The Change Up (15 page)

Rachel whooped again. “I'm ready!”

Was he? He adjusted his grip and stared at the snow-white rubber.
Four hundred and ten feet.
He'd wanted a shot at that since he'd walked into this place. Now was his chance.

Sam took his place at the plate, and with surprising ease, his body fell back into old routines: tapping the head of the bat on the insides of both feet, bending his knees, and bouncing three times exactly, before he brought the bat behind his ear and adjusted his grip. Locked and loaded. He watched the ball leave her hand, fought the urge to blink, and followed it in all the way until it met his bat.

Whoosh. Crack.

Foul ball.

His hands burned from the vibration.

“Another one,” she called out, and he reset, exhaling the nerves.
See it. Hit it.

That ball sailed over his head.

She laughed. “My bad.”

And yet for some reason, it made him smile. Rachel Reed was throwing him batting practice. Never in his wildest dreams …

This time when he set, the smile lingered as he watched her fake spit on the ball and shine it in the untucked hem of her blouse. “Nothing but heat, slugger,” she teased, and he laughed even while the ball sailed toward him.

He reacted without thought, transferring his weight forward, dipping his back shoulder the slightest bit, pulling with his hips, leveling out, finishing long, and swinging up and through.

The crack was nuclear, splitting atoms in the air as the ball soared over the infield, higher and higher, until it didn't cast a shadow on the outfield grass. He stood there breathless, vibrating with power, watching the ball clear the fence right above the
410 feet
sign.

The good news? He'd saved the trees. The bad news? He still loved baseball.

A lifetime of mowing lawns looked less appealing than ever.

Rachel charged home plate, fueled by the rush of being irrefutably right.

Sam Sutter still had some good baseball left in him—maybe even great baseball.

“Oh my God!” She flung her arms around his neck. “That was amazing.”

“Four hundred and ten feet.” He wrapped her up and lifted her off the ground with ease. Pure strength. Pure heat. Their bodies pressed together in silent celebration.

“You have to play again,” she said, her mouth against his ear. “Try out for the Aces.”

He set her down and let her go, and his glorious smile slipped away. “You said no strings.”

“I know. I meant that. You get the trees. Fair and square. But come on, Sam! After seeing that, how can you not want to play again?”

He flipped the bat toward the ones she'd lined up earlier. “I'm not interested in letting baseball wreak havoc on my life again.”

“It wouldn't. You're older and wiser. You can rule baseball this time. And in a league like this, in your hometown, you would have more power than most. Don't you see? It's a chance for you to rewrite your history with baseball.”

He stared into the outfield. “You're crazy.”

“I'm the sanest person you'll ever meet.”

His golden gaze landed on her face and dropped to her lips. “Is that why you kissed me?”

“
You
kissed
me
.”

When he smiled, the technicalities didn't matter. Nothing mattered. She felt sixteen again, with an overactive imagination and raging hormones.

“It was mutual,” he said.

“Mutual curiosity.” Not that they weren't mutually attracted, too.

“How 'bout we throw in a little mutual satisfaction, too?” he asked, stepping closer.

Regardless of what Rachel had said to Liv about not kissing him again, she wanted to, and she would have if she hadn't thought he was just trying to throw her off topic by bringing the kiss up in the first place.
“Sam, I want—”

“Boss! I'm sorry to interrupt, but your phone has been ringing nonstop.” Liv stood on the wide walkway between the box seats and the grandstand. “It's your mother.”

“What do you want?” Sam asked Rachel, his gaze locked on her, as if Liv wasn't even there.

“Like right now,” Liv said. “She's calling again.”

All the heat Rachel had been feeling gave way to inexplicable anxiety. “I'm coming,” she said to Liv, and then she looked at Sam, who waited expectantly for her answer. “I want you to seriously consider trying out for this team.”

Shadows slashed his chiseled cheekbones, and his eyes darkened. “Is that all you want?”

“No. I'd like you to go through those resumes in your cart and give me your honest opinion, too.”

He smiled. “Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“You're sure?” He drilled her with those sexy eyes.

“For now.” Then she scrambled toward Liv and her incessantly ringing phone, knowing they still had unfinished business to settle.

Her gut was telling her that, right now, she had bigger things to worry about.

• • •

Rachel Reed was driving Sam crazy. She wanted more from him than he was able to give. First, his opinion on potential coaching staff. Now, his butt in the lineup on opening day. Why couldn't she be happy with his butt, period?

And yet here he was with a cold beer in hand and the stack of resumes in his lap, wondering what it would be like to put on a uniform after all these years. Maybe he was too old. Jeter had played at thirty-five.
But you're not Jeter.
Franco had been forty-nine in his last appearance for the Braves.
You're not Franco, either.

But he had hit the crap out of that ball this afternoon. Drilled it dead center. Four hundred and ten feet, which was short of the four hundred and thirty-six feet needed to belt one out of Minute Maid Park but more than enough to clear the three hundred and ninety feet at Fenway. Sam had never gotten to play at either place. And while that sucked, it didn't fill him with enough regret to fire him up and make him want another shot at those big-league dreams.

He took a long pull on his beer and dropped his left hand to smooth Babe's head. So, what did he want? The same thing he'd been doing day in and day out for the last ten years: he wanted to do right by his family. But for some reason, that didn't feel like enough anymore.

His gaze settled on the mantle, where a picture from his high-school graduation day sat beside a silver urn containing one third of his mother's ashes. In the picture, she stood on his right side, his father on the left. She was looking at Sam. Marveling at him. And that look of blind love and admiration said,
This young man can do anything and everything
.

Another pull. A long, slow stroke along the sweet spot between Babe's ears and then down her back. “I saved your trees, Mom,” Sam whispered. But he wondered what it would cost him in the end. The sense of peace he'd cultivated all these baseball-free years, that was for sure.

He opened the top folder and scanned the first resume. Before too long, he found himself fully engaged, picking out men he wanted to play for, looking for guys with outside interests that made them seem human. Arnie Slater volunteered at a local food bank and insisted his players did, too. Jack Kent played oboe in his local orchestra during the off-season. There was an avid sailor, a classically trained painter, a father of eight girls, a master chef, a published author, and an ordained minister. Men with lives outside baseball. The kind of man Sam wished he'd been when he'd played.

Two hours later, he grabbed the stack of folders and his keys off the hook by the door and decided to deliver the results to Rachel in person. He was excited about the list but even more excited to see her again.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the flirty, sexually charged meeting he'd been hoping to have.

“How long has he been missing?” Sam stood on the Reeds' wraparound porch scanning the lush landscape. At least three acres of pristine grounds stretched between the front door and the road. A long, winding, gravel lane led to a circular driveway where three Arlington Police cars and an ambulance waited. The men who'd driven the vehicles were out looking for Danny Reed.

“Since we were at the field today,” Rachel said, clearly worried. “That's why my mother was calling. He was supposed to be showering and getting dressed, but when my mother went to check on him, she found the French doors in the master bedroom open, and he was gone.” She white-knuckled the edges of an oversized cardigan sweater, shielding herself against the evening chill. “The police think he's lost in the woods behind the house.” She looked sick and sad, and every part of Sam wanted to fix this for her.

“We'll find him.” He smoothed a reassuring hand up her arm to her shoulder, where he squeezed, then he jumped off the porch and headed to his truck, where he grabbed a sweatshirt and a flashlight because darkness was closing in.

Rachel remained frozen in place, a shell of the take-charge woman he'd come to know.

“We got this,” he said confidently.

To up their odds, he called his father and then his brother, asking Luke to bring Babe to help with the search. Then Sam ran toward the trees. In the distance, he could hear other searchers calling out to Mr. Reed. As their voices faded, an eerie silence settled over the land, and Sam prayed Rachel's father hadn't wandered far enough to reach the gorge. Two waterfalls and a 150-foot cliff weren't things a seasoned hiker wanted to come across after nightfall. He didn't even want to think about the threat this landscape posed to a mentally compromised man.

Once inside the cover of trees, Sam took the path of least resistance, thinking it highly probable Mr. Reed had done the same. With his flashlight exposing the darker sides of fallen trees and mounds of earth, he covered as much ground as possible while keeping his eyes and ears open for any movement.

Twenty minutes into his search, Babe found him, along with a text from Luke that said he and Dad were in the woods, too.

“Come on, girl. Let's find Mr. Reed.”

Images of Rachel worried and worn filled Sam's head as he led Babe closer to the mouth of the gorge. With each step, his own worries magnified. He did not want to find a dead man.

Every so often, Babe would take off, leaving Sam hopeful. But when she didn't cause a ruckus, only to return to him, his heart would sink again. By the time Sam reached the gorge, it was good and dark. He drew in a deep breath and called out for Mr. Reed. Nothing but his echo answered.

Maybe the man had tricked everyone and wandered out the front of his house, taking off in the opposite direction. Route 19 was busy, but Sam would take his chances with drivers who were used to encountering deer in the middle of the road over terrain like this.

He shone the beam from his flashlight into the abyss. In the distance, water gurgled over the rocky creek bed, sparkling faintly. If Mr. Reed had fallen, there was no way Sam would know without making his way to the bottom, and that would be suicide without a headlamp and some rope.

Babe bolted from his side again, causing Sam to jump. “Be careful,” he called out foolishly. The last thing he needed was to lose her, too. And then he skirted the edge of the gorge, hoping to find an easier way down.

In the distance, Babe barked.

Sam froze, his attention pinned on the sound.

A yip and a growl followed.

She'd found something. And although it was entirely possible that something was a deer bedded down for the night, Sam sprinted toward her, hoping to find Mr. Reed alive and well.

A few yards into the darkness, the barking stopped, making it infinitely harder for Sam to know if he was traveling in the right direction. He slowed his pace and called out to Babe. When the branches cracked up ahead and her shadowy form emerged from the darkness, his heart sank again. Another false alarm.

Except, Babe circled him, whining as she went, running a few feet in front of him and then circling back around as if she wanted to show him something. Something important.

“Mr. Reed!” Sam hollered, moving swiftly behind Babe, who was surging forward and doubling back at a frantic pace.

No answer. Not a sound except Sam and Babe stomping the undergrowth and Sam's heart thudding out of his chest.

“Mr. Reed!” he called again, only to have Babe veer off toward the gorge and stand barking at the edge.

Shit.
Sam swallowed a rush of panic and dropped to his knees. With his flashlight in hand, he took a fortifying breath and peered into the abyss.

To his surprise, a generous ledge of rock protruded from the side of the cliff, and on it was a huddled-up man dressed in boxer shorts and a T-shirt.

“Mr. Reed!” Without thought for his own safety, Sam scrambled over the edge and lowered himself to the outcropping of rock.

There was give in the ground around him, and as he moved carefully in the confined space, he heard the rattle of stones breaking away from the ledge. A jolt of fear ripped through him, intensifying when he realized Mr. Reed wasn't moving.

Sam hesitated, a prayer on his lips, and then he touched the man's shoulder, hoping to rouse him. Once. Twice.

“Help.” The word could barely be heard

Thank God!
“Are you hurt?”

Mr. Reed shook his head and struggled to sit. “Cold,” he said through chattering teeth.

Sam helped him—always mindful of their precarious position—and then he whipped off his sweatshirt and pulled it over Mr. Reed's head. He lifted the man's ice-cold arms one at a time to thread them through the armholes. Finally, he lifted the hood and tied it beneath Mr. Reed's chin.

In a swath of moonlight, their eyes connected, and Danny said, “Thank you.”

Sam didn't normally cry, but the tears spilled freely as he ran his hands over Mr. Reed's arms and legs, checking for any major injuries. They needed to get off this ledge to safer ground.

“Did I miss dinner?” Mr. Reed asked.