Caught by You (3 page)

“You think Zack needs shaping up?”

“He's a pretty good kid, but Bonita could make him even better. Why don't you just step back and let her do her thing?”

Make Zack even better?
Did Harvey know his own son? Did he appreciate him? To her, Zack was perfect, a gonzo little goofball who loved to make ­people laugh. He had the funniest little dances, shaking his skinny little butt around, pulling goofy expressions. Of course he had fits of temper and didn't always do what he was told and had to wear pull-­ups at night in case he wet the bed. But he was only four, after all.

What would Bonita want to change about Zack? Would she turn him into a stick-­up-­the-­ass like her? While Harvey tinkered with his motorcycle and ignored him?

No.
She couldn't let Bonita and Harvey take Zack. Every instinct, body and soul, told her that.

“Mellow out, Donna. You can still see him. Bonita said she wouldn't mind as long as you're responsible.”

Oohhh no,
she didn't
. “Bonita doesn't get a say,” she said through clenched teeth. “Not yet. You aren't even married yet. Not until June.”

“Three months, baby. Then we take Zack.”

Harvey stood up and tossed down money for his food—­not enough to cover her Coke, of course. “You better get used to it, Donna. Bonita knows how to get things the way she wants them. And she's got a lot of clout in this town on her mother's side. Her mom's a Wade cousin, you know. You really do not want to get in her way.”

And he slouched away with that low-­slung stride she used to see as sexy.
Never again.

Donna had a few minutes before she had to leave for work, so she stayed in the booth, sucking down her Coke and wiping away angry tears. Of course Bonita would have the entire Wade clan in her corner, while she had no one. Her father hadn't cared about anything involving her since her mother left, and she had a pact with Carrie, her stepmother, that involved two days' warning before face-­to-­face contact.

Sadie knew about Zack—­finally—­but most of her friends didn't. And Sadie was in San Diego now with Caleb Hart, the former pitcher for the Catfish, now a member of the Friars starting rotation.

Catfish. Mike Solo.

There he was again, popping into her thoughts without invitation. She still dreamed about making out with him in the library. But New Donna had to stay far, far away from sexy ballplayers. She'd read in the
Kilby Press-­Herald
that Mike was back with the Catfish for spring training and doing great. He was considered a top prospect to be called up to the Friars. Good. The sooner he got called up, the less risk of running into him. And she couldn't afford to run into Mike Solo. He was much too tempting—­she didn't trust herself around him.

Anyway, given the rude way she'd slammed the door in his face that night, he'd probably written her off and forgotten the whole thing. Just the way she had.

Or would, any day now.

 

Chapter 3

Opening Day

T
EXAS IN SPRINGTIME
had to be one of God's gifts to the world, Mike thought as he strolled into Catfish Stadium. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of roses mingled with the ever-­present smell of roasting hot dogs. The sun hadn't yet reached that ferocious glare it would acquire later in the season. It beamed merrily from a cheerful blue sky, a pleasant companion rather than an instrument of torture.

It was good to be back in Kilby, even if it was still Triple A, where nobody knew your name.

Trevor Stark stood at his locker, tall and ice blond, a badass Viking angel with tattoos snaking under his sleeves. Although Trevor was an outstanding player, every time he got close to getting “the Call,” he managed to screw things up.

“What's the word on the Roadhouse?” Trevor asked him. “Did they lift the ban yet?”

The Kilby Roadhouse hadn't been too happy about the Catfish versus Wade family brawl last season. Although Mike hadn't liked him much until then, Trevor had been a champ during the incident.

“Yes, but I heard they might have a new ban just for you.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“To give the rest of us a chance, you know?” Trevor Stark's reputation as a troublemaking heartbreaker had spread through every clubhouse in the land.

“A chance to be my wingman, maybe. If you can handle it.”

“Check it, y'all,” said Dwight Conner, strolling past with his gym bag. “Did you hear the league is trying to make Crush Taylor sell the team?”

“They can try.” Mike shrugged as he stashed his cleats inside his locker. “Crush does what he wants. You've been to his parties, right?”

They all went quiet for a moment, soaking in the memory of Crush Taylor's epic all-­star all-­nighters.

Dwight gestured to the TV mounted in the upper corner of the clubhouse. “Hear about our new phenom?”

Mike looked at the monitor. The infamous Yazmer Perez, a young, fast-­talking lefty of indeterminate ethnicity, was speaking to a reporter after the college baseball championships. He'd seen the clip before; everyone had. In it, Yazmer Perez said publicly the kind of thing most players kept to themselves. “The clubhouse, that's club plus house, get what I'm saying? It's
our house
. Ain't no way a homo reporter needs to come into my house and stick a mic in my face. That shit is phallic, know what I mean? Invasion of personal space. The homos need to go home-­o, know what I mean.”

The Catfish players shook their heads with varying degrees of bemusement. “Someone better assign a fulltime PR guy to that kid,” said Dwight. “When's he getting here?”

“Tonight,” said Jim Leiberman as he carefully arranged the gear in his locker. The shortstop—­nicknamed Bieberman due to his resemblance to Justin Bieber, and to drive him crazy—­was OCD about his gear. If you wanted to mess with him, you moved his extra T-­shirt one inch to the left. “Yazmer was supposed be Double A, but he had a 1.23 ERA over eight games in spring training with the Red Sox. Three walks, twenty-­six strikeouts, gave up one triple, two doubles . . .” Drowning out the analytical shortstop's recitation, Dwight turned up the volume on the TV.

The reporter now faced the camera. “A spokesman for the Friars said that Yazmer's quote had been taken out of context. He also added that the sexual orientation of members of the media is a private matter, and that the organization disavows Perez's viewpoint.”

Duke Ellington, the bulldoglike manager of the Catfish, came on next. “Yazmer Perez is a helluva pitcher, and we're excited to have him join the Catfish. We're confident that Mike Solo and Yaz will make a dynamite battery. Mike'll show him the ropes around here. We're looking forward to a great season.”

Mike shoved the rest of his gear into his locker. Sure, he'd show that asshole some fucking ropes. Like a gag, for starters. “Awesome. Mike Solo, babysitter to the spoiled and stupid.”

“Stupid? Don't think so. The dude knows how to get press attention.” Trevor was still gazing up at the monitor. “Might be a nice break for me.”

Oh, the ego of the super-­talented baseball player. Mike rolled his eyes, grabbed his glove and favorite bat, and headed for the door, only to run into Crush Taylor and his Armani sunglasses.

“Solo. Got a minute?”

“Sure, boss.”

His mind racing, he followed Crush into Duke's office. What could the legendary pitcher and team owner have to say to him?

“I think I've figured you out, Solo,” Crush announced, sinking into a chair and propping his boots on Duke's desk. “You have what I call a Superhero Complex, not uncommon in young studs like you. That's why you joined the Navy. You were going to save the world, weren't you?”

What the hell? “What . . . why are you . . . don't you have better things to think about? Like what to wear to the ESPN Holy Shit, He's Still Alive Awards?”

Crush shoved his shades onto the top of his head and squinted at Mike. “Funny. I'm trying to give you a tip here. Want to cut down on the attitude?”

“Sorry.”

“So there you are, saving the world, and your brother gets sick. So you give him one of your kidneys, which means leaving your Navy career behind.”

“It's a required body part, according to the Navy.”

“Wouldn't be top of my list, no offense to the Navy. Then . . . instead of choosing a nice single-­kidney appropriate career like, say, male modeling or Porsche salesman, you choose baseball.”

“I was on the Navy baseball team. I was freaking good.”

“You were the best player they had. They miss you
and
your left kidney.” Crush unscrewed the lid of his silver flask and drank. “But I'm not done. Not only did you choose to pursue a professional baseball career, which is very rare, by the way. I can't think of any active players who have donated a kidney. Scrotum, maybe.”

Mike picked up his bat and addressed it. “Kill me now,” he implored it. “Please, I beg you.”

Crush continued with a sort of gleeful relentlessness. “You also chose the most physically demanding position on the field. Especially for a guy with one kidney.”

“I wear my chest protector.”

“Were you wearing your chest protector when you planted yourself in front of that girl at the Roadhouse?”

“Wha . . . that was last season! I came away with a few bruises.”

“It could have been disaster. What if I tell the Friars that their best catching prospect is playing Russian roulette with his health?”

Mike felt the blood drain from his face. “I wasn't gambling with my health, Crush. The surgery was four years ago. I'm completely healed.”

“I see you put on some muscle in the off season.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It's not going to help.”

“
What?
” Mike glared at the team owner. What was the man getting at? “Why the hell not?”

“You're good with a bat, but that's not your strength. Calling games and working the pitchers, that's what you do best. You have a gift for getting pitchers to trust you, and giving them confidence. That's your forte, and it'll take you far. If baseball was fair, you'd be in San Diego right now.”

Finally it clicked. “Yazmer.”

“Yazmer,” Crush agreed. “He's the reason you're still in Kilby. Good news, he's your ticket out too. You get me?”

“I think so. Get that loudmouth asshole ready for the bigs, and I get to go too.”

“Think of it as an initiation rite. Like getting a tattoo on your ass or drinking an entire bottle of absinthe while screwing three supermodels. That was for your ears only, by the way.” Crush tipped the flask at him. “He's got skills, but also a pacing problem. He talks fast, but he pitches slower than snail mail. I think he likes being out on the mound too much. Forgets he has a job to do. He's so slow the umps are thinking about actually enforcing the twelve-­second rule. Think you can school him on his pacing?”

Why Yazmer?
Why, of all players?
Mike had dealt with all sorts of crap in baseball. But blatant homophobes were tough for him. “Sure,” he said, trying to muster some enthusiasm.

“Should be no problem for a superhero like you.”

Mike had a bad feeling about this. More than any acquired baseball skill, he relied on his most important weapon, something he told no one about. His intuition. Gut instinct. That inner voice that he'd learned never to ignore. It guided him in life and behind home plate. Right now it was ringing all kinds of alarm bells.

Crush swung himself out of the chair and unfurled his lanky, rumpled frame. “I wouldn't bet against you, my friend. I saw you in that bar fight last season. You know how to handle yourself. By the way, who was the girl? The redhead up on the bar? The one who made you forget all about that missing kidney?”

“Her name's Donna. She's a friend of Sadie Merritt, Caleb's girl.”

“Quite the knockout.”

Fiercely protective all of a sudden, Mike growled, “Stay away from her.”

Crush dropped his sunglasses back into place. “Oh, she's not for me. I have my eye on someone else. Besides, I saw the sparks. Just about set the Roadhouse on fire. I'm never wrong about these things.”

The Catfish won their home opener over the Round Rock Express. Mike went one for three—­not bad, when he was still getting into the groove of the season. He guided Dan Farrio to a five-­strikeout six-­hitter, but he missed Caleb Hart, with whom he worked so smoothly they practically read each other's minds.

When they weren't on the field or batting, the players spent the bulk of their time ogling Angeline, the new promotions girl. She had a long blond ponytail that bounced against her boobs when it came time for “Show Your Team Spirit.”

“Let's hear it, Catfish fans! Meow like a kitty cat!”

A chorus of “Meows” filtered around the stadium.

“Swim like a fish!” She pinched her nose shut and shimmied like an eel.

“Put it together, what do you get? The Catfish!”

“
The Catfish
,” yelled the crowd.

In the dugout, Mike turned to Dwight Conner and “meowed,” scratching his nails down his bulging upper arm.

“Get your hands off me,” the big guy muttered, his gaze fixed on Angeline.

“You don't think it's a little lame? Meow like a kitty cat?”

“What?” Apparently hypnotized by her ponytail, Dwight popped some peanuts into his mouth.

Mike sighed. For some reason, Angeline left him cold. Maybe the problem was that her name was like Angela's. Or maybe it was the color of her hair.

Not red.

Forget Donna.

After the game, Duke introduced Yazmer Perez around the clubhouse. Yazmer, the key to Mike's future, apparently. The dude was even cockier than he appeared on camera. He barely took notice of his new teammates, focusing instead on his Bluetooth and his smartphone.

“What is he, texting?” Mike whispered to Trevor Stark.

“He might be tweeting. He's big on Twitter.”

Like a spy satellite picking up a signal, Yazmer perked up at the word “Twitter.” “Twitter, yo. Gotta connect. I'm @TheYaz, that's capital ‘Y,' little ‘a,' little ‘z.' Thinkin' of changing it up, ­peoples. Show off my creativity. Thinkin' of ‘Y to the power of Z.' ”

His fast-­talking style made Mike a little dizzy. “What does all of that mean?”

Yazmer stared him down, then turned his liquid gaze back to Duke. “This the chico supposed to Friar me up? Prehistoric, man. Don't know the interwebz, don't know nothin'.”

Mike couldn't think of a damn word to say to that. Fuck, if his career depended on this guy, he was doomed. He'd have to come up with some kind of plan to bond with the Yaz. In the meantime . . . He turned to Trevor. “Roadhouse?”

“Hell to the Y-­e-­s. That's a capital ‘Y,' little ‘e,' little—­”

“Shut the fuck up.”

As Mike walked into the Kilby Roadhouse, with its sawdust-­covered floors and red chili pepper lights strung along the walls, he couldn't help scanning the crowd for red hair and laughing hazel eyes.

He'd first met Donna MacIntyre at the Roadhouse. She'd been funny and sexy, and she made him laugh, especially when he told her about the Vow of Celibacy.

“As a public ser­vice, you should be less attractive,” she'd told him. “Get a mullet. Or wear those shiny, baggy sweats. And a wife-­beater. It's only fair, if you're going to be off-­limits.”

“Sorry, you lost me at attractive. After that all I heard was blah-­blah-­blah.”

They'd spent the rest of the night bantering and sparring. Honestly, it was almost as good as sex.

Tonight, there was no sign of Donna. Maybe she was with the Shark. Maybe she had a new boyfriend.

Forget Donna
.

But the Roadhouse wasn't as fun without her. He ordered a club soda and leaned against the long, scuffed bar, possibly at the very spot where she'd perched that fateful night of the brawl. She had guts, Donna did. How many girls would stand up for a friend against a clan of inbred, spoiled frat boys?

“You come back for more bruises, Catfish?” A drawling voice made him turn. Right on cue, one of the Wades—­he couldn't remember which one—­stared him down, shoulders hunched, jaw thrust forward. The classic bully pose.

“Just toasting the new season. Go Kilby.” He lifted his club soda, not taking his eyes off the Wade. Didn't trust him for a second.

The guy didn't move. “Got a tip for you, Solo. Play good.”

“Well, since there's nothing I appreciate more than a well-­worded piece of advice, here's to you.” He toasted again, and finally the dude shambled away.

“What the Jeter was that all about?” Bieberman appeared at his elbow, gripping a Lone Star.