“So, back then you played to escape. Why do you play now?”
He laughs. “Because I make a shit ton of money, and who wouldn’t want to play baseball for a living?”
“True.” I nod, but can sense the unspoken words and the underlying hint of sarcasm. “Do you still love it?”
“Some days.”
“If you have a shit ton of money, then why do you still play?” I know I’m pushing, but I’m intrigued how a man who is so incredibly talented and oozes respect for the game has misgivings about saying he loves it.
“For my dad.”
“For your dad?” His answer surprises me. “Not for you?”
“No.”
“Do you love it?” I ask the question again, forgetting that I already have, and before I can tell him to disregard it, he responds.
“Yes. No. Fuck, Scout, most days I don’t know.” He turns to face me for the first time, and I can see the conflict in his eyes, the uncertainty in his expression, and the tension in the set of his shoulders. “It’s all I’ve ever known. All that’s ever been expected of me. It’s hard to explain without sounding ungrateful because I’m extremely blessed in talent and luck when I know there are a million others who would kill to fill my shoes. It’s just complicated. I have a love-hate relationship with the game just like I guess I do with my father.”
Reaching out, I link my fingers with his. I don’t say a word. I try not to judge. All I do is just listen, because the pain in his expression says that’s exactly what he needs from me.
His laugh is unexpected and loaded with sarcasm. “Fuck,” he says as he lifts his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and then sets it back down. “When I said we needed to get to know more about each other, I sure as hell didn’t mean this. We’re a far way off from learning if the other likes sushi.”
I smile and squeeze his hand. For a man who seems pretty open, I can tell he’s a bit exposed and uncomfortable. “Sushi? It’s all right, if you count California Rolls as legitimate,” I say to try to get a laugh from him. “I’m not very adventurous with it. And this conversation is okay. This is real, Easton. I assure you, I have more real than I care to think about in my own life right now, so this is okay.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He looks down at our joined hands and shakes his head as if he’s trying to convince himself of something I can’t understand.
“It’s admirable to play for your dad, but have you ever wanted to do anything else? For yourself?” I leave the unspoken question hanging out there. The one I think I know the answer to: do you think your dad won’t love you if you don’t play?
“I’m good at this, though.” He lets go of my hand and paces to the other side of the batting cage to stare at a picture of him and his dad on the wall. “I sound like such a pussy saying that. Like I don’t have a backbone, or I don’t like to play, but I assure you, I do . . . there’s just a history that . . .. My dad is fucking Cal Wylder. He’s perfect in every way. The Iron Giant of baseball who broke records and is still the public darling of the club. He’s never had a blemish on his career. In fact, the only mark he’s ever had against him in his perfect life has been his divorce from my mom.”
“Nobody’s that perfect, Easton.”
“He is.” There’s bitterness in his tone.
“We all look at our parents through rose-colored glasses. Those lenses make you miss their flaws, overlook their shortcomings . . . and still be able to love them unconditionally.” He turns to look at me and narrows his eyes in thought. “God knows my dad is far from perfect, and yet when I see him, I see the person I want to be when I’m his age. I overlook his grumpiness and stubbornness and his need to have opinions about everything, even when I don’t ask for them. So I’m sure your dad is not perfect.”
“He’s pretty damn close to it, Scout. And even if he’s not, he demands it from me.”
I have no comeback for him because I saw it for myself the other day in the locker room. I wonder if Cal Wylder has always been that hard on his only child.
And I hate that I think I already know the answer.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a place to invite you to,” I apologize as I take a seat at the large island and watch Easton move with ease around the kitchen.
“Did you just move here?”
“I’ve kind of been on the move since I graduated college, shifting from clubhouse to clubhouse with my dad over the past three years. Learning from him so I could finally make sense of the things I watched over and over as a kid but didn’t understand. So, I’m currently living a few blocks over, on the other side of the stadium, in a furnished apartment until I figure out what comes next.”
Easton looks at me for a beat—something fleeting in his eyes I can’t quite pinpoint—before uncorking the bottle of wine and pouring two glasses in silence. He slides one across the counter to me and then meets my eyes. “What is next, Scout?”
“I get you rehabbed, get your arm to one hundred percent, and get you off the disabled list, for a start.”
“You think that’s going to happen?”
“Yes.” I nod my head for emphasis. “Today was a huge start. How does your shoulder feel? You really should have some ice on it.”
He laughs as he turns and grabs a medical ice pack from the freezer and presses it to his shoulder. Then, with a skill that tells me he’s done this more times than he can count in his career, he begins to expertly wrap an ACE bandage around the pack to hold it in place.
“So rehab me, and then what’s after that? Are you off to another club? Another city? Moving on?”
A part of me hates the lump that suddenly forms in my throat when I realize what he’s asking. The woman who’s afraid of getting too close to someone because everyone leaves her is now being asked if she’s going to leave. And the other part of me breathes in the feeling of having someone care enough to ask. Someone I want to care.
I take a sip of my wine and meet his eyes above the rim of the glass. I’m afraid to respond, uncertain of this next step between us. Downstairs was easy. We talked baseball, we talked about him, and we avoided the topics that had ruled our afternoon so far.
But now, the tables have turned. Now, the spotlight is on me, and I wish I could answer him, but I’m not sure what that answer is just yet. Or if I want to even have one, in case I get spooked again and need to leave.
“I’m not sure.” My voice is barely a whisper when I finally find it to speak.
“Rumor has it Doc is vying to get the permanent contract with the clubhouse for the team’s physical training. Is that true?”
I nod. “Yes. It is. It’s the only clubhouse he hasn’t held any sort of contract with over his career.”
“And so that’s why he wants it? Just because?”
“He’s kicking around the idea of retiring,” I lie, repeating the story he’s asked me to tell.
“Retiring? I don’t see him as one who’d want to retire.”
“Yeah, well . . . there are a lot of things about my dad that I don’t understand, so your guess is as good as mine.”
“What I don’t understand is . . . hasn’t he already fulfilled that goal then? I mean, technically he already has a contract with the Aces, since you’re here for me. So, once you’re done with me, you can move on to the next clubhouse? The next team? The next injured player?”
He doesn’t relent. Not the intensity in his eyes . . . or the searching questions . . . or the unspoken ones. The ones that say: tell me if you’re leaving.
“That’s the typical MO, but this time around, he’s looking for a term contract for the season and beyond. A multi-year agreement.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?” I wish he’d just come out and ask me what he wants, because I feel like he’s leading me somewhere.
“Well, if Doc has done things one way for all these years . . . why change now?”
“Because of me.” The answer is automatic, and I realize that I’ve given him the truth, b
ut can’t give him the reasons why.
“You?”
“Yeah. He lived this life. He knows how hard it is to feel settled when you aren’t anywhere long enough to let roots grow, let alone have a family . . . and he doesn’t want that life for me, so he figured if he got a contract for a team as a whole, then that would give me a place to settle for the first time since I graduated from college.”
And because he knows I’d rather quit than not be near him in these last months.
“So you’d be the one to stay then?” He leans a hip on the kitchen island and digs deeper. I nod slowly and concentrate on tracing the lines in the granite on the countertop.
“You wouldn’t move on to another team?”
“Not if I get the contract.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Is that what you want, or are you just doing what your Dad wants?”
The irony in his words is not lost on me. He’s turning my questions back on me. I lift my gaze to meet his, suddenly very aware of how similar our situations are.
“It’s what I want,” I say softly.
“And it’s dependent on me, right?”
I stare at him, see the curiosity in his eyes, and wonder if, when it comes to why I want to stay in town, we are speaking about my career, or about whatever this is between us.
“In a sense.” I chew on the words, not wanting to put pressure on him to heal quicker to get me the job when I’ve already seen the amount of pressure his dad puts on him.
He nods and then swallows the rest of his glass of wine without saying a word, leaving me wondering what he’s thinking. The mood between us suddenly turns uneasy, both of us with questions to ask but unsure how to ask them.
If I were to stay, how would this change the dynamic between us when I’m no longer just in town for a few months?
“What does your mom think about all of this?” he asks, throwing me for a loop.
I stutter to answer as a part of me hides in shame over my own mother not wanting me. Then again, he’s shared so much with me tonight, been so open, how can I not be honest about the one thing I can?
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was five.”
“Scout . . .” His voice trails off like most people’s do when they hear that news, uncertain what to say.
“Hey, it’s not sushi, but that’s my bet-you-didn’t-know-about-Scout fact of the day,” I joke, trying to quell my immediate defense to shut down after letting someone in.
It’s my thing. It’s what I do. And every part of me revolts at my need to avert my eyes and change the topic.
And so, when I lift my gaze and meet his, I see compassion there. Understanding. Acceptance. All of them cause a flutter of anxiety to fly in my belly, and yet the feeling is a far cry from the all-out panic that usually consumes me.
Once again, Easton is making me feel instead of shutting down, and I’m not quite sure what to say now.
“Did you say sushi? I think that’s exactly what we need.” He smiles softly, giving me the reprieve he somehow knows I need. “I’m starving. Want to order some takeout? I know a great place that delivers.”
Saved by sushi.
“Perfect.”
“Can you grab that?” Easton calls from his bedroom when the buzzer on the elevator rings.
“Sure.” My stomach rumbles at the thought of food being on the other side of the sliding doors.
I hit the button to open the elevator and am startled when I’m met with the hazel eyes and curious expression of Cal Wylder.
“Ms. Dalton?” He says, as calm as can be, all the while subtly looking me over—for what, I don’t know. Probably wondering why Easton’s trainer is making house calls.
“You’re not sushi.” The words fall from my mouth as the panic I had averted earlier comes full circle and slams back into me. And then I realize what I just said to him. To Easton’s dad. To the club’s liaison. The man who now is probably putting two and two together when he can’t. That I’m here. Off the clock. What if he tells Cory? Fuck. “I mean food. You’re not food. Chinese food. I mean Japanese food. You were . . . it was supposed to be delivery.”
Someone please kill me now before I make an even bigger ass of myself.
“Dad?” Easton walks out to the foyer, and the sound of his voice helps to calm my rioting nerves. But when I turn to look his way, I want to die. He’s wet from a shower I didn’t even know he was taking, wearing gym pants slung low on his hips, and he’s running a towel through his dripping hair.
“Well, now that I know your shoulder’s feeling good and iced, I should get going,” I say and scurry from the room like the petrified mouse I am.
“Scout,” Easton calls after me, resignation and agitation mixed in his voice.
“Typical, Easton.” Cal’s voice, followed by a heavy sigh, stops me dead in my tracks just as I step into the kitchen area and out of their line of sight. “I should’ve known.”
“Should have known what, Dad?”
“Always playing the women, getting distracted by a piece of ass, instead of playing the field like you should be.”
I straighten my spine where I stand, needing to leave but knowing damn well that would mean having to walk right past them. Every part of me bucks the idea of giving Cal Wylder the satisfaction of my running away, tail tucked between my legs.
“A piece of ass? Really, Dad? What I do off the field is none of your business or the club’s. Not if I have a friend over for some dinner and a movie. Not if I have a woman over and she’s more than a friend. Not if my fucking trainer stops by to check my shoulder and make sure I’ve iced it, since I was throwing down to bases today for the first time since my surgery and she was concerned about how it was doing. So, don’t you fucking dare walk into my house and judge a situation when you have no clue which of the three it is.”
There’s a tense silence I can feel all the way in the kitchen, and I realize I’m holding my breath.
“You have a habit of getting distracted.”
“Distracted? Really? I put in six hours today between the gym, conditioning, and rehab. And I put another two in first thing this morning at Children’s Hospital visiting sick kids . . . so please, tell me what else I was supposed to be doing when I’m on the damn DL?”
“Easton.” There’s a pause, and my mind runs through the image of them standing face to face, mirror images separated by twenty-five years. There’s a sigh, and I can imagine Cal looking just like Easton does when he runs a hand through his hair and tries to figure out what he’s going to say next. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just want the best for you, son. I want you back on the field showing everyone you’re good as new and one hundred percent.”
“Fucking Santiago,” Easton mutters with vitriol.
“There’s always going to be a Santiago in your career, son. Always.” There’s a sadness to his voice that pulls on me and makes me wish I could see his expression. “Another player who’s jealous of your success or pissed at a pitch you called against him and is going to try to bring you down.”
I wish I could hear Easton’s response, but he speaks it quietly.
“So you threw today? How’d it feel? What did Scout say about it?”
“It felt so damn good to be back in my gear.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and, silly or not, I love knowing that I helped to put it there. “And it feels good. A little stiff, and I’m sure it will be sore tomorrow, but right now, I can’t complain.”
“And Scout?”
Even though there has been a mood shift in the conversation, I sense a hesitation in Easton to respond. I can’t deny that I breathe a little easier knowing he’s just as cautious about others knowing I’m here—that there is, in fact, something going on between us—as I am.
And it takes this moment to hit me square in the solar plexus and knock the wind out of me. I want to stay in town. I want to get to know Easton better. I want to know what it feels like to wake up next to someone in the morning without freaki
ng out that I’m too close, too attached, and I need to create some space to protect myself for when he leaves.
I reach for the glass of wine I left on the counter and finish it off, stunned by the realization but liking the good kind of flutter it puts in my belly. The same kind of flutter I get when Easton cocks his head and stares at me with that knowing smile on his lips.
And now cue the fear. The worry that we both work in a volatile business where there are no guarantees where you’ll be from one year to the next, and that means he could still leave me. He could still move on.
I could still be left behind.
Take it day by day, Scout. Enjoy the time; don’t think about tomorrow. But, I want tomorrows with someone. I want yesterdays, tomorrows, and next years with someone because I’ve never gotten that chance before.
And that’s why I can enjoy Easton, but can’t get attached to him.
“Why are you pushing me so hard to get back on the field?” Easton’s irritation breaks through my thoughts, pulls my attention away from my fear and back to his conversation.
“Because nothing is guaranteed,” Cal says and unknowingly confirms my resolve. “Contracts are contracts, son. When you sign on their dotted line, you become a commodity.”
“Meaning?” Frustration resurfaces in Easton’s voice.
“Meaning this is a business. While you may play for the love of the game, the team is in it to make a profit. And you not on the field is not helping their bottom line.”
“Do you know something I don’t know, Dad?” His voice escalates, disbelief vibrating in its timbre.
“No. Not at all. I just know how clubs operate. Four months is a long time to be out.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m a pitcher, coming in for one game, and then getting five days off. I play every day. My arm returns almost every pitch, so I’m not being a pussy here. I’ve played through the pain before. A cortisone shot and some oxy and I’m good to go for a big game . . . but this isn’t just a strain, and for some reason I don’t think you get that.”