Single (Stockton Beavers #1) (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

Luke

When Hoff catches strike three to end the top of the seventh, I remain at second base, waiting for the PA announcement I know is coming.

"Now pitching for the Clash, number nineteen, David Nichols."

As if on cue, everything goes black around me. But I don't panic. I'm able to recognize it for what it is. I've experienced this kind of crippling fear before, and my survival instincts have burned the memory into the farthest recesses of my brain. I only
think
that I'm trapped at the bottom of a deep, dark well—but I'm not really. Now I know there's a pinprick of light to guide me out. I just have to look for it in the form of those shining blue eyes.

I'm due up first. I shouldn't still be out here. I close my eyes and breathe as the sinking sensation that's been plaguing me all night long engulfs me. I've been trying to be strong for her, but my fear is hitting me full on. I can't run from it anymore. But this isn't how my nightmares started. It's not like the last time. I'm not caught off guard. I know what's coming. I'm the one in control, not him.

Blinking, my vision starts to clear and I zone in on the familiar row of seats above the dugout—my haven, my sanctuary. Roberta is standing, clutching Mom's hand, and my heart starts beating again. I may not have the guts to step into the batter's box for myself. But for her, I'll find the courage to do anything.

Hoff thumps me on the back, still in his catcher's gear. "C'mon, Single," he says, taking my glove off my hand and squeezing my fingers around my bat. "Time to hit."

For a moment, it's like I'm right back where I started, sprawled on the ground, fighting for my life. I can't feel my arm. I can't talk. I can't breathe.

"He'd be an idiot to try anything," Hoff mutters. "Look at all your teammates over there. They're ready to charge the mound if he even so much as thinks of coming inside on you."

My legs start to function again as he leads me toward home plate, firmly planting his hand between the two nines on my back. And for the first time, I notice that Roberta and Mom aren't the only ones who are on their feet. The entire stadium is giving me a standing ovation, and I haven't even done anything yet. That's Stockton for you. They always turn out to support one of their own.

"Hoff," I croak, finding my tongue. "He's not gonna change how he pitches me one bit."

Hoff shoots me a puzzled glance. "Single, he may be crazy, but nobody's that stupid."

"He is."

I grip the bat, taking comfort in the weight of the smooth, solid wood in my hand, and the damage I can do with it.

A thunderous chorus of boos rains down from the stands, signaling Nichols's arrival, and Hoff has to practically scream in my ear, "Single, what do you know that you're not telling me?"

But the umpire clearly wants to move things along when he shouts at the batboy to bring out my helmet. However, there's something I have to do before I dig in. Quickly, I find Roberta in the stands again. If I'm scared, she has to be absolutely terrified. But as I let my gaze come to rest on her, she's not even looking at him—she's looking at me.
That's my fearless girl
. I didn't want her and Mom staying behind, not after what happened last night. I insisted on them coming to the game. So Roberta bravely put her fears aside for me, and I'm determined to do the same for her as I tip my cap at her.

"Single," Hoff grunts, grasping my shoulder, ready to offer me one last piece of advice. "Just take three pitches and get outta there. No one's asking you to play the hero."

I hand the batboy my cap and plunk my helmet down on top of my head, adjusting the extended chin protector. The Beavers' equipment manager added it, thinking it'd make me feel more secure. I didn't have the heart to tell him, "Thanks, but my neck's still exposed." All night, everyone's been trying to pick me up. Even Rex, my manager, offered to send in a pinch hitter for me if Nichols came into the game, but I said no. This is something I have to do.

Tapping the toe of each cleat with the head of my bat, I take a few practice swings before offering Hoff a shaky grin. "Enough chitchat, old man. You're up after me."

Hoff glares at me. "You're so close to making it to the majors, kid, so don't let this asshole take it all away from you." His eyes soften inexplicably. "What you've been able to achieve this season? Your father would be proud of you. I know I am."

He heads slowly toward the dugout with a hitch in his step. This is probably the end of the line for Hoff. His body's giving out on him. He doesn't have much left in the tank. His wisdom's sound because it's backed by some pretty hard-won experience. But making the Kings isn't my focus anymore. Something else is driving me now.

"Now batting, second baseman, number ninety-nine, Luke Singleton."

The crowd erupts, and I nod at the umpire as I draw a line in the dirt with my bat, marking how far off the plate I plan on setting up. Blood rushes to my head, and I can hear my heart thudding in my ears. I square myself even with the plate. If he hits me, he hits me. Let him throw as hard as he can. I survived it before. I'll survive it again.

Taking one last breath, I extend my bat like a samurai sword toward the pitcher's mound and will myself to look at the thug who thought he could knock me down so hard I'd never get back up again, at the coward who thought he could barge into my home uninvited and hurt the woman I love.

I can't even see his eyes, the brim of his cap is down so low. He's a shadow, a phantasm of my imagination. Although, he's bigger than I remember, probably having bulked up while in prison. But I'm not intimidated. According to the advance scouting reports, he doesn't throw over a hundred miles per hour anymore. He's lost velocity on his fastball, only handicapping himself by adding all that extra muscle. While I've worked on streamlining my swing, getting the bat head through the zone quicker than ever before. I smile at him. I may be smaller, but I'm faster. A mouse will always be able to outrun an elephant.

The Clash catcher peers up at me. "Watch out, man. It's August and he still hasn't memorized the signs. I've had more passed balls this year thanks to this idiot than I've had my whole career."

I spit into the dirt. "But for as long as you've been catching him, he hasn't hit anybody, right?"

"Not yet," he replies glumly.

I don't have time to digest his warning when the umpire calls, "Play ball."

Immediately, Nichols winds, sets, and delivers. And I almost can't believe it when the ball breaks in on me in a hurry, and my body acts of its own accord. Before I know it, my backside is smacking against the ground so hard, my teeth rattle inside my head and a sharp burst of pain shoots up my spine.

"You were warned, Nichols!" the umpire yells above my head. He's seconds away from ejecting him from the game, but I can't let him do that.

I force myself to stagger to my feet. "Stupid reflexes. It wasn't even close."

The umpire shoots me a skeptical look. He knows it was way inside, and so do I. But Nichols isn't bullying his way out of this. It's going to take a lot more than one pitch to settle the score.

Tipping up his mask, the ump says to me, "Take as much time as you need," before leisurely strolling toward the backstop.

Using the moment to my advantage, I sneak a glance at section 110. Mom's on her feet, mimicking the actions of the people around her, booing Nichols along with everyone else. If I were in a laughing mood, I'd be cracking up at her wagging her finger in the air. Unsure of what she's supposed to be shouting at the pitcher who nearly hit her son a second time, she gazes at the man next to her who's screaming his head off, trying to figure it out.

Roberta, meanwhile, is back in her seat with her hands covering her mouth. She's depending on me to keep her safe. If I go down, Nichols will have a clear path to her, and that's just not going to happen.

Motioning to the umpire, I dig back in. This time when I stare out at the mound, I detect a hint of a smirk on Nichols's face. He clearly enjoyed knocking me on my ass again. My blood boils as I lift my bat over my shoulder. He's not going to get away with it, not this time.

He rears back, putting a little extra on his delivery, and the ball flies so quickly out of his hand, I'm unable to pick up his release point. I can barely make out the whirling red-and-white blur as it comes hurtling toward me. I force myself to stay back on it, waiting until the last possible moment to follow through on my swing. And lo and behold, I make contact. The ball shoots off my bat like a bullet, reversing trajectory and heading straight back to where it came from.

The resulting crack isn't from the shards of my bat breaking. It's Nichols's pitching hand as he writhes in agony on the mound, the ball at his feet.

A collective gasp goes up from the crowd, but his teammates stay right where they are. They don't make a move toward him, or the ball.

The umpire sighs behind me, "Go on. Take your base."

"But…"

"I said, take your base," he barks. "And if they don't wanna defend, take another. It's still a live ball."

Reluctantly, I drop what's left of my bat and jog toward first.

"How could you do this to me?" Nichols cries with tears rolling down his cheeks as I hustle by him. "Oh God, it hurts…it hurts! Look at it!" He holds up his hand and his fingers are hanging at an awkward angle while a giant, circular bruise is swelling across the front of it.

"Wow, um, I didn't mean—"

"Oh, yes, you did! You wanted me to look pathetic in her eyes."

"You don't need me to do that. You did it all by yourself."

I keep striding forward, and when my foot touches first base, the catcher dutifully strides to the mound and scoops up the ball. The trainer sprints toward Nichols, and when he bawls like a baby that he'll never be able to grip a baseball again, that sinking sensation finally starts to leave my stomach. If he can't grip a baseball, then he can't make a fist, which means he won't be able to hurt Roberta, not anymore. Whether he knows it or not, it's over. And based on the way Roberta's back on her feet, her head slowly turning from him to me, it's clear that she doesn't realize it. Because knowing her as well as I do, it's obvious she's still afraid.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Luke

This ends tonight.

I stand in front of the reception desk in the hospital emergency room in my baseball uniform, waiting for the nurse behind the window to pick up her head and acknowledge me.

But I'll wait all night, if that's what it takes, because I never want to see that look of fear on Roberta's face ever again. That's why I'm here. That's why I asked Danny to cover for me. He's probably driving Roberta and Mom home right now. But I'm not worried. Danny knows the plan. I gave him the line to feed Roberta after the game, that I had to talk to the media and I didn't know how long I'd be. I don't know if she bought it, but at least it bought me some time.

I knock on the glass and the nurse's eyes nearly bug out of her head when she sees me. Slowly, she pushes back the window, ignoring the ringing phones going off all around her. "Can I help you?"

I don a penitent face. "Yeah, hi. My name's Luke Singleton. I'm a player on the Beavers."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me," she interrupts. "I know who you are…and what you just did." Thinking my hopes are already dashed, I take heart when she gives me a coy little grin. "Don't tell anybody I said this, but good for you!"

But I don't let my contrite expression falter. "It's just that I feel terrible about what happened. And it'd mean ever so much to me if I could just go back there and tell him I'm sorry."

She frowns. "Well, technically, I'm not allowed to let anyone in who's not an immediate family member."

I give her a plaintive look. "Please…for me? Just this once?"

She looks around to make sure nobody's watching. "All right, but make it quick."

I do my best to remain somber, when really I'm jumping up and down inside. The nurse is around Mom's age, and before she got sick, Mom always said she could never resist my sad, puppy-dog eyes. I guess this nurse couldn't either.

She braces herself against the door, holding it open for me. "He's behind the fifth curtain on the left. The ambulance brought him about an hour ago. The attending doc shot him up with some painkillers until the surgeon's able to examine his X-rays, so he might be a little out of it."

Great
. I really need him to be in his right mind when I say what I have to say to him.

"Will he know it's me?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I'm not sure. When we asked him if he wanted us to call his wife, he shoved the orderly next to him so hard, he fell on the floor."

Even after being seriously injured, his violence knows no bounds. I made the right decision to come here tonight. He needs to be put in his place, once and for all.

I smile at her. "Okay, thank you, ma'am, for all your help."

She gives me a quick nod. "Just remember. Keep it short. In and out."

I stroll by her. "I will. What I have to say won't take long."

The latch of the door clicks behind me as she returns to her desk, and my ears are immediately assaulted by loud moans of pain coming from the center of the room. I count the curtains as I move down the row while staff members hustle by me, and I'm not surprised that the noise is originating behind curtain number five.

Grabbing hold of it, I draw it aside, only to find Nichols groaning and sweating on the other side.

His eyes nearly roll back in his head when he sees that it's me. "
You
… What are you doing here? You little wimp…you little coward…you little piece of…"

He clearly knows who I am, no worries there.

"I've come to deliver a message," I respond coolly.

"Get out," he growls, his broken hand resting limply on his stomach as he tries to sit up. "I said, get out!"

Closing the curtain, I step toward him. "Not until you listen to me."

"Nurse!" he cries out. "Nurse!"

I glare at him. "Yell all you want. No one's coming to help you after you decked that orderly."

Breathing heavily, he leans back against the pillow, eyeing me with suspicion. "What do you want?"

I grip the bed rails and lean over him. "I want you to stay away from Bobbie Jo. You're not to call her, text her, go anywhere near her. You got that?"

"And what are you gonna do about it?" he mocks me. "Break my other hand?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Sorry, I'm not like you. I don't go around hurting innocent people for kicks."

He snickers. "I've hit a lot of guys over the course of my career, but you're the only one who refuses to know when he's been beaten."

I get right in his face. "That's where you're wrong. You don't have a career anymore.
You're
the one who's been beaten."

A glimmer of uncertainty crosses his face before he can hide it. The worst fear of every ballplayer is suffering a career-ending injury. I should know. For a while, that was my life, thanks to him. But I made it back, and he's not going to be so lucky, for one very important reason—he doesn't have Roberta to help him through it, and I did.

"It's over. She's with me now. She doesn't want you anymore." I shake my head as I stare down at his misshapen hand. "Can you blame her?"

He glowers at me. "You don't know Bobbie Jo like I do. You may think you do, but you don't."

And that's when I go off on him. "What? Like kicking her in the stomach when she was pregnant with your child?"

His eyes lock on mine. "She told you that?"

I nod, but I'd much rather knock that ugly smirk off his face.

"Yeah, well. She's lying."

I ease off the bed rails and take a step back because it's the only way I'll be able to restrain myself. "Keep telling yourself that. But we both know what happened, don't we? She may have been too afraid to press charges then, but she has me now. And I swear to God, if you ever hurt again, you're gonna rot in jail for a long, long time."

He scowls at me sullenly, and I make sure to drive my point home so there's no confusion.

"You have a record now. You've served time. No judge is gonna take your side over mine. So if you ever try breaking in to my home again in the middle of the night, know this—I'll be ready for you, Nichols, and I'm gonna enjoy taking you down for good this time. Do we understand each other?"

He stares daggers at me, stubbornly remaining silent.

I move closer to him. "I repeat, do we understand each other?"

"Yeah, we understand each other," he snarls back, intent on getting the last word. "Besides, no real man is gonna want her now, not after she lowered herself to be with the likes of you."

This time, I'm the one smirking at him. "Really? That's the best you can do?"

His eyes are like slits as he simmers with rage on the bed. "Get the hell out."

"With pleasure," I mutter, turning on my heel and tossing the curtain aside.

It took every ounce of courage I possessed to go in there. Before, I let him get away with what he did to me. But now, I was able to do what had to be done, ready to stand up for what's right. But Roberta can never find out about this. It'll be the only secret I'll ever keep from her, but it's one I have to keep. She wouldn't have wanted me coming here to confront her ex-husband. But I'm the man in her life now, and it's up to me to draw the line in the sand.

I stride through the door, and when the nurse at reception spots me, she calls out, "How'd it go? Everything okay between the two of you now?"

I nod at her. "Couldn't be better."