Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (23 page)

Well, so did she
.

“Stop it, both of you.” She jabbed a finger toward her father. “
You
don’t really know Trevor.” She swung toward her mother. “And
you’ve
never even met him. You’re both crazy. However, I know I’m lucky to have parents who love me. Trevor had no one, and still he made himself into an amazing person. I’m going to keep seeing him no matter what either of you say or do.”

“But Paige, another athlete, after the disaster with Hud—”

“He’s Trevor to me, not just an athlete.
Trevor.
The man I . . .” She clenched her teeth to keep the word back, but it slipped out. “. . . love.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” exclaimed Jenna. “Love? That drama with Nessa Brindisi has scrambled your brain. I should have slipped her a mickey that time I interviewed her.”

Paige flung up one hand in a
stop
gesture. “This has nothing to do with Nessa, Hudson, or either of you. This is about me and Trevor. No one else. Maybe it is a mistake. But I’m the only one who gets to decide that. Dad, if you want me to stop working with the Catfish, just say the word.”

“I don’t.” Her father was watching her intently, his hazel eyes narrowed as if she were a batter he was trying to figure out. “I’m getting some pretty good free labor out of you.”

“Thank you. I like it there. You know why I like it? Because I like talking to the players on a personal level. I like how they sign baseballs for kids. Some of them are practically kids themselves. I like how they work hard and try to make something of themselves. I like how much they enjoy the game. I actually like . . . baseball.”

Crush grinned, as if she’d just handed him a huge victory. But that smile disappeared at her next statement.

“It’s made me realize what I really want to do. I’m going to finish college as quickly as I can, then I’m going to work on a degree in social work. I want to be a therapist or a counselor.” She turned to her mother. “Maybe you’re right and I am soft. So I might as well make the best of it. I want to help people, and this is how I’m going to do it. And if you really think I’m soft, just try to change my mind. Either of you. About any of this.”

T
REVOR GOT THE
news from Duke right before the team boarded the bus back to Kilby. The San Diego Friars had decided to release him. The official announcement would be made in the morning, but the sports forums were already buzzing with rumors.

“Sorry, Stark.” Duke clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “It kills me to tell you this. Fucking waste of talent. I told them they were making a mistake. They should be building an offense around you, not dumping you. If you could just keep your shit togeth—”

“It’s all right, Duke. It’s baseball. Shit happens.” Trevor felt nothing. Or at least, nothing yet. He’d been anticipating this, dreading it, steeling himself for it. The reality was almost anti-climactic. Three words.
They’re releasing you.

No more baseball. No more Catfish. No more team buses. No more long road trips.

Word must have spread in that mysterious way of baseball teams, because the bus was unnaturally quiet on the way back to Kilby. The team had crushed the River Cats, sweeping the series in their own stadium, in large degree thanks to Trevor’s six-for-ten performance. They were on top of the standings, nearly guaranteed to make the Pacific Conference finals.

Even though, on an individual basis, each player would choose a call-up over a minor league championship in a heartbeat, the Catfish had gotten swept up in the excitement of a pennant race. They wanted to win, and without Trevor it would be a thousand times more difficult.

Trevor put on his headphones and stared out the window at the flat countryside slipping by, the metronomic flicker of telephone poles, the intermittent smear of lights when they passed through a town.
Released.
On the bright side, he wouldn’t have to betray his soul and throw any games for the fucking Wades. On another bright side, he wouldn’t have to worry about the Wachowskis catching sight of him on the news.

Independent league players never made the news.

Maybe he should leave baseball. He could follow his other passion, working with kids. He could work at a juvenile detention center, the way Grizz had. He didn’t need money; he’d socked away enough to get by for a while. After he got Nina set up, he’d put his entire signing bonus into an investment fund. He’d be all right, financially. Not as wealthy as he would have been with the Friars. But what did bank accounts matter compared to Nina’s safety?

A few seats ahead, Dwight was bobbing his head in time to whatever song was playing on his big Bose headphones. Across the aisle, Leiberman scowled at his iPad, flipping pages on a virtual book. Shizuko tapped his fingers in a complex drum pattern on his leg. T.J. was fast asleep, head cushioned by the cervical neck pillow his surgeon parents insisted he use. The snuffle of snores filled the bus; they had a long ride before they reached Kilby.

Once he got back to Kilby—

It slammed into him, harder than a fastball to the
stomach. Once he got back, he’d have to clean out his locker. Grab his third-favorite bat, which he’d left in the clubhouse, his extra cleats, the spare T-shirts he stashed in his locker. Turn in his Catfish uniform. Someone would come and rip the masking tape off his locker, the one with the handwritten 45-Stark on it. And that would be it. He’d be erased from the Kilby Catfish.

From baseball.

If someone had stabbed a knife in his gut and yanked it upward, through his heart and lungs, it would probably feel like this. Baseball was like the air he breathed, the blood circulating through his body. Baseball had saved him, lifted him up, given him a place to shine. It had allowed him to take care of Nina.

It had brought him to Paige.

And now, baseball would be gone from his life. Independent league baseball . . . who was he kidding? It wasn’t the same. He’d be facing 80-mile-an-hour fastballs, not 90. He’d be like a college graduate going back to junior high. He wouldn’t be able to test himself against the best, hone his abilities, take his talent as far as it would go. For all practical purposes, it would be the end of baseball for him.

And what about Paige? How could he expect her to be with some minor league reject? She was the daughter of baseball royalty. What would he be by tomorrow? Some asshole who used to be a prospect.

All this time, he’d been operating under the belief that he was in baseball because of Nina, because she’d made him promise.
Bullshit.
Nina was right, he did belong in baseball, and it was going to fucking kill him to leave. He played baseball because he loved it. And now it was being ripped away from him, and it felt like giving up a vital organ.

Around two-thirty in the morning the bus stopped
to fuel up at a rest stop in a random town in Oklahoma. Trevor, who’d been sleeping so lightly that every shift in the bus’s speed woke him up, decided to stretch his legs. While the other guys were just starting to stir, he jumped out of the bus and jogged into the convenience store. A sleepy-eyed kid in a Red Bull T-shirt rested his head on one elbow while leafing through a magazine.

Trevor gave him a nod, then went to the cooler and surveyed the soda selection. Maybe a ginseng green tea would give him a lift. The bell tinkled as someone else walked in.

“Morning. Got any hot coffee?” Dwight asked in a sleep-graveled voice.

“Nah.”

“I’ll take it cold.”

“All out.”

Trevor glanced over at the coffee setup. The pot was full, probably even warm, or at least tepid. Asshole. Shit like that made him nuts. Maybe the clerk didn’t know there was coffee. Maybe he didn’t feel like getting up, or even pointing. Maybe it wasn’t racist bullshit. In his current mood, none of that mattered.

He grabbed the pot and took it to the clerk. “Ask him how he likes it,” he told the kid in a steely voice.

The kid hesitated. Trevor reached over and grabbed the neck of his shirt.

“We have video cameras,” the clerk squeaked.

“Good. Someone will finally get to see you give good service. Ask him how he likes his coffee.”

“You have no right—”

“Ask him how he likes his coffee
.
”
Trevor heard the icy menace in his own voice, saw how much he was scaring the kid, who was probably no more than twenty. It felt as if he was floating over his body somewhere, watching this encounter. Seeing the violence barely con
tained in the fist wrapped in the kid’s shirt. Watching the anger flow through his body.

The clerk swallowed hard. Trevor felt the movement next to his knuckles. “How do you like your coffee?”

“Trevor,” said Dwight in a low voice. “Forget it.”

But no, Trevor wasn’t going to forget it. The injustice of the entire world boiled down to that moment. All the ways people mistreated each other. The lack of respect given to the best people he knew. This was for Grizz, who’d had to eat stale sandwiches on the road because restaurants wouldn’t serve the Negro League teams. For Grizz, who’d never gotten his shot at a major league career because of his “beautiful tan,” as his friend Buck O’Neil called it. For Grizz, who loved baseball despite those heartbreaks. “You like it black, right, Dwight?”

“Yeah. With a little sugar.”

“There you go.” He released the kid’s shirt and thrust the coffeepot at him. “Pour a cup of coffee for the man. You might want to keep in mind that you’re pouring it for the best fucking center fielder I’ve ever played with and a future San Diego Friar. If you’re the kind of idiot that means nothing to, just remember you’re pouring it for a stand-up guy who treats everyone with respect.
Everyone
, even punks like you. Pour, you little twerp.”

While Trevor loomed over him, watching every movement, the clerk grabbed a foam cup from the counter behind him and filled it with coffee. He added one packet of sugar, then glanced at Dwight. The center fielder flashed him a smile and took the cup. He slid a five dollar bill across the counter.

“Thanks. You can stand down now, T. I got my coffee, I’m good.”

Trevor didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because he’d just remembered the scene that smashed his life to bits eight
years ago. The man with the knife to his father’s throat. The menace, the relentless, impersonal viciousness.

Without baseball, that might be him. One man imposing his will on others. Not through a baseball bat, but with his fists, his size, his anger.

Dwight put an arm around his shoulders and guided him out of the store. Outside, the crisp night air bit into him.

“What the hell, T?” Dwight said in a low voice. “Last thing you need is more bad PR. Hope those video cameras were only for show.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Trevor headed for the bus. “If I’m going down, I want to do it right. You deserve better than that crap.”

“You know I don’t like to get into it over little things like a cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s you. This one’s all me. Listen, Dwight—” The knowledge that in a matter of hours he’d no longer be this man’s teammate weighed like a boulder on his chest.

Dwight interrupted him. “Respect, man. Respect. Friends for the long haul, right?” He offered his fist for a bump. Trevor touched his fist to his, then they knocked shoulders. “You need anything, you tell me. And stay out of trouble, mother-effer.”

“Yeah right,” Trevor muttered, then swung back on board the bus.

He knew he’d been stupid, making a scene over a cup of coffee in a hick town in the middle of some Oklahoma oil field. But it felt good to fight back against one tiny piece of bullshit in this fucked-up world.

T
he doorbell at Bullpen Ranch rang at five-thirty in the morning. Even without the early timing, this was unusual.
No one casually dropped by the ranch. The bell rang continuously, like church bells tolling some kind of morning service. Jarred awake, Paige lay still for a moment, Jerome a heavy mass of purring fur on her chest.

Was it Jenna, coming back from the Kilby airport for more lecturing? Paige groaned and shoved her wild bed-head tangle of hair away from her face. She slid out from under Jerome, who briefly opened his one blue eye, then buried his head beneath his paws. She threw a Catfish zippered hoodie over her sleep shorts and ran down the stairs to the urgent rhythm of the doorbell.

She nearly crashed into Crush as he emerged from the master bedroom downstairs. He’d thrown on an even stranger outfit—a plaid blazer over basketball shorts. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked him.

“Nope. You?”

“No.”

“If it’s Trevor Stark, let me handle it,” he told her.

She startled, pausing halfway across the foyer. “Why would it be Trevor?”

“The Friars decided to release him last night.”

Her stomach plummeted. “Oh no. Is he okay?”

“Haven’t talked to him. Duke said he took it well. But still waters run deep with that guy.”

Poor Trevor. Why hadn’t he called or texted or
something
? She was up late submitting college applications last night, and her phone had been on. In fact, she’d fought the urge to call him for another of those sex-drenched conversations that made her toes curl. He’d told her to bear with him, and she was. But he had to make the next move.

She practically flew across the foyer. It must be Trevor, here to break the news in person. Or maybe he’d come to her for comfort. Finally, maybe she’d gotten through to him and convinced him to trust her.

Flinging the door open, she saw the last person she’d expected to find on Crush’s doorstep. “Nina?”

“Hi, Paige. Hi, Mr. Taylor.” The poor girl looked exhausted, her eyes ringed with purple, a sleep crease bisecting her right cheek. She wore khaki cutoffs and a dirty red sweatshirt with the slogan
Stay Calm and Eat Bacon
.

“Are you all right?” Paige pulled her across the threshold. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I haven’t, much. I took an overnight bus to get here.”

“You don’t have a car?” Paige swept a glance across the front drive, searching for something to explain Nina’s surprise appearance.

“No, I hitched a ride to the front gate and walked from there.”

“Hitched a ride? Does Trevor know about this?” Closing the front door behind her, Paige steered Nina to the big couch near the hearth. The girl collapsed into it, forlorn and knock-kneed.

“No, of course not. Trevor would flip if he knew I was here.”

Paige slid into the oxblood leather armchair opposite her and rested her elbows on her knees. “Did something happen?”

“I just . . . I just can’t do it anymore.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she stubbornly blinked them away. “I know I promised Trevor, and he’s going to be so angry when he hears that I came here. But I just had to. I couldn’t let this go on anymore.”

She gave a furtive look at Crush, who hovered half in, half out of the room.

“Dad, why don’t you give us some privacy,” Paige said, but Nina cut her off.

“No, I want him here. That’s why I came.”

Crush’s eyebrows went nearly to his hairline, but he came closer, dropping one hip onto a stool by the bar. “Is this baseball-related?”

“Not really. But sort of. It’s about Trevor.”

She gave a few more sniffles, using the sleeve of her sweatshirt to wipe the moisture off her face. Even though she was dying of curiosity, Paige jumped up and fetched a box of Kleenex from the bathroom. With a grateful look, Nina grabbed a few and blotted her face.

“I’m sorry. It’s just really hard to talk to strangers about this. But you’re not exactly strangers, and you were kind to me, Paige. I know Trevor cares about you just from how he says your name. I hope he doesn’t get mad at you because I came here.”

“Let’s not worry about that right now,” Crush said. “Between the three of us, we can probably handle Trevor. Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

The touch of impatience in his voice made Nina sit up straighter. “Okay. Well, I saw on a sports forum that the Friars fired Trevor. And it’s probably because of the article that came out, right? The one about how he went to juvie?”

“It’s part of the reason. More like the last straw, but yes. It was a big factor.”

“Well, shouldn’t it matter
why
he went?”