Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (25 page)

He balled up the washcloth and took it into the bathroom. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She knew Trevor had a prickly pride that didn’t allow him to accept help. But he’d just have to suck it up.

When he came back into the bedroom, she hit him with Crush’s proposal. “He wants to keep you on the Catfish through the end of the season and pay your salary himself.”

“
What?
That’s nuts. The Friars won’t go for that.”

“He already worked it out with them. They don’t
have a problem with it, in fact they agreed to wait until the championship is over before releasing you. Crush is taking full responsibility for your performance on the field and off. He thinks that if you really show them something amazing, they’ll want you in San Diego for the playoffs.”

Trevor said nothing. He pulled on a pair of boxers, the honed muscles of his thighs moving smoothly under his gold-spangled skin. Why wasn’t he happier about this?

“If you’re worried that I’m tending to your life instead of my own, don’t. I just submitted five college applications and I’m already looking around at MSW programs. Masters in Social Work,” she explained.

“Social work?”

“Yes, I want to work as a counselor. I think I’d—”

“You’d be incredible. I think that’s the best idea I’ve ever heard.” He tumbled her back onto the bed, joy lighting up his face as he braced himself over her. “What can I do to help?”

She laughed up at him. “I’m sure I’ll think of something, but in the meantime, shouldn’t you worry about your own life, slugger?”

He smiled, nuzzling the soft side of her neck. “I deserve that.”

“Listen, if you take Crush up on his offer, you don’t have to leave baseball and you have a chance to get called up after all.”

Still nestled in the space between her neck and her shoulder, he moved his head in a way that could have been a nod or a shake.

“Is it hard for you to let Crush help you out? Because he really, really wants to win the Triple A championship. And he thinks you’re the key to that. He’s not doing this from any kind of charitable impulse. I don’t think he
has those. He’s a competitive man who just wants to win. And of course he wants to keep the team.”

He straightened and sat back on his heels, his physical presence nearly overpowering in boxers and nothing else. “It’s not that. I . . .” He hesitated, swallowed.

“There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me?”

He curved his hand around her jaw, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip, his eyes a limpid, sober green. “Yes. And I still can’t tell you. But I love you. With all my heart. Will you trust me?”

T
HE
T
RIPLE
A
National Championship game was a winner-take-all, one-game showdown between the International League and Pacific League champions. But before the Catfish could reach
that
game, they had to win the Pacific League playoffs. In order to do that, they first had to win the Pacific Conference. In order to reach the conference finals, they had to end the season at the top of the South Division.

No problem.

As of September 1, they were ahead of the Isotopes by five games and had clinched the South Division. The North Division champs were the Sacramento River Cats. That best-of-five series ended after a mere three games. The Kilby Catfish were on fire—the official Pacific Conference champions.

Next up, the Catfish would play the American Conference champions, the Omaha Storm Chasers, in a five-game series to determine the Pacific League champion. If the Catfish beat the Storm Chasers,
then
, and only then, would Crush have a chance at making good on his vow.

Most players saw the minor league playoff season as a showcase for their individual skills. It was scheduled
in September so that any high-performing prospects could be called up to the parent major league team before the real show—the World Series—and the playoffs leading up to it. Everyone with any hope of a last-minute call-up wanted to make an impression.

Trevor’s head was in a very different place. Crush was paying his salary. But the Wades had a guillotine hanging over his neck.

Before the Catfish set out for Omaha, Dean Wade sent Trevor a command invitation to the Roadhouse. Before he went, he checked in with Nina. She was with Paige at Bullpen Ranch, where she’d been staying since she arrived in Kilby. She was playing squeaky mouse with Jerome, happy as a clam. Paige, she told him, was working on invitations to the fund-raiser.

With the reassurance that the two women he loved so fiercely were safe, he headed for the Roadhouse. He found Dean in a far corner, nursing a scotch and puffing on an electronic cigarette. The Wade patriarch ordered a vodka on the rocks, which was quickly placed before Trevor and promptly ignored. Trevor didn’t want this man’s liquor. Didn’t want anything to do with him.

But he didn’t necessarily have a choice.

“So . . . Catfish made the playoffs,” Dean started mildly enough.

“Yes. That’s to be expected. We had a good season. It might look strange if we crapped out now.”

“So you got a strategy going, is that what you’re saying?”

“You want it to look authentic, don’t you? People might get suspicious if we start losing all of a sudden, with no explanation.”

Trevor jiggled the tumbler, making the ice cubes clink together, desperately wishing he could toss the alcohol in Wade’s face.

Dean laughed, a wheezing bark that sounded like it was being choked out of a squeaky toy. “You ever want a job outside of baseball, you come find me, okay? We can always use a cool head like you.”

A cool head.
Well, he supposed it was a compliment, but he was tired of being “cool” or “ice man” or anything on the colder end of the spectrum. When it came to Paige, his sister, or baseball, his feelings didn’t run cool at all. “I’ll keep that in mind, assuming I make it through the season in one piece. Is that it?”

“Not yet. One more thing. Just wanted to let you know that we’ve made contact with Stan Wachowski. Just an initial meet-and-greet, you might say. We asked him if he had a photo of Trevor Leonov, in case we ever ran across him. They sent this.”

Dean turned his phone and flashed him a photo. With a shock, Trevor saw his thinner, sixteen-year-old self, facedown on a folding table. The blistered, blackened lines of a W were seared across his naked back, his arms dangling limply off the table. The photo had been taken after he passed out from the pain. Only the Wachowskis could have taken it. There was no doubt—the Wades had made contact with the syndicate.

Trevor fought not to show his gut-churning reaction. “You don’t know who you’re messing around with, Wade. If that photo proves anything, it’s that you should keep those people out of Kilby.”

“I’m not afraid of a branding iron. I got about ten of ’em back at the ranch. Are you getting the picture, slugger?”

Trevor got it, all right. He was more fucked than ever. “I have the situation handled,” he said brusquely. “It’s got to look natural, so you have to let things play out.”

“You better not be playing
us
, Stark.”

Trevor pushed his drink away and stood up. “Just out of curiosity, why do you want to buy the Catfish so bad? You’re not a baseball fan. What’s in it for you?”

“Ain’t your worry. We got plans, and they don’t involve steak dinners every time someone hits a homer. The team’s a relic. The stadium ain’t bad. Could be useful. The land, now . . . that’s a sweet piece of property.” Wade grimaced, his long nose giving him the look of a gargoyle. “Not saying one way or the other what we’d do with the Catfish. Kilby’s our town. We do what we want.”

Sickened to his core, Trevor strode away from the man. In the scheme of things, the ownership of the Kilby Catfish didn’t rank as high as Nina’s safety or his future with Paige. But the idea of the Wades getting their slimy hands on the team revolted him. They might disband the Catfish and turn the stadium into “Wadeland,” for all he knew. Why this should bother him, he wasn’t sure. But it did. It was baseball, the Catfish were a part of baseball, and baseball was a part of him.

On his way out the door he texted Dwight.
All good. TY for the backup. I’ll explain everything later.

You better. Is he ready for his special delivery?

Give me a minute to get on the road. Wish I could see his face, but better not.

But he knew perfectly well what the rest of the Roadhouse patrons would be seeing. He passed the delivery truck on his way out of the parking lot and chuckled out loud. In a minute, several delivery men bearing coolers would parade to the bar.

“Delivery for Dean Wade,” they would announce. “Special gift from Crush Taylor and the Catfish.” Then they’d open the coolers and display the fresh-caught catfish on their beds of ice. Then they’d march back outside and place those catfish in carefully arranged let
ters on the hood of the Wades’ mint-condition Chevrolet. F.U., those letters would read.

One of those crazy Catfish pranks. Business as usual for the notoriously fun-loving team.

But none of this was fun for Trevor. The Wades had his balls in a vise. He couldn’t see any way out.

Game One of the Pacific League championship, featuring the Kilby Catfish versus the Omaha Storm Chasers, would take place on September 13 in the beautiful city of Omaha, Nebraska. Even though local fans got excited if their team made the playoffs, the games rarely got much mention on the national news.

This year, with Crush throwing the weight of his legendary reputation behind the Catfish’s prospects, things were different. People were talking about the series, and not only in Omaha and Kilby. ESPN planned to broadcast the games—tape-delayed at two in the morning, but still a first. Crush’s vow and the team’s performance since then, along with Trevor’s “scandal,” got written up in
Sports Illustrated
and was a hot topic on various baseball forums. If he weren’t Crush Taylor, the “Playboy Pitcher,” no one would have cared. But Crush knew how to work the media. He even managed to up the ante at the press conference Mayor Trent held to talk about Kilby’s historic moment in the championship spotlight.

The entire team watched the press conference from the visiting clubhouse in Omaha. With the two of them—the blow-dried mayor and the lanky former pitcher—standing before the assembled reporters, Crush threw down the gauntlet.

“If Kilby wins, I’ll donate twenty thousand dollars to the Save Our Slugs fund.”

“If Kilby loses?” a reporter asked.

“If Kilby loses, which is not going to happen, Mayor
Trent agrees to console me by going out to dinner with me.” He sent a wink in her direction.

“As if I needed any more reason to root for Kilby,” Mayor Trent shot back. The reporters laughed.

“So you agree to Crush’s bet?” someone shouted.

“Absolutely not.” A smile played across her face, her perfectly teased hair glinting in the sun.

The assembled reporters laughed and “oooohed.”

“But I’ll offer up a different bet. If the Catfish win, Crush donates twenty thousand to Save Our Slugs, ten thousand to Paige Taylor’s summer tutoring fund-raiser, and he can take me out to dinner.”

Crush scratched his chin, mulling it over. “And if we lose?”

“You donate twice as much.”

“Done. And I’ll take you out twice.” They were shaking hands before the mayor seemed to realize what was happening. “The bet is on. You’re all witnesses.”

Trevor turned to Dwight. “Does Crush have the hots for the mayor or is this all for show?”

“Got me.” Dwight shrugged. He had his game face on, even though the game didn’t start for two more hours. His meticulous pregame ritual demanded it. The rest of his preparation involved drinking a cup of black coffee exactly one hour before game time and crooning “You Send Me” to his bat.

Trevor’s routine was much simpler. After batting practice, which he kept light, he spent half an hour with his noise cancellation headphones on and his eyes closed. The other players thought he was jamming to some music, but the headphones were just for show. They blocked out the noise from outside so he could clear his mind and do his visualizations. He focused on the ball, on the letters, the red dot that formed a perfect target. He pictured his own swing, smooth and power
ful and
right
. He imagined the satisfying sound the bat would make against the ball. The way it would jump off his bat in a joyful leap for freedom.

He wasn’t just smashing that ball, he was setting it free.

Yeah, crazy thoughts like that came into his head during his visualizations. Like Paige, naked in his bed. For long moments, he lost himself in the bliss of that image. His Paige, luscious and wild, his sexy woman, the one who always had his back.

Then another image snuck into his mind. Dean Wade, with his stupid bolo tie and nasty sneer. Watching him from a field box at the Kilby stadium. Wanting him to fail. Waiting for him to give less than his best.

Unnerved, Trevor ended his visualization early. He skimped on the rest of his routine, barely remembering to mutter a little prayer to the photo of Jackie Robinson stuck to the back of his locker. He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he didn’t mind asking for a little assist from the greats.

The Catfish were at bat first, and before Trevor even got to the plate, they’d scored two runs. The Omaha pitcher was shaky, and Leiberman singled, stole a base, then cruised home on a homer from Ramirez.

Thank you, Catfish.
Trevor relaxed. If the Catfish were going to play like that, even if he sat out the game he wouldn’t cost them anything. The smart thing to do, with the Wades watching so closely, would be to make an out. Everyone would be focused on the fact that the Catfish were winning 2-0. No one would notice if he didn’t contribute much.

His gaze strayed to the section of the stands set aside for the management from the visiting team. Paige sat in the front row, chatting with Marcia Burke. She wore a creamy summer dress with a lacy top and shoulder
straps made out of ribbons. A bright blue cowboy hat—Kilby colors—kept the sun off her face and brought out the gorgeous blue of her eyes. He imagined her wearing cowboy boots and no underwear.

Before the game, inspired by Crush’s bet with the mayor, he’d dared Paige to do exactly that.

“Fine, but I want to make sure I’m getting something out of this. If you’ve gotten two hits by the seventh inning, I’ll take my panties off during the seventh inning stretch,” she’d told him with a saucy toss of her head. “And if you win, you can have your way with me.”

“Using sex as bribery?”

“Is that against the Baseball Code of Conduct?”

“Pretty sure the rules and regs don’t mention your undies.”

At any rate, her bribery must have worked, because without thinking twice, he slammed the first pitch into the center field bleachers. The ball flew so fast and far that they probably had to slow-mo it on TV just to see where it went.

As Trevor jogged around the bases he alternated between triumph and dread. A solo home run only counted as one run, after all. Would the Wades see this as a giant middle finger or would they give him the benefit of the doubt? Assume it was part of his strategy?

All thoughts of the Wades fled as he rounded third base and arrowed in on Paige, who was on her feet, her glorious hair loose under her cowboy hat, clapping and practically bouncing in her joy. He raised one finger as he passed her, then pumped his fist against his heart.

She twitched her skirts, the little tease.

If the Wades knew what they were up against—the temptation of Paige—they might pack their bags and go home.

To the right of Paige, Crush also wore a huge grin. Beyond him, Nina was also bouncing up and down, yelling something to him between her cupped hands. For the first time in his professional baseball career, he had a cheering section—a real one, not barely dressed groupies, but people who cared about him. What a new and amazing experience. And when he trotted into the dugout, his teammates’ butt pats and low fives added another layer of satisfaction.

He caught the play-by-play from someone’s radio: “Trevor Stark is famous for working the count and never swinging at the first pitch. But that’s why he’s so dangerous, because he keeps pitchers on their toes. You can’t predict what a great hitter will do, and Stark has all the makings of a great.”

Grinning, Trevor slapped hands with T.J. Gates and yelled, “Let’s keep it going” to Dwight, who was stepping into the batter’s box. He paused for a moment, soaking in the cheers, the fellowship, the presence of Paige. This moment has been brought to you by the game of baseball,
he thought. That was the way it worked. Long periods of slogging through the season, punctuated by moments of transcendence.