The Good Wife (15 page)

“So what did you do?”

“I hit. Got on base.”

“That’s good.”

“But Gordon got his panties in a wad. We had some words.”

That did not sound good, she thought. “When do you get to play again?”

“It’s up to Gordon.”

“Why don’t you apologize?”

“I’m not going to apologize. He’s wrong, and he knows he’s wrong, and I’m the only one who’s not afraid to call it the way it is.”

“But they need you in the lineup, Boone. You’re their big hitter.”

“Not according to Gordon. He says they play better without me. That I’m toxic to the team.” He made a rough sound deep in his chest. “
Toxic
. Unbelievable.”

“How long can he keep you out?”

“As long as he wants.”

“Boone.”

He shrugged, his powerful shoulders shifting. “It is what it is.”

She sighed, not liking where the conversation was going. If Boone wasn’t careful—if he didn’t mind his p’s and q’s and play the game right—this would be his last year of ball. “Baby, do you really want to get into a pissing contest with Gordon? You had your best spring training in years. Don’t let him bring you down—”

“It’s too late for that. Things were said. I have no respect for him now. Never will again.”

She sat up, looked down at him in the dark, trying to see his face. “He was probably angry.”

“Sure he was. And so was I. But there are certain things you don’t say. And he did. He crossed the line.”

Sarah’s stomach cramped. “What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter, but I’ve made it known that I’ve lost all respect for him—”

“Oh, Boone, no. He’s a coach—”

“He’s a dick. Always was, and now he’s on a total power trip. But let’s not talk about him anymore. I won’t let him get to me.” He reached up, slipped a hand behind her head, and brought her mouth down to his, kissing her lightly, and then with more heat. It wasn’t long before he had disposed of her nightgown and had her pinned beneath him.

* * *

T
ampa Bay lost their first game against the Twins Friday night and Sarah didn’t know if it was the loss, or something else, but suddenly Boone was back in the lineup on Saturday, and he came out swinging, knocking the ball out of the park with a two-run homer, and remaining hot Sunday, going three-for-four and driving in three of the team’s six runs.

Monday was an off day, and since Boone didn’t have to travel on Tuesday, he slept in and then hung around the house. It felt like a holiday, and once the kids were off to school, Sarah sat on the couch next to him for most of the morning, watching
SportsCenter
and then the Syfy channel because they were doing a story on a haunted house in New Orleans’s French Quarter.

“What do you think?” she asked him, during one of the commercial breaks. “Do you really think the house is haunted?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. When I was growing up, people were always talking about this or that place being haunted, especially in the French Quarter, and that was back before all this paranormal stuff was popular.”

“You’ve never seen a ghost, though, have you?”

“I wouldn’t call it a ghost . . . but I’ve been places that didn’t feel right. Places that have a strange energy.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think it was?”

“Ghost? Voodoo? Vampire? Don’t know.” Boone laughed at her expression and extended his long legs, propping them on the leather ottoman. “Baby, New Orleans is an old city and there’s been talk of paranormal activity there for hundreds of years.”

“Well, ghosts and voodoo, yes, but vampires?”

“Anne Rice. Remember all her vampire books?”

Sarah wrinkled her nose, remembering now. “You said she lived down the street from you.”

“A couple of blocks from us. People were always driving by her house slow, hoping to see her.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“I’d see her around, but I didn’t talk to her. My mom knew her, though. Nice lady. But people in general are nice in New Orleans.”

“You miss it?”

“I do. It’s home. Would love to buy one of those big houses in the Garden District one day. Retire there.” He glanced sideways at her. “You’re still okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind living so far from your family?”

She shrugged. “We’ve always lived away from my family.”

“But when I retire it’s different. I won’t be on a team anymore. It’ll just be you, me, and the kids.”

“And New Orleans is your home.”

“It’s not yours.”

“No, but wherever you are, that’s my home.”

Boone looked at her a long moment. “I got lucky with you, babe.”

She cracked a smile. “Yes, you did.”

But later that afternoon, when Sarah returned from picking the kids up from school, she walked into the bedroom to find Boone reading a text. Seeing her, he immediately closed the phone and slid it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Everything okay?” she asked, thinking he’d put the phone away a little too quickly, wondering if it was her imagination, hoping it was her imagination, but Boone looked . . . guilty.

“Yeah. Why?”

He seemed defensive, too, she thought, so she struggled to sound careless. “When I entered the room you seemed to put away your phone awfully fast.”

“I was done reading.”

“Felt fast.”

“Sorry, babe.”

Sarah hated the uncomfortable knot filling her chest. Hated the anxiety and unease. Hated that she always flashed to Stacey from Atlanta. Hating that Stacey from Atlanta still had this power over her . . . them. “Who was the text from?”

“Arnie.” Arnie Rosenthal was his agent, and had been his agent since Boone was first drafted as a college senior, out of LSU.

But Boone could tell that she didn’t believe him. He sighed. “Want to read it?” he asked, fishing for his phone.

She shook her head, reminding herself that Stacey wasn’t part of their lives. And neither she, nor her ghost, belonged in their lives either, and so she attempted to defuse the tension with a joke. “Are you being traded?”

Boone didn’t smile. “Not yet.”

Her smile faded as her feeble attempt at humor was replaced with shock. “Is it a possibility?”

“Hopefully not,” he said, walking out.

The next three days Tampa Bay played at home, and while Sarah really wanted to go to the games, she couldn’t find a sitter and knew better than to take the kids again, especially on a school night, so she followed the team from home. It was a good series for the Rays, as they swept the Angels, 5–0, 3–2, and 4–3, and with Boone hitting well, he headed off Friday morning for the three-day stand in Texas, feeling strong.

But when he called late Saturday night after a loss, he was really upset. “I think I’ve messed up my shoulder.”

Boone never complained about pain, so if he said he was hurt, it was serious. She also knew an injury at thirty-nine could be devastating.

“How?” she asked, knowing they’d lost the game tonight, 7–2, and that Boone had struck out twice, and then, in his final at-bat he’d been walked, then thrown out trying to return to first base after taking too big a lead on a fly ball.

“I dove toward first. Overshot the bag, and felt something pop.”

“Is it dislocated?”

“No. But it’s not right. Now my arm’s weak. Can’t grip anything really well.”

“Have you talked to the trainer?”

“Yeah, but Gordon’s having a hissy fit. Said I deserved to get hurt if I was going to do a stupid move like sliding back to first.”

“Will you be able to play tomorrow?”

“Not sure.”

Sarah chewed on the inside of her cheek, remembering the injuries Boone had over the years. The knee injuries. The torn rotator cuff. The stress fracture . . . “You don’t think it’s the torn-rotator-cuff thing again, do you?”

Boone was silent so long that it made Sarah’s insides hurt.

“I’m hoping not,” he said at length. “We’ll know for sure when I get home. Monday morning they’ve already ordered the imaging tests.”

“Oh, Boone.”

“Don’t say it.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m going to be positive,” she said.

“Good girl. It might be nothing. Just a strain or a bruise.”

“That’s right.”

He hesitated. “Kids okay?”

“They’re good. Sleeping.”

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting up to talk to you, and then I’m calling it a night.”

“Well, go to bed. Get some sleep. I’ll be home late tomorrow night.”

“Love you, Boone.”

“Love you, too, babe.”

* * *

S
unday night Boone arrived home close to two in the morning and Sarah woke as he entered the room and undressed in their adjacent bathroom. She’d been dreaming when he’d arrived and it’d been a bad dream, one of those dreams where she woke frantic—panicked—and it was a relief to hear him in the bathroom, using the toilet, brushing his teeth, knowing that it was just a dream. Boone was okay, she told herself, heart still racing. They were okay. All was good.

She waited until he was in bed, settled under the covers and comfortable, before moving toward him. “Hi,” she said, putting her head on his chest and stretching out next to him.

“Hey.” He stroked her hair. “Sorry to wake you.”

“I’m glad. I like knowing you’re home. Makes me feel good.”

He smoothed her hair again, then dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Makes me feel good coming home to you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled in the dark, and yet her eyes burned. “I was having a weird dream just now.”

“Weird, how?”

“You were missing. I don’t know if you died or you’d just disappeared, but I was looking for you everywhere. I kept running everywhere, calling for you, looking for you. I was searching and searching—”

“And here I am.”

She blinked and gulped air. “I can’t imagine life without you.”

“That’s good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

But she could still remember her panic in her dream, and she flashed to Meg and the kids, and how chaotic and emotional it’d been at the house in Santa Rosa the day Sarah flew out, following Jack’s funeral. She didn’t ever want to be in Meg’s shoes. Didn’t ever want to have to cope with what Meg was going through. “I wouldn’t want to raise Ella and Brennan without you,” she whispered, pressing closer to him. “I couldn’t do it on my own.”

His hand moved down to her shoulder, and he held her against him. “You could if you had to, but you don’t have to. I’m here.”

“What if something happened?”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He didn’t immediately answer, just held her, his hand warm, his body warmer. “There’s no point going through life negative. You’ve got to be positive. Imagine me approaching the plate each time, thinking I’m going to strike out. If that’s how I really thought, I’d never hit the ball.”

“You can’t compare life to baseball.”

“Sure you can. It’s all about attitude. Training. Confidence.”

She smiled wryly. “If that’s the case, piece of cake.” Then she fell silent, and in the quiet of their room, she listened to the thudding of Boone’s heart.

Buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum
.

So steady. So strong.

“Boone?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Your shoulder’s going to be fine. You’re going to be back in the lineup in just a few days. You’re going to have one of the best seasons you’ve had in years.”

She felt him smile. “You think so, Coach?” he drawled, pressing another kiss to the top of her head.

“Yeah, Walker. I do.”

* * *

B
ut when Boone left for the park the next morning to meet with the trainer and the team doctor, Sarah was nervous. Like most professional sports teams, Tampa Bay had their own imaging equipment, an X-ray for breaks and an ultrasound to detect muscle and rotator cuff tears as well as to check for tendon inflammation. Which meant Boone would know sooner than later how serious his injury was.

And if it was serious, would the team put him on the disabled list, and if so, for how many days?

The disabled list was a bad place for an athlete. It immediately devaluated a player, as it signaled to the rest of the world that he was weak. Broken.

Please don’t let Boone be seriously hurt,
she prayed.
In fact, please don’t let Boone be hurt at all.

Let it just be tender. A little bruise. Nothing much. And get him back in the lineup tonight or tomorrow.

* * *

B
oone didn’t end up playing for five days. But it wasn’t his shoulder keeping him out of the game, it was Gordon, the hitting instructor, who decided that Boone didn’t need to be in the lineup. He and Boone were still in the middle of a pissing contest, and with Boone getting banged up in that “stupid play at first,” he thought that Boone could use some time on the bench. Some time to sit and think about his commitment to baseball, as well as his role on the team.

After eighteen years playing professional baseball, sixteen of them in the big leagues, Boone didn’t need to think about his role on a team or his commitment to his sport. He trained in the off-season, was one of the first players at the park during spring training, and he pushed hard all season long. Baseball was his career. His identity. And for the past eighteen years, his life.

And putting Boone on the bench was probably the worst thing Adam Gordon could do to him.

Sarah suspected Adam knew it, too.

By the time Boone was back in the lineup, he was wound up so tight he couldn’t hit. The power plays with Gordon, who’d once been Boone’s teammate in Houston but never his friend, had messed with his head. In Houston, Gordon and Boone had tolerated each other, and that was about it. Now it became a war, and as Boone struggled at bat against the Mariners in their four-game series at home, Sarah wondered what would happen once the Rays hit the road after their upcoming series with the A’s.

Sarah could feel his rage and frustration, but Boone wouldn’t talk about his feelings. She knew from the past that when he struggled at the plate, he’d blow off steam in other ways. Going out with the guys. Staying out late. Drinking more than he should. Talking to women he didn’t need to know.