The Perfect Catch, Page 2

  “It won’t happen again,” I answer simply, knowing it’s a promise I can’t keep.

  “That’s what you said after you broke the bat over your knee.” See?

  “I didn’t break a bat this time, I broke a water jug.”

  Coach’s eyes narrow. “I’m talking about your attitude, Rockwell. It’s shit. And I’m fed up with it. If this roster was up to me, your ass would be out of our red-and-blue jersey, warming the wood somewhere else.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent. Ralph has never liked me . . . ever. And frankly, the feeling is mutual. We clash. He’s strait-laced, I’m crooked. He’s smooth with his delivery to the media, I’m bent, broken, constantly piecing myself together to represent something I’m not.

  He shakes his head and blows out a frustrated breath. Looking off to the side, he studies a picture on the wall for a few breaths before saying, “Be here tomorrow morning at nine with an apology ready to be issued.”

  “An apology?” My brow knits together. “You want me to apologize to the press?”

  “No,” he deadpans. “I want you to apologize to the goddamn water jug.” I give him a confused look, thinking he’s joking, but then he says, “You think I’m kidding? I’m not. We’re doing damage control, which means our media team will have the cooler set up in the dugout where you’ll make an official apology and thank the inanimate object for its long service with the Bobbies. It’s a PR stunt that will show a lighter side of you. Believe it or not, you’re not a fan favorite and it’s because you have the attitude of a Rebel, not a Bobbie.”

  Not the first time I’ve heard that.

  “You want me to apologize on camera to a water jug?” I ask, trying to understand if I’m hearing him correctly.

  “Yes.” He leans forward even more and adds, “And you’ll wear a goddamn smile while doing it or I will bench your ass, putting a playoff run in jeopardy for the entire team.”

  Fuck. He’s serious.

  He really wants me to apologize to a fucking water container.

  “Don’t be late. Now get out of my office.”

  Chapter Two

  KATE

  “You know . . .” I tap my chin, watching the replay of Walker Rockwell beat the plastic right off a water cooler. “He has pristine accuracy and he enunciates so well.” I turn toward Vivian. “You can read his lips as if he’s directly talking to us. Pretty sure that was ‘fuck you, you fucking dickbag.’”

  Vivian chuckles. “You think he said dickbag?”

  “Oh, for sure.” I pause the TV and rewind. “Watch right . . . here.” I pause again. “See the lift of his lip, the show of his teeth? For sure he’s saying dick, and then bag is plain as day.”

  “Hmm, I see your point,” Vivian says with a tilt of her head and a sip of her wine. “Here’s the real question, though—who do you think he’s calling a dickbag?”

  “Ah, a question for the ages.” Turning toward Vivian on my couch, I hold up my fingers. “It could be narrowed down to four.”

  “Four? How so?”

  “Exhibit A.” I rewind some more to the point where Walker is walking away from the plate. “Right here, he’s mouthing off to the umpire for calling him out on a third strike. He’s pissed.” I pick up the laser pointer on my keychain I plan to use as a blinding ray for self-defense if I’m ever in a bad situation and point to Walker’s shoulders. “See the coiled muscles, the veins in his neck. Oh yeah, he’s not thrilled.”

  “Yes, I do see that.”

  I press play and then pause quickly. “Right here, he’s totally saying fuck you to the umpire.”

  “A risky move, but then again, it’s Rockwell. I don’t think he cares about what happens to himself on or off the field.”

  “Precisely. The umpire is our first dickbag suspect, and then there’s Ralph Hopkins.” I fast-forward until I find the spot where they pass in the dugout.

  Vivian calls it out before I can. “Oh, the glare from both of them. I think they’re trying to cut each other down with razors from their eyes.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. They’ve been known to hate each other. He’s dickbag suspect number two.”

  “I’m assuming dickbag suspect number three is the water cooler?”

  I nod and pat my heart with my hand. “I hate to lob such an innocent victim into the mix, because what did a water cooler really do to deserve such treatment? It was a mere vessel of hydration, but unfortunately the blue fella was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Such bestiality.” Vivian shakes her head with humor.

  “In its rawest form.”

  “So who’s dickbag suspect number four, then?”

  Taking a sip of my wine, I look over the rim of the glass, pop my lips together and say, “Rockwell himself. Self-hatred is glaringly obvious in that man, so calling himself a dickbag doesn’t seem far-fetched.”

  Vivian nods in understanding as she crosses her legs and faces me. “You’re so right. Out of all of the Bobbies, he by far is the most self-loathing.”

  “The rawest and rowdiest.”

  “The crudest and most disobedient.”

  “Hardheaded and impulsive.”

  Vivian wags her finger at me and says, “Dominant and alpha.”

  I bite on my bottom lip and look toward the screen at the brute of a man whose forearms look as if they have their very own forearms. “I bet he looks amazing with his shirt off.”

  “Think he has tattoos?”

  “I would be surprised if he didn’t. But not just any tattoos, ones that actually mean something. Just look at his eyes.” I take my laser pointer and circle around the dark, narrowed brows. “Those are eyes that have seen devastation. You just don’t grow sharp lines like that on your own.” I shake my head. “He’s seen a thing or two.”

  “I bet he’s amazing in bed.”

  “No doubt. Commanding, uses phrases like ‘suck me off, wench’ while ripping his pants off.”

  Vivian tilts her head back and laughs. “As charming as ‘suck me off, wench’ is, I don’t see it.” Vivian studies him for a few seconds and then says, “No, he’s the kind of guy who hovers above your naked body, fully dressed, and runs his nose along your jaw until he reaches your ear and says something like, ‘I’m going to suck on your pretty, little cunt’.”

  We both stare at each other for a few seconds and then back at the paused TV. With a large swallow, I say, “Yeah . . . that sounds more accurate.”

  Vivian fans herself and drinks more wine. “How did we even get to this topic?”

  I gulp down the wine with her. “I’m not quite sure, but I feel as if it’s dangerous territory. We need to step away.”

  “Yes, agreed.” She points to the TV. “Turn that off because it’s not helping the situation at all. Just look at how defined his pecs are in his baseball uniform. That should never happen. I swear he orders a jersey one size too small.”

  “I feel as though all the guys on the Bobbies do.”

  Vivian shakes her head. “Actually, it’s the Bobbies way of wearing a jersey. Not one baggy uniform because that would be sloppy.”

  I do the sign of the cross over my chest and say, “Good Lord, we can’t have sloppy uniforms.”

  Vivian chuckles and then sighs, leaning back on the arm of the couch. “What kind of PR nightmare do you think Rockwell created?”

  “Not a good one, that’s for sure.” I lean over and pick up a pretzel thin from our communal bowl and pop it in my mouth. Sighing, I look around my mostly empty apartment and say, “Thanks for helping me unpack. I really appreciate it.”

  “I’m surprised it’s taken you this long.”

  I shrug. “I think you and I both know I’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, we’ve all been.” She glances at my bland walls. “You need some artwork to make this place homier.” Smiling devilishly, she asks, “Want me to get some printouts of Walker to hang?”

  I roll my eyes and nudge her with my foot. “St
aring at that cantankerous scowl is not what I want to do when I’m here at my apartment.”

  “What if I cut off his head?”

  Laughing, I stand and start picking up our plates and the empty wine bottle. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Might be helpful, getting used to that scowl,” Vivian says, following me.

  “You think they’ll make him do more community work?”

  Vivian raises her brow. “It’s Ralph Hopkins. Of course he’s going to make him do more community work. You’re in charge of community events, and I have a feeling Walker Rockwell is going to become your new best friend.”

  I wince.

  “No doubt you’ll be working with him, especially after that stunt he pulled today.”

  I try to hold back my smirk. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

  “Oh, I can hear his displeasure already.”

  “Kate.” I’m scooped up into two giant arms and squeezed tightly. “How’s my girl?”

  Chuckling, I squeeze my dear friend back. “It’s about time you came to visit me, Dan.”

  Vivian left twenty minutes ago just as Dan texted me asking to come over. I couldn’t say no, even though it’s getting near my old-lady bedtime.

  He sets me down and tips my chin up playfully like he always does. “I know. I’m sorry.” He rubs his hands together and peeks into my apartment. “Are you going to let me in?”

  I hold on to the door of my apartment and say, “You know, I’m not sure if you deserve it after the number of times you cancelled on me.”

  He holds up two fingers. “Twice. I cancelled on you twice, but it wasn’t my fault. My schedule forced me.”

  “Uh-huh, sure.” I scan his hands. “Uh, no housewarming gift?”

  Dan rolls his eyes and lifts a basket from the hallway and hands it to me. Full of famous Chicago foods, the basket feels like twenty pounds in my arms.

  “Welcome back to Chicago, Katie. It’s about damn time we’re in the same city again.” I welcome him in and we both head into the living room, where I set the basket down and open it, grabbing for the Garrett Popcorn first.

  Dan and I met in college, freshman year. We were in the same dorm. He was in the room across from my suite and he was the life of the floor. Contagious laughter and fun personality. It was impossible not to be drawn to him . . . just not romantically. We both agreed there was no attraction between the two of us, just friendship. And that’s how we’ve been since—friends.

  I hand the canister of popcorn to him, but he holds up his hand and then pats his stomach. “Watching the old figure.”

  I roll my eyes and shove a handful of popcorn in my mouth. “When are you not watching your figure?”

  “December. Fuck, do I live for December. The Christmas cookies, the hams, the roasts, and flimflams and the flamflims . . .”

  I chuckle. “The whozits & whatzits and the widdle-waddles.”

  “Fuck—a widdle-waddle, got to love those delightful delicacies.”

  “Dr. Seuss really knew what he was talking about, didn’t he?”

  “The man was a genius when it came to food.” Dan glances around my apartment and says, “I like your place. It’s as big as my coat closet.”

  I push him with my foot. “Hey, not all of us are millionaires.”

  He adjusts the hood of his sweatshirt as he leans back on my couch. “You should really appreciate that I’m actually giving you, a peasant, the time of day.”

  “I’ll be sure to write you a thank-you card for blessing me with your presence.”

  “If you can make it a thank-you card with gold foiling, I would appreciate it. Only the fanciest of shit for me.”

  “Because you’re nothing but class.”

  “Exactly.” He winks. “Now, tell me . . . you’ve been here long enough, any dates yet?”

  “Are you serious with that?”

  He chuckles even harder. “What? Getting action in a new city is important. You can’t be all dried up there.” He shoots two fingers up into the air.

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t quite had the time to prowl for dick just yet.”

  “That’s disappointing, Kate. You were such a whore in college. Are you grown up now?”

  “Oh . . . my . . . God.” My eyes widen. “I can’t believe you just called me a whore.”

  “Do you want me to list the guys?”

  “There were five.”

  “Jose, Dean, Harley, LeBron, Mitch, Vince—”

  I put my hand over his mouth to stop him. “Those weren’t all hookups; some were just make-out buddies. Not everyone got access to the goods.”

  “Are they goods?” He winces. “I mean, not stretched out and all?”

  I punch him in the arm. “Stop it. You know I’m not loose.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, because if you were, you’d have mounted me at some point.”

  “Ha, okay.” I laugh and lean back. “I wouldn’t touch your diseased dick with a ten-foot pole, especially now.”

  Feigning shock, Dan asks, “Are you calling me a player?”

  “No . . . never.” I laugh some more, feeling at ease. It’s been a rough few years, but this new chapter, this new life, it’s exactly what I need, and I’m so glad Dan is here at my side. “You’re not a player at all.” Humor laces my tongue.

  “I’ll have you know, I’ve been celibate for a week.”

  I give him a nice, long slow clap. “Wow, the sacrifices you have made.”

  “Tell me about it.” He shifts on the couch and gives me a once-over. “I’m getting horny enough that I would consider taking my pants off for you.”

  “Aren’t you charming?”

  “Always.” He flashes me that winning smile. “So, meet any friends you want to introduce me to?”

  “Never. Did that once, and it came back to bite me in the ass.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Connie was a stalker. You and I both know that. You lost that friendship because of her, not because of me.”

  “Care to reexamine the events?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve put that moment behind me and you bringing it up like this is, frankly, rude.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I lean my head against the couch. “I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to come visit me. What kind of friend are you?”

  “Not a good one. I’ll admit to that. But do you know what I love about us?”

  “What?”

  He grins. “That we can pick up where we left off without an awkward beat between us. It’ll always be you and me, Kate, against the world.”

  I chuckle. “Wow, not quite sure that’s accurate, but I will take the part where we can pick up where we left off.”

  He winks. “I’ll take it.”

  Chapter Three

  WALKER

  I sink into the leather seat of my Tesla Model X, the only excessive thing I’ve spent my hard-earned money on. That, and expensive-as-fuck rent. I haven’t found a place I like enough to buy, and buying a house as a professional baseball player has always seemed like an omen. I’ve known a few guys who bought a house, thinking they’re going to stay on their team for years, and then out of nowhere, they’re traded. I’m good with my rent.

  This shitty day. I drag my hand over my face.

  Apologize to a fucking water cooler tomorrow . . .

  That’s what my life has come to, having to apologize to a goddamn water cooler.

  Staring at the silent stadium in front of me, I grip the steering wheel, refraining from bashing my head against the cold, leather wheel out of pure frustration.

  When did baseball stop being fun?

  Was it ever really fun for me?

  It’s always been something I’ve been naturally good at, something I knew would take me places, and it has.

  But it’s not fun.

  Not anymore.

  Dragging my ass out of bed to get to the stadium to rip callus after callus off my hands from batting, to squatting for hours on end while getting bruis
ed and battered by a nine-inch-circumference ball.

  I used to love the crack of the bat, the sound of the crowd, the smell of stadium food floating onto the field.

  Now, I feel absolutely nothing.

  I’m numb when I step onto that field, and I’m afraid nothing is going to change that.

  My phone rings next to me, and I don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is. After a show of unsportsmanlike conduct, there’s always one phone call I can count on like clockwork.

  “What?” I answer, leaning my head against the headrest and closing my eyes. Here it comes, all the reasons why I’m fucking up my career.

  “What the fook were ya thinking?” my agent, Roark McCool, says into the phone, his Irish accent heavier with his anger. He’s been the voice of reason my entire career, even though I haven’t listened to it.

  “I was thinking I needed to beat the shit out of something, so I did.”

  He exhales sharply. “Walker, you’re not helping ya fooking case.” It’s actually hard not to laugh when I hear the word fooking. “Your image is less than stellar and pummeling a water cooler with ya bat isn’t helping the matter.”

  “Who fucking cares?” It’s true—at this moment, who really cares? Because I don’t.

  “I care. You should care,” Roark yells. “We’ve worked our asses off to get you the contract you wanted, the team you wanted, so you could be close to your sister, and now you’re going to throw it all away over a strikeout?” He’s also dramatic at times.

  “It was a foot off the plate.” My voice rises as I throw my hand out to the side.