—the last time Ty had hooked up with anyone was last October. The near-sex with Gwen was the most action he’d seen in nearly eight months, and the reminder of their all-too-brief encounter made something stir low in his belly. He’d been doing his best not to think about it, and now he wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.

  “Don’t worry about last night,” he told Brodie. “Nothing happened.”

  “We’ve still gotta cover our bases. See what I did there?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Did you get her name?”

  “No,” he lied. “But nothing—”

  “I heard you,” Brodie interrupted. “Now hear me: you pay me to do a job, and I’m good at it. Let me do what I do, so you can keep doing what you do.”

  And that’s when Ty realized they didn’t know about Gwen—they couldn’t. He’d gone into the back alone, and returned with Ibanez. The only woman they could have seen him with was the blonde who’d approached him near the bar, saying it was her birthday and a kiss was the only gift she wanted. Last year, he’d have given her anything she asked for. This year, he’d planted one on her cheek, then made his excuses and ducked into the arcade to hide.

  “I really don’t know who she was,” Ty said. “I didn’t get her name, didn’t get her number, didn’t do anything with her.”

  Brodie considered him, then nodded. “Okay. We’ll dig a little more, see what we can find.”

  “Up to you.”

  Brodie moved to leave, then stopped. “I checked the lineup. You’re at third today.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “You’ll be great.”

  Ty cut him a wary look. “Thanks.”

  “Just be better than Ibanez, and you’ll be back at short tomorrow. They’re testing him out.”

  “That’s the rumor, anyway.”

  “As long as you put the Ashe in Thrashers—”

  “I asked you never to say that.”

  Brodie grinned. “Don’t let ’em see you sweat. You’re the veteran here. Set the example.”

  “I always do.”

  “Ha.”

  “Starting now.”

  Brodie waved and disappeared back out into the corridor, and Ty sat down on the bench to pull on socks and shoes.

  “What the fuck?” he heard someone mumble, and glanced over to see Reed at his own locker a couple doors down, holding up a single sock with a teal stripe.

  “What’s up?” Ty asked.

  “All my socks are gone. This is my only sock.”

  Ty finished tying his shoes and stood, grabbing a sock from his own bag and tossing it to Reed. “My gift to you.”

  “Very generous.”

  “So I’m told.” He scooped up his batting gloves and strode out of the clubhouse, managing to make it fifteen whole feet before Joanna Liu appeared out of the shadows, her cameraman lurking over her shoulder. Ty had plenty of experience being accosted and put it to good use now, keeping his expression neutral when all he wanted to do was stomp his foot and demand to be left alone.

  Joanna smiled. “Good morning, Ty.”

  “Hey, Joanna.”

  “Today’s lineup has been posted online. You’re playing third?”

  He made himself smile back. “That’s right.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Terrific.”

  Movement over Joanna’s shoulder caught Ty’s eye—a slim blonde wearing a black Thrashers tee and a ponytail. Gwen. Fuck. He couldn’t think about her right now. Couldn’t dwell on what had happened at the bar. Which was not to say he didn’t want to, but those thoughts were the same ones that had kept him tossing and turning alone in bed last night, and eight months of self-imposed celibacy were desperate to come to an end.

  “Um, what?” he asked, when Joanna stared at him expectantly.

  “I asked for your thoughts on Jorge Ibanez.”

  It was on the tip of Ty’s tongue to say the guy wore too much cologne and wasn’t ready for a prolonged stint in the majors—not at short, anyway—but Gwen caught his eye again and shook her head. She flashed him two thumbs up, then ducked her head and pretended to be absorbed in the paper she carried as she passed the group.

  “Ah,” Ty started, the words sticking in his throat. “Two thumbs up.”

  Joanna frowned. “What?”

  Ty nodded like he really meant what he was saying. “I give Ibanez two thumbs up. The guy’s doing a great job, and I’m looking forward to seeing what the future brings.”

  Joanna was too smart to be convinced. “Really.”

  “Absolutely, Joanna. Thanks for the talk. Take care.”

  He smiled for the camera, kept the smile in place when he nodded at Gwen, who looked like she was trying not to laugh, then strolled down the concourse to the field. The afternoon sunlight spilled in, a literal light at the end of the tunnel. And he needed it. He wanted it. Taking BP and infield practice the last two days, knowing he wouldn’t see playing time, was like foreplay with no hope of sex. Pure torture.

  Gwen popped into his brain again, the look of sheer determination on her face when she’d played Taxi-Kart last night, leaning into him as she took corners, muttering curses when her fare didn’t tip enough. How she’d faced him afterward, a split second of indecision before she’d launched herself into his arms and they’d ended up on the pool table, ready to—

  “Ty! Can you sign my glove?”


  “Ty! Can you sign my jersey?”

  “Ty! Can we take a picture?”

  The high-pitched cries from the front row interrupted the memory, but this time when Ty smiled, it was genuine. They opened the field two hours early for kids and parents to come watch the players take batting practice, posing for photos and signing autographs. Three weeks before the plane crash that killed his parents, his father had taken him to his very first big league baseball game, Oakland Athletics at Seattle Mariners. He’d just started playing tee-ball that summer, but that game was what confirmed he loved baseball. Even through the upheaval and turmoil that followed, the love had stayed, a small, bright kernel in his heart, that only continued to grow.

  He grabbed a marker from the closest little hand and started signing.

  THE FANS WERE STILL cheering when the Thrashers left the field, a hard-fought 8-6 victory in the books. But more inspiring than the win itself was the potential the game had showcased: Ty and Reed had each gone 3-4, and every time Reed got on base, Ty was there to move him over or cash him in. Reed had scored three runs and Ty had four RBIs, the best game of his thus far dreary season.

  He’d remained on the field for his obligatory post-game interview, but ducked out after just a few questions, knowing that no matter how well he played today, he’d be asked about the past months of struggles, and he really didn’t feel like mugging for the camera while being reminded of his less-than-stellar start to the season. Plus he really didn’t want to hear the inevitable Whitman-Reed comparisons.

  Reed, however, was a different story. Two decent games under his belt and the Denzel Reed of yesteryear had resurfaced, posing for the camera, offering up sound bites, and generally giving the people what they wanted. “I want to thank God, my daughter, and Mercedes-Benz!” he was saying as Ty slipped into the tunnel to return to the clubhouse. He rolled his eyes so hard he almost walked into a wall. Two singles and a double and Reed thought he’d won an Oscar.

  But Ty couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to win.

  He showered and started to change into sweats to go home, as had been his habit all season, but now he hesitated, glancing at the other guys, seeing some of them putting on suits, like maybe they were heading out again. He was still high on the victory and wasn’t ready for another night of his own company.