Intentional Walk: Dating Mr. Baseball Book 3 Read online

  The other announcer picked up the conversation. “Yeah, but come on. Rock climbing? That was a risk he never should have taken.”

  Her stomach rolled. She pressed the power button to shut off the TV. The self-condemnation didn’t stop when their voices cut off, because most of it was in her head. She should have been smarter. She should have kept him safe. Brayden moaned in his sleep and lifted a knee and then dropped it again. She wobbled to him, touching his skin. He felt chilled, so she went to the closet and pulled out the blanket he kept around for her. She laid it across him and kissed his cheek.

  “I can’t make this up to you,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  With silent tears falling down her cheeks, she stored the food in the kitchen and rolled up into a ball on the couch, where she too fell asleep. She’d never felt so alone in Brayden’s presence before.

  Chapter Seven

  Brayden

  The next three days passed much too quickly for Brayden. He was back and forth from the doctor’s office. His neck brace came off and he had his first appointment with Doc and Elise, where they laid out his new routine.

  He’d seen the X-rays and knew exactly where the pins were in his neck. They didn’t look natural, and movement scared him. He’d thought he’d be ecstatic to get rid of the brace, but he was nervous to be without it. The brace meant people gave him a wide berth. He wasn’t sure he could survive a chest bump or an accidental shoulder bump. Tilly seemed to understand his need for space and orbited around him. The few times she did touch him, he’d flinch first, expecting pain.

  On the other hand, he was glad to have the brace off before the team came back. He didn’t need the guys taking pity on him. He’d had quite enough of that, thank you.

  Tilly’s pity was the hardest to handle. She treated him like a package of eggs and hovered—oh, that woman could hover.

  “I can put on my own shirt.” He took the shirt out of her hands. She’d done his laundry last night, asking what he wanted to wear to the first day of work. He’d snapped at her that he’d been to the stadium a hundred times and it didn’t matter. She’d bitten her lip and turned away. He wasn’t sure, but there could have been tears in her eyes. He hated snapping at her, but she wasn’t treating him like she used to—he’d become her project.

  “Okay.” She lifted a shoulder. “Go ahead.” Her jaw slid to the side and she lifted one eyebrow in disbelief.

  Brayden made sure the buttons were all undone on the polo shirt before he slid it over his head first and then worked his arms in the holes. He let the fabric drop and held his hands out, saying See? with a gesture.

  She gave him a once-over. “All right, big guy. Let’s go.”

  He reached for her hand just as she turned, intent on pulling her to him and kissing away their mutual grumpiness. They hadn’t had a chance to spend “quality time” together since before the accident. He missed her soft lips. The girl had some serious kissing skills. Surely if they could reconnect at the lips, they would settle back into their old routines.

  But he missed her hand and his arm came to his side. Slow understanding broke over him. They weren’t going to get back to their old routines. They needed to find a new normal. He watched her soft hips sway as she left his bedroom.

  The room had been off-limits for the two of them before the accident. Too much temptation. They’d spent the last fifteen minutes in here together, and he’d only thought about kissing her right before she left. What was wrong with him? More importantly, what was wrong with them?

  * * *

  “He’s already throwing,” said Coach Wolfe.

  Brayden ran his fingers along the cement wall as they walked the hallways under the stadium seats. They pushed open the metal double doors that opened in the locker room. The familiar smells of fresh paint and lingering sweat hit his nose like an old friend. Brayden kept his eyes trained on the door to the dugout. His new charge was on the mound, warming up. The ball hit the catcher’s leather with a loud crack. The kid had heat.

  “95?” asked Brayden.

  “96 on the fastball. Not as fast as you.” Coach grinned at him.

  “Which is why you need me.” Brayden returned his grin. He didn’t feel the confidence he projected. That kind of answer was automatic. He’d always been able to give a quick answer in an interview, even if he didn’t feel that way inside.

  “Actually, Andres is working on his speed. I need you for the cutter.”

  Brad Andres was the head pitching coach. He was an older guy with more gray than brown in his hair and a face full of wrinkles he got from coaching baseball.

  They took the three steps up to the red dirt and grass, and Brayden’s chest expanded as he breathed in the scent of freshly mowed grass and wet dirt.

  Coach cupped his hands around his mouth. “Gunner, come on over here.”

  The kid held his ground. “Hang on a sec. I’ve got one more.”

  Brayden blinked in surprise. He took in Coach’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. The only indication that Wolfe was upset was the tightening around his eyes that made new wrinkles appear. Brayden’s body tensed in reaction. When Coach said run, you didn’t ask how far; you just started running. This kid had a little attitude. He’d better learn to check it soon. The last guy who’d pulled attitude with Coach was sent packing. Not that Brayden was complaining. A.J. Peck had been poison for the team—getting rid of him was the right choice. He’d heard that A.J. wasn’t settling in in Seattle. There’d been several articles outlining his shenanigans online. It would be a miracle if he remained with the team next year. Some guys didn’t have the intelligence to know how to play nice, and they mocked the hand that signed their paychecks. If Brayden knew Coach, the new kid would be running laps after everyone else went home tonight.

  Brayden couldn’t start thinking about the unfairness of life—where guys like A.J. threw away their talent and he’d give anything to have one day back on the mound. Okay, maybe not just a day … but still.

  The kid threw the ball. From the way his hand moved, he was trying for a cutter, but the ball didn’t cut to the catcher’s glove-hand side. It raced straight down the middle. Brayden would have him fixed up in no time. And then he’d be out of a job again. But at least he’d show Coach that he could coach. Right now, this was his only chance to put his life back together.

  He couldn’t ask Tilly to marry him until he had things figured out. Then again, the way they’d been circling one another, not making eye contact and hardly touching … He just wasn’t sure where they were headed, and that freaked him out.

  She was here, at the stadium, wearing a Redrocks polo shirt and leading a bunch of third graders around the building—giving them an inside look at how the MLB works. The bruise on her face had faded to a yellow that she covered with makeup. Her lip was almost healed as well, and she had her natural grace back in her movements. She was still sore when she did certain things, like lift a heavy grocery bag. And he couldn’t lift anything for her, which sucked!

  Having her work at the stadium was convenient for the both of them since he couldn’t drive yet. She used to leave for work with a smile of anticipation, knowing she was going to climb a mountain. She’d left today with her mouth in a straight line and her eyes full of resolve. His desert gypsy belonged in the canyons, not the front office.

  He shook off his mounting worries as Coach made introductions. “Brayden, this is Gunner Pinch. Pinch, this is your cutter coach, Brayden Birks.”

  Gunner offered him a fist bump by way of hello. Brayden tapped his fist and then held out his hand like a man for a handshake. Gunner grunted but complied. His hair was long enough to curl from under his ball hat. He was fit, had a cocky smile, but there was something rebellious in his eyes that said he’d be more trouble than Brayden needed in his life right now.

  “Well, I’ll leave you two to get started.” Coach patted Brayden’s shoulder and headed back into the locker room to make the rounds. He usually checked in wit
h the batting coach about this time. Brayden had seen his share of the cages. His batting wasn’t all that great. It was one thing to throw a 98-mile-an-hour fastball, and a completely other thing to hit it.

  Gunner turned and headed back to the mound without saying anything.

  “Hang on,” Brayden called after him. He wanted to cover some fundamentals, break his cutter down to the basics and build it back up—stronger. “Let me see your grip.”

  Gunner didn’t turn around and he kept walking. “My grip’s fine.”

  “Prove it.” Brayden folded his arms. The movement tugged at his neck muscles. He was looking forward to getting back in with Elise after this session was over.

  “Yeah. Like I’m going to fall for some lame reverse psychology thing.”

  Brayden rolled his eyes. “That’s not reverse psychology, dummy.”

  Gunner took the mound, digging his cleat against the rubber. “My cutter’s fine.”

  “Dude. If your cutter was fine, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

  “Why don’t you stop worrying about my cutter and take a seat? I’ll give you a show.” The cocky smile was back.

  Brayden looked around and found an empty bucket next to the backstop. He walked over, picking it up by the handle and greeting the catcher. “Hey, Newton.”

  Tommy Newton lifted his mask, revealing a face full of freckles and an orange beard. “’Sup?”

  Brayden made a face.

  Newton laughed and jerked his head towards the mound. “Tell me about it. This guy’s a piece of work.”

  “Put him through it, then. Let’s see if we can wear off a little of his shine.”

  Newton grinned. “Gladly.” He squatted. “And by the way … he doesn’t have a cutter.”

  Brayden laughed. He stepped out of the way, turned the bucket upside down, and took a seat. Newton gave Gunner the first sign. Gunner shook it off.

  “Throw the ball!” yelled Brayden.

  “He called a slider.”

  “Can your imaginary batter read those?” Brayden fired back. They were the only ones out here.

  Gunner glared. “Yeah. Listen, I call the pitches during practice.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” Brayden waved for him to continue and tentatively leaned back against the wall. The position was un-comfortable. He watched Gunner throw for about five minutes and then started calling pitches before they crossed the plate. “Fastball.” “Fastball.” “Changeup.” “Fastball.” “Curve.”

  Gunner threw his mitt in the dirt. “What are you doing, man?”

  “I’m reading you like a book.” Brayden got to his feet. “You have tells. When you throw a curve, your knee hesitates.”

  “No way.”

  Brayden lifted a shoulder. “Watch the tape.”

  “Look, old man. I don’t need this. Okay? Get off my case and stay out of my head.”

  Brayden glared. “I’m here to help you.”

  “I didn’t ask for it.”

  Brayden’s blood boiled. He hadn’t asked to be crippled, but he’d gotten that anyway. A few pitching tips weren’t going to kill the kid.

  He was about to lose his crap, and that wouldn’t do his job prospects any good. He clenched his fists until he felt the slight spasm in his bicep. He could handle the pressure of working contract to contract, of having his performance evaluated and his future decided. That’s what a baseball professional dealt with season after season. So he put a lid on his steaming anger and said, “You should ask for it. You’re brand-new to the league. If you think what you’ve been throwing will stand up against a Betts, then you’re delusional.”

  “I don’t need to listen to this crap.” Gunner stormed past him, disappearing in the shadow of the doorway.

  Brayden watched him go. He blew out his breath.

  Newton walked over, his face mask tucked under his arm and his hat on backwards. “That was fun,” he said sarcastically.

  No. No, it wasn’t. “All in a day’s work.”

  “It will be with that guy. Better you than me.” Newton lifted his hand to smack Brayden’s back and pulled back at the last second.

  Brayden jerked his chin in response—one of the few moves he’d discovered when the brace came off. Newton gathered the rest of his gear from the dugout and left.

  Once he was alone, Brayden walked out to the mound, stopping a couple feet before the dirt. The mound was unlike any other patch of dirt or grass on the field, in the world. To Brayden, the mound was the center of the whole game. Every great play in baseball started right there—with a pitch. The dirt was sacred.

  He growled. He wasn’t worthy to stand there anymore. He was officially sidelined, a consultant, unable to wear a uniform like an official coach. He turned away, his head lowered as much as it would go.

  Inside the locker room, he found his old locker. Gunner had moved in, his jersey hanging there, pressed and bright. He’d rather have it be empty. To see that guy’s last name on a jersey was just a punch in the gut. Gunner didn’t have the speed. He didn’t have the technique. He didn’t have the brains. All he had was a neck without screws in it. Brayden ripped the jersey off the hanger and threw it on the ground.

  “Whoa.”

  He spun to find Tilly, her eyes wide and her hands out in front of her. “What?” he spat. “Haven’t you ever seen a has-been have a tantrum?” The pressure of this new position, Gunner’s attitude, and the wrongs that couldn’t be made right pressed on him, and he couldn’t seem to stomp them back down.

  “You’re tired.” She slowly lowered her arms. “I am too. How’s the pain? Do you need meds?”

  “I’m not tired. I’m pissed.” He kicked at the ball of fabric at his feet. It flopped over in an unsatisfactory manner. He turned back and grabbed the first bat he saw, slamming it into the locker divider. The bat splintered, and shards flew. “I’m useless.” He threw the jagged wood in his hand against the wall. The sound was satisfying—like he’d summed up his life in that crashing bang.

  Tilly’s eyes turned pink and then red as tears built up. “You’re not. You’re still Brayden Birks, and that means something around here.”

  He couldn’t stand what he was doing to her, couldn’t stomach that he’d made her cry, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. “You don’t get it! I’m through. No one will remember what I did here. No one cares. I don’t care.” He headed for the door, his arms and legs aching from the tension straining his body. Tilly cringed away from him as he passed, and his heart sank like a rock. It felt like a rock, all hard and bitter. “Take me home.”

  She sniffed, swiping under her eyes. “I can’t leave yet. I have an appointment with Elise.”

  He did too, but it would have to wait. “I’ll find my own way.” He threw the door open, almost hitting Blake and feeling tightness in new places.

  Blake dodged the metal door with ease. A smile lit his face. “Bro!” He gave Brayden a man-hug. “It’s so good to see your ugly face.”

  Brayden smiled woodenly. Blake wouldn’t think so once he saw the mess Brayden had made in the locker room. Come to think of it, a lot of people were going to be upset about that. The person who should be the most upset? Tilly. He’d been a complete jagweed. His blood was still pumping faster than he could think. He needed to get out of there. He needed to get away from Tilly before he made her cry again. “Can you give me a ride home?”

  Blake glanced around. “I guess. I’m basically done. I was just going to lift while Elise worked on you and Tilly.” He gave him a look that said, You aren’t dogging my girl, are you?

  “I need to get home.” Brayden rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

  “All right.” Blake pointed to the locker room doors. “Let me grab my keys.”

  They made their way out to the players’ lot and slid into Blake’s convertible. The man took exceptional care of his vehicle. Much better than Brayden and Tilly. Tilly’s always had red sand on the floor, and his back seat was full of gear and workout clothes that probab
ly needed to be washed. He groaned and leaned back in the leather. Blake caught on that he didn’t want to talk and drove in silence.

  Brayden couldn’t even think about doing laundry right now, and he refused to ask Tilly to do one thing for him after the way he’d yelled at her. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that couples didn’t fight, but the amount of anger inside of him that he couldn’t control was scary. Big scary. He should be shielding Tilly from that kind of thing, not spewing it in front of her.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and found his dad’s number. They’d been in touch, Dad calling the hospital every day. He’d offered to fly up right away, but Brayden didn’t want his Superman to see him lying in the hospital. Dad had worked just as hard as Brayden to make his MLB dreams come true. He’d let his dad down by cutting that dream short.

  “Brayden?” His dad was a big man, strong, with black hair, a tall forehead, and a heart bigger than Arizona, where he’d retired last year.

  “Yeah, Dad. It’s me.” The anger that fueled Brayden’s rage evaporated like ice on the St. George blacktop. Dad was a rock. His rock. Mom had split after high school, said she’d done her part to raise Brayden and was burned out—wanted some peace and quiet. The last he’d heard, she was in Kauai serving drinks at night and sleeping the mornings away on the beach. He hoped she’d found what she was looking for. He also wished he could have called her at a time like this—but how do you call on someone who’d basically said you were a heavy burden to carry for 18 years?

  His dad? Dad was the opposite. He loved everything about being a dad. He was the tuck-you-in-at-night kind. Even if you were 18 and headed to college the next day. Brayden needed some of that right now.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not good. Do you think you could come out here for a little while?” His voice cracked. Remorse flooded his heart for how he’d behaved. Dad would have railed him up one side and down the other for yelling at a woman like that—and for yelling at Tilly in particular. He loved her as an almost daughter-in-law almost as much as Brayden loved her as an almost fiancée.