Single (Stockton Beavers #1) (3 page)

Landry sighs, clearly disheartened. "It seems like he's already checked out."

"You don't know that," I argue.

"Instead of gettin' back up on the horse, he walked right out of the whole darn rodeo. And it's a cryin' shame, too, because I don't think he's plannin' on stickin' around."

"Landry, you have to talk to him. Do something."

"I will, if he comes to me, but I'm not gonna force him to play, not if he's not ready."

"Landry…"

He shoots me a sad smile before patting me on the shoulder. "And here I thought you said no more ballplayers, Bobbie Jo."

I duck my head because, for some reason, it hurts my heart for Landry to think I'm only sticking up for Luke in order to win the silly argument we've been having.

He gives my arm a quick squeeze. "Now don't go gettin' involved in this, Bobbie Jo. Let me think on it. No need to go takin' on anyone else's troubles. You're here to make a fresh start, remember?"

I nod as he leaves the bullpen. But I can't stop thinking about Luke Singleton. I've been thinking about him every day for months now.

Ever since I found out that David Nichols was the one who hit him.

Chapter Three

Luke

I was scared out of my mind being back in the batter's box again, and she was there to witness every humiliating second of it. No wonder she didn't even bother giving me a second look when she came out to the pitcher's mound.

I hate to admit it, but it's time for me to give it up. Regardless of Mom's condition, I just don't have what it takes anymore, and it's extremely humbling to know that for sure now. Yeah, I've worked hard to keep my body in shape, but my mind's nowhere near ready. If I'm afraid to get hit every time up, then there's no place for me on this team, or any team for that matter. Landry deserves to hear that from me, man-to-man.

Standing outside the room that's been hastily designated as his office, my eyes gravitate to the crayon drawing taped to the door. Landry's little girl must've made it for him. Big, rainbow-colored letters spell out: My Daddy, Mr. Beaver.

Mr. Beaver
… God, when I was growing up, that's what the Stockton fans used to call
my
dad. I smile as I think back to a time when I was six. The local T-ball coaches, a bunch of guys with beer bellies who hadn't played a lick since high school, got together and decided to really stick it to Mr. Beaver's son. They got a rise out of turning me away, saying I was too small to play, that I might get
hurt
. So what did Dad do? Did he scream, yell, carry on? No. He went and built me my own miniature baseball diamond in the backyard, getting me ready for when I grew bigger and stronger, teaching me to work hard and never,
ever
give up. He kept telling me I'd get my chance someday, as long as I was patient.

I lower my head. Boy, am I glad that he's not alive to see this—me throwing in the towel, walking away from the game he loved with all his heart.

I breathe in, then let it out. Regrets or not, I can't put this off anymore. It's already after two o'clock. Mrs. Jenkins can only stay with Mom until three, and Landry now has less than twenty-four hours to call up another second baseman for tomorrow's game. If I'm quitting anything, it's living in this make-believe fantasyland where I thought I could just magically go back to being a baseball player again.

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I rap my knuckles lightly beneath the Mr. Beaver sign and wait. There's some shuffling on the other side, and in my mind, I go through what I'm going to say.

Landry, thanks for the opportunity, but
…

I'm sorry, I should've told you sooner but
…

It was a thrill putting on the Beaver uniform again, but
…

Yet, when the door opens, it's not Landry who's staring me in the face. It's Roberta Bennett.

I'm frozen, tongue-tied, a mindless, gaping fool. I never thought she'd be in Landry's office. Probably because of my stubborn refusal to believe that the rumors are true, that she really
is
his girlfriend.

Scratching my neck, I shoot her an apologetic grin, wishing my cheeks didn't feel like they were on fire. "Sorry, um… I didn't mean to disturb you…"

I steal a quick glance at her. I've never seen her with her hair down before. Her dark curls look really nice. But it's the sleek, black athletic wear she has on that's fighting for my attention. It's a lot more body conscious than the bulky catcher's gear she was wearing before.

She steps forward and glances up and down the hallway. "Yeah… Landry's not here."

I raise my eyes to hers. Why is she acting so jumpy, like she's afraid to be alone with me? The girl's fearless. She's worked for Arnold Heimlich. She was just on the receiving end of one of the most dominating pitchers in all of baseball. Why would she be scared of—Mom's voice fills my head—
little Lukey
?

"Uh, okay…do you know when he'll be back?"

But I'm getting the vibe that she really doesn't want to be anywhere near me, since she's practically shutting the door in my face. And it sucks because I've admired her for so long. I bet she doesn't even remember the first time we met, my face probably blending into the nameless pool of minor leaguers who'd cycle through Arnold Heimlich's office every season. Who cares if my father was Mr. Beaver? It obviously meant nothing to her.

I'm just about to tell her that I'll come back later, when she lets out a horrified gasp, "Oh my God, you're bleeding!"

I look down.
Christ, I am
. I grit my teeth. I can't seem to do anything right around this girl.

"I must've scraped my elbow when I fell on my ass earlier." I roll my eyes to get her to laugh with me, but of course, she doesn't. "Don't worry. It's nothing."

I stand there staring awkwardly at the blood I just smeared all over my fingers. Not knowing what else to do, I start to wipe them on my shirt, but she grabs ahold of my arm.

"Don't!" she commands. Casting one more furtive glance down the hall, she sighs reluctantly, "Come with me." She leads me into Landry's office, her fingers lightly slung around my wrist, but as soon as we reach his desk, she lets go, like she was only touching me because she absolutely had to. Hoisting a stack of heavy binders off a chair, she dumps them unceremoniously onto the floor. "Here, take a seat."

I sit down, not knowing what else to do, and she tosses her bag onto the desk and begins rustling through it before pulling out, of all things, a first aid kit. I try not to stare, but from behind, I can't help but admire how her waist comes in over her hips. Her body's supple, strong. There's nothing delicate about her. The corner of my mouth turns up. She could probably kick my ass, and I don't know why, but I
like
that.

She tosses me an annoyed glance over her shoulder. "Quit it."

"What?"

"Haven't you ogled my butt enough for one day?"

My cheeks burn again. So she did catch me checking her out on the field.
Crap
.

She lifts my arm and bends it at the elbow. It would have to be
the
arm, the one I couldn't move after receiving the blow to my neck. At first, the docs didn't know if I was partially paralyzed or not. Let's just say it was a scary four and a half days before I finally detected the first sign of feeling in it.

I gaze up at her.
But does she know that
?

"Now, sit still. This is going to sting a little." She applies a thin layer of antiseptic to my cut, and I try my best not to squirm. Over the past year, so many doctors and nurses have poked and prodded at my body, but her touch is gentle, reassuring. And if I weren't so darn attracted to her, I'm sure her bedside manner would be putting me completely at ease right now.

Stepping back to examine her work, she asks, "So what are you here to see Landry about?"

Her blue eyes are blazing. It appears she's gotten over her initial shock of finding me outside his door. Her timidness has vanished, and she's back to being the fearless girl I remember.

I sit up straight and swallow past my hesitation. "I'm here to tell him I can't play."

"Is that right?" She holds on to my arm while twining an Ace bandage around my elbow. I shift uncomfortably in my chair when she inadvertently squeezes my bicep. Boy, am I glad that I converted the basement into a workout space for myself since it's not like I can go to the gym anymore.
Not with Mom
…

Mom
… I glance around wildly for a clock.

Roberta raises an eyebrow at me. "I said, hold still. I'm almost done."

"What time is it?"

She squints, looking over my head. "Two-thirty. Why?"

I make a move to stand up. "I gotta go."

But she puts both hands on my shoulders, pushing me back down. "I'm not finished yet."

She reaches for the scissors and snips off the end of the bandage, tying it tight. "So you don't think you can play tomorrow…because of a little scrape on your elbow? Let me tell you, Landry's not gonna like that."

I sigh. "No, that's not why. It's a lot more complicated than that."

She lets go of my arm, but it's not like I can get up since her leg's still pressed against my knee. "Well, I can tell you what he's going to say." She deepens her voice, giving a pretty decent impression of his distinctive Texas twang. "You gotta git back up on the horse eventually, son."

So she does know my sob story
… I'm sure Landry's told her all the gory details. And for some reason, that irks me more than I'm willing to admit. I don't want this strong, beautiful, capable woman thinking I'm pathetic and weak.

But I don't have a choice. Let her think I'm still haunted by flashbacks of getting drilled by David Nichols. It's not like I've overcome my fears by any stretch of the imagination. It's just better than having her find out about Mom because, if she did, she'd run right to Landry. And then he'd feel obligated to engage in the sort of do-gooder meddling I'd do anything to avoid.

She leans back to observe me. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but there's something you should know."

It's like I'm on fire under the weight of her gaze. "What…what is it?"

"The Heimlichs are putting a lot of pressure on Landry to double the Beavers' attendance this year." Her expression quickly turns into a grimace. "I used to work for them. I know how demanding they can be."

So she really doesn't remember meeting me before in Arnold's office
…

"Luke, I don't know if you know this or not, but Landry went out on a limb for you with the Heimlichs, and this isn't how I'd go about repaying him if I were you."

There's no question that people are going to be interested in seeing if I can make a comeback or not. I'm a Stockton boy. I'm Mr. Beaver's son. I'm a draw. And now she's asking me to be her already supersuccessful boyfriend's financial salvation.

There's no doubt about it now. She wouldn't be asking me for favors if she didn't truly care about him.

Yet, for the moment, I like basking in her complete and undivided attention. It's insane, but I'd be willing to do almost anything to keep her thinking about me. She's not looking at me with pity. There's something else swirling in those big, blue eyes of hers, and I don't think my heart can beat any faster when Landry bursts into his office, surprising us both.

"Bobbie Jo, you're never gonna… Oh, hey, Single… What are you doin' in here?"

Bobbie Jo…he calls her Bobbie Jo
?

Roberta withdraws from me, and I'm immediately deflated. But it's the look they exchange that speaks volumes. Seeing them together, I feel like an outsider looking in, intruding on a private moment I have no business being a part of. I'll wait until I can talk to Landry one-on-one, like I'd originally intended, because right now, witnessing the bond they have between them, makes me realize I have no chance with her.

"Luke, didn't you wanna ask Landry about tickets for tomorrow's game or something?"

I freeze with my hands on the armrests of the chair.
Whoa…what did she say
?

"Oh, yeah, Single? How many do ya need?" Landry asks, taking off his hat and hanging it on the door hook.

When his back is turned, Roberta gives me a look that's meant just for me, one that clearly implies: shut up and go along with me on this, or else.

And it's scary how much her influence is able to sway me. I guess I could play in
one game
, just to prove that I can still hit the ball—hell, that I can actually remain on my feet in the batter's box.

When I just sit there, inwardly debating what I'm going to do, Landry smiles at me. "Spit it out, Single. Whaddya want your girlfriend to come see ya or somethin'?"

Roberta's eyes dart to mine.

"Nah," I laugh, getting flustered. "Probably just my mom…and her friend."

"Yeah, no problem. I'll save two seats behind the dugout for 'em." He claps me on the back. "How's your mama doin', son? Sakes alive, I haven't seen Miss Carla in ages."

"Oh, wow, would you look at the time!" I jump up and brush past Landry. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I gotta run."

And that's when he notices the bandage on my elbow. "Jeez Louise, what's that, son?"

"He's fine," Roberta assures him before positioning herself in front of the door. "I already took a look at it while we were waiting for you. It's just a scrape. It'll heal."

Her eyes meet mine, daring me to contradict her.

"Oh, that's good to hear!" Landry exclaims. "Single, we wouldn't want ya to miss opening day, now would we?"

And all the extra ticket sales I'll bring with me
, I think to myself.

"I'll be there, sir," I mumble with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, and then, and only then, does she finally step aside.

I don't have a moment to waste as I bolt past her. I'm barely going to make it home in time for Mom as it is. But even before I break into a run, I'm already breathing hard, thanks to the scent of her shampoo, or perfume, or whatever it was that was filling my head and clouding my better judgment.

Why in the world did I let her talk me into this? But more importantly, what the heck am I going to do about Mom?