Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2) (13 page)

“Take that shit back. You know I don’t. Maybe your goddamn family just brings it out of everyone. Maybe you’re more like your mo—” I froze stiff on the couch, and my eyes bugged out. I held up my hands. “I stopped myself. You heard me. I did not say it.”

It was too late. I thought my head was going to explode the way Nik glowered in my direction. Her hands were squeezed into fists at her sides, and I could see all the whites of her knuckles. She started toward me like a possessed demon. “Did you say what I think you said?”

Do not answer, Braden. That shit is rhetorical. Adapt and survive.

I shook my head quickly and braced myself in case she resorted to physical violence.

When she was about three feet away, I covered my face with my hands. I waited, and nothing happened. I peeked between my fingers, and she stood in front of me.

Her words came through gritted teeth. “Through all your bullshit pity party, and your fucking blow-up at my parents—”

“That wasn’t all my—”

She held up her hand, and I shut the fuck up immediately.

“You’ve wallowed around and discussed moving your shit, packing your shit, cities you are okay with, places you won’t go—but you never once asked me to go with you.”

“Babe, I—” I closed my mouth.

She didn’t let me speak, and wouldn’t believe me now if I tried.

“You said baseball is all you’ve got. You made that very clear to me, Braden. And you know what? You’re absolutely right.” She turned on her heel, and I watched as she walked out the door.

Jumping up to my feet to chase her, pain ripped through my knee and shot down my leg. I stumbled for a second and then beefed it face-first onto the carpet. I stared around at my house from the floor, looking up at everything I owned. Nothing in my life meant shit without her. I’d definitely hit rock bottom. Of course I wanted her to go with me. It was a given. I figured she just knew that. That’s if I even had to leave at all. I bounced my forehead on the floor. My entire life was falling apart over a hypothetical situation.

I had to talk to someone. I hobbled to the table and grabbed my phone. Flicking through my contacts, I stared at the only girl I could talk to about shit like this. I cringed as I tapped Kasey’s number.

“Aye, what the bloody hell?” Patrick squinted and leaned over the bar to get a good look at me. “Braden? That you?”

The place was empty, as usual, as I hobbled up to a stool. “Yeah. Don’t ask.” It was darker than normal, which was no surprise to me, considering I had on the blackest pair of sunglasses I could find and a cowboy hat Nik had made me wear to some western-themed party.

“Fuck, son. Y’all right in tha head? Ya walk like someone fucked ya sideways.” He tried to hold back a chuckle, and failed.

On any other day I’d have laughed with him, but the pain of Nik leaving was still a dagger in my chest. “Hurt my knee during the game. Can’t let anyone know.”

He held up an empty pint glass and gestured toward the tap.

“Indeed.” I let out a long sigh as I sat down and propped my elbows on the bar top.

The front door swung open. Patrick and I both turned to look.

“What in the—” Kasey doubled over in laughter, pointing right at me. After a few seconds that lasted far too long, she tried to compose herself, but chortled uncontrollably when she tried to speak. “I just can’t—” She started toward me, her face reddening more with each step. “What in the Virgin Mary’s cunt drapes are you wearing, Doyle Brunson? You been playing Texas Cuckold ‘em at the Bellatio spa and resort again?” She doubled over at her own joke.

“Keep them coming. I have all day.”

Patrick sat the pint in front of me, and I drank down a few large gulps.

“Okay. I’m done.” She leaned over and examined my glasses and the hat. “I had a great one about Chokeback Mountman, but you ruined it with your Debbie Downer ways. Now, why am I here?”

“I need advice. Shit happened between me and Nik.” I stared down into my glass and watched the tiny bubbles float around.

Her brow furrowed. “Why does everyone think I’m the Dr. Phil of pussy around here?”

Patrick chuckled in the corner. He usually tried to stay out of our conversations, but Kasey was loud enough for the whole damn city to hear. Kasey turned to him. “Hey there, lover. Sorry for being rude and not saying hi. I was distracted by Sideshow Bob over here. Can you say ‘fuck ass’ for me once?” She grinned.

“I’d do anything for you, love.” He polished a rocks glass with his bar towel. “But I won’t do that.”

“You Meatloafin’ son-of-a-bitch, you.” Kasey’s eyes flitted back to me.

I grumbled. “Can you fucking focus for two seconds?”

“What’d you do?”

“Why do you assume I’m the one at fault?” I yanked my sunglasses from my face and sat my hat on the counter.

“You risked going in public looking like that to talk to me. You definitely fucked up bad.”

“Fair point. First, I’m wearing the stupid shit because I hurt my knee the other night. I don’t need people taking pictures of me hobbling around town. Ingram doesn’t know about it. Secondly, during all the bullshit that’s gone down, I never specifically asked Nikki if she’d go with me if I was traded.”

Kasey’s jaw flexed and I leaned away from her, thinking she might punch the shit out of me. “You did what?”

“I just assumed she would. I mean we’re together, right? I figured that keeps going unless we break up.”

She muttered under her breath. “Idiot.”

“Look, Kase. She left me. I’m miserable. How do I get her back?”

“You men make it so easy for me, I swear. If I didn’t like you, I’d have her legs spread like wings tonight while I dined in first-class. So, fate is on your side.” She tilted her head back to stare up for a moment, and then returned her gaze to me. Her eyes opened wider, as if a light bulb went off in her head. “You need a grand gesture.”

“Well, I thought about like flowers and a card.”

My head whipped to the side when she smacked me above my ear.

“Don’t be a fucking Easton. He’s the stupid one. You’re a sweet guy. What’s this shit I’ve heard about you blowing up and yelling at people? That isn’t you.”

What
was
my deal? I thought I had everything under control. But now, I’d lost the woman I loved and was about to lose my job.

“So it needs to be a big gesture, right? With umm, thought behind it? Not just money?”

Kasey began a steady, slow clap and mocked me with her tone. “He has returned from Twatville, ladies and gents. Leaving the ass-bag Easton Holliday as the only remaining resident.”

I grinned. “But what should I do? As a gesture?”

Kasey rubbed her chin. “I have an idea.”

N
IKKI

“
D
ARLING.” MOM SANK
onto my bed and patted my thigh. “While I’m glad to have you home for the weekend, I wish you weren’t having so many problems with that Braden.”

I squinted against the morning light and did my best to glare at her. “Things were going fine until you threw Carter in his face.” My voice faltered when I realized my words weren’t true. Things hadn’t been fine ever since Braden’s season started going south. Instead of sharing his problems or fears with me, he’d turned inward. Now, I was sleeping in my old room, ruffle bedspread and all, and he was alone in our apartment. “How did all of this get so fucked up?”

Mom tsked and sipped her coffee, the delicious smell the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I’d wanted to go to Kyrie’s after my confrontation with Braden, but I didn’t want to be a cock block again. Nothing was worse than a cock block, except for maybe a monumental cock tease. I may have committed the former a time or two, but never the latter.

I pressed my head down into my pillow and pulled my blanket over my face. “Just go away.”

“Despite what you think, I want to help. Your father and I are worried about you. Can you just…” She sighed. “Can you just take a little break from him maybe? See what else is out there?”

Tears stung behind my eyes and I shook my head. My warm breath filled the small pocket beneath the blanket, but I’d rather suffocate than cry over a boy in front of my mom. “I told you. He’s it for me.”

She pulled the blanket from my face and ran her hand over my cheek. The kind gesture spurred more tears. I was turning into an emotional wreck.

She swiped a tear from the corner of my eye. “I know, Nik. I do. But are you it for him?”

There was no sting in her words, none of the usual conniving, only concern.
Resolve broken.
I sat up and hugged her as more tears coursed down my cheeks. She set her coffee cup on my bedside table and wrapped her arms around me.

“I thought I was. I thought he loved me. But he’s been acting so strange lately. He’s so angry, and I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

“He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

“No.” One thing I was sure of was that he’d never raise a hand to me. The opposite was more likely. When he left his shaving gunk—including gooey shaving cream peppered with the tiny hairs from his face—in the sink two weeks ago, I had a vivid mental image of punching him out. “I’m not afraid of him. I’ve threatened to cut off his dick in his sleep before, and he didn’t bat an eyelash.”

She tittered out a small laugh. “I’m not surprised. You’ve always been … let’s just say,
fiery
.”

“I’ve been called worse.” I sniffled. “I just don’t understand him right now.”

She smoothed a hand down my hair, her familiar scent of lavender and pricey Scotch comforting me more than anything else could. “I miss this.” Her words were soft, barely a whisper.

“I miss you, too.” I squeezed her tight and wiped my face all over her luxury bath robe.

“Nik!”

“What?” I laughed. “Terry cloth is made for snot and tears, very absorbent and stuff.”

She pushed me out to arm’s length and shook her head, her usual pinched look replacing the much-needed softness. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to let me make my own mistakes.” I flopped back down into bed and stared up at the recently hand-painted ceiling. Mom had decided to make the house “feel more French.” As a result, fat little cherubs smiled down at me, likely fantasizing about jizzing all over me while I slept. It didn’t matter. I was fucked with or without an angelic bukkake.

She followed my gaze to the overdone mural. “You like what Jacques did? I think it looks elegant.”

“I liked it better when it was simple.” Problem was, I didn’t know if I was talking about the Jizztine Chapel overhead or my relationship with Braden.

“This is so not my color.” I spun in the dressing room mirrors, all three reflecting the pink confection of a dress my mother had picked.

Over the years, the Graves had suffered plenty of hardships—when the good caviar was out of season, when that one maid failed to do proper hospital corners when she made the beds, or even that time when Kerfuffles, Mom’s prized Dandie Dinmont Terrier, destroyed my father’s autographed baseball from the ’56 World Series where Don Larsen threw a perfect game. Each time there was a setback, the Graves rallied in the only way we knew how. We shopped.