Whatever Life Throws at You (24 page)

The camera shifts, and suddenly there’s Mom. She looks so beautiful and young. It takes me a second to process the fact that the blond toddler in a pink dress with pigtails and ribbons is me. I watch my younger self squirm and twist in Mom’s arms, and then Dad reaches out and takes her from Mom’s hold.

“I’m sure your daughter would be proud to see her dad pitch in the major league again someday
,
”
a voice from behind the camera says.

Dad looks down at me, his eyes noticeably avoiding the cameras.
“I’ll be glad just to be able to chase this one around. She’s destined to run off a cliff or stick her finger in an outlet
.
”

The younger me rests her head on Dad’s chest, stuffing a thumb in her mouth. I glance down at my thumb in my lap. Thank God I broke that habit before elementary school.

“So are you saying that you won’t be the first player with a prosthetic limb in professional baseball?”

“I know I won’t,”
he says.
“Bert Shepard pitched one game in 1945 after losing a leg in World War Two
.”

“Will you be
the first in modern baseball?”
the interviewer presses.

“I don’t know
.
”
Dad shakes his head.
“I just don’t know
.
”

The camera moves to Mom, shock and disappointment written all over her face. Instead of moving closer to comfort Dad, she slides back a step.

“Four years after losing his leg to cancer, Jim Lucas’s support well had run dry. He declined further interviews and endorsements, claiming that he wasn’t a ballplayer anymore and it was time for him to accept that. And for Jim, accepting that fact meant no college degree and a string of dead-end manual labor jobs so that he could feed and support his family
.
”

A present-day Frank is leaning against the dugout in his manager uniform.
“There’s something about Jimmy Lucas that I couldn’t shake after all those years. Don’t get me wrong, he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch in his glory days, and I practically had to wrestle lions to get him to sign with the Yankees. But I always knew he had the potential to be a game-changer no matter what role he’s in—player or coach.”

Tom Brokaw’s voice returns, alongside a montage of major league players and their wives and kids.
“Dateline spent hours upon hours with players in their homes, around the family dinner table, and what we often found was a media front that we couldn’t penetrate enough to give you a true inside look. Except when it came to Jim Lucas and his daughter, Annie. That feisty toddler you saw in video clips moments ago is now seventeen years old.”

The program cuts to the post-game interview Dad and I did weeks ago. Me with my Jason Brody jersey and Royals hat and Dad in his sweaty uniform. They play the part where I talk about how proud I am of him and that he belongs in baseball. And then we hear Dad saying that I’m the reason he took the job.

Then it’s just Dad sitting in the chair Savannah had brought him. I never heard this part of the interview because I was watching Brody practice.

“Do you wish Annie would have grown up around baseball? Or maybe seen you pitch a game with the Yankees?”

Dad seems to sit on this question for several seconds.
“I think everything turned out how it was supposed to. She was born right before my first spring training started. And all through the preseason and my opening day with the Yankees, she was this little thing that someone else dealt with. Her mom or the nanny she hired. After my surgery, the looks of pity got old real fast, and there was so much anger I had to deal with. And that’s the thing about babies—they don’t care how you feel or what you’ve been through. They demand and you serve.”
He laughs and then turns serious again.
“But at the same time, as Annie got older and I could really talk to her, I realized that she just wanted me to be her dad. She never cared if I played baseball or worked in a factory.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and discreetly wipe away a tear that escapes.

“She copied everything I did. Even went through a phase where she hopped around on one leg or pretended to take her fake leg off at night. She’d tell me, ‘I think I’m gonna save up my money for a pink leg. This silver one is ugly
.’” Dad laughs again.
“She became the reason I got up in the morning and the reason I went to work. Sometimes I wonder whether, if I hadn’t gotten sick, would she still be this small part of my life like she’d been during that first season? Would someone else know her like I know her? I can’t imagine living in that world.”

“Tell me about your pitching lineup. Let’s start with baseball’s hottest topic, Jason Brody.”

Dad nods and fidgets with the armrests on the chair.
“I think we could be witnessing the rookie season of a future Hall of Famer. Of course, I know better than anyone that life doesn’t always cooperate, but Jason Brody works harder than any player I’ve seen. He’s smart enough to keep his ears open, to not let his head explode. God knows he’s got some distractions at his age and being on the road, not to mention the pressure of being a hyped pitcher. But I genuinely believe good things happen to good people. His head and his heart are in the game, and when you add phenomenal talent to the mix…Yes, he’s gonna go far. I’m honored just to be able to take part in the beginning of his career. He’s a pleasure to work with.”

“So we shouldn’t believe everything we read online about his wild side?”

Dad laughs and shakes his head.
“He’s a good kid. That’s all I need to know
.
I have a teenage daughter, so I’m already drowning in TMI moments, as Annie calls them. Don’t need my players adding to it.”

I’m watching Brody now, trying to read something in the impassive expression he’s wearing. His jaw is tense, and I can tell he’s intentionally not looking at me.

The interviewer names a couple more pitchers, and Dad gives some positive feedback. With a few, it’s obvious he’s rattling off stats and not commenting on anything personal because I doubt he works with them at all. By the time he’s done talking about players, we’re fifteen minutes into the program and finally it’s someone else’s turn to be under scrutiny. Brody stands up and nods toward the door out of the locker room. I grab my bag, say a quiet good-bye to Savannah, and follow Brody.

“Still want to come over for a little while?” he asks when we’ve walked out of the stadium doors.

“Yeah, okay.”

The car ride to Brody’s apartment is free of smiles and innuendos about removing my skirt. His silence is nerve-racking. The bad vibe continues as he opens the door to his apartment and quietly tells me he’s going to take a shower and to get whatever I want from the kitchen, since neither of us touched our pizza.

He hasn’t touched me or made any comments about jumping in the shower with him or laid down rules about us being good while alone in his apartment. The only thing I can bring myself to eat is a banana I find on the counter. I pace back and forth, making paths with my feet and the patterned kitchen tiles until Brody returns wearing only gym shorts, his black hair dripping. I freeze and hold my breath, the half-eaten banana hanging limply in my hand.

“What’s wrong?” I manage to say.

He looks so sad and defeated, I’m sure he’s about to dump me. I don’t understand why, and yet it kind of feels like the inevitable conclusion, considering everything.

It will be easier this way. I’m so far gone, I’ve lost control of my own heart.

He walks slowly toward me, takes the banana from my hand, sets it on the counter, and leads me to his bedroom. Is this the breakup room? I’ve never been in his room. It has to be bad news. We could easily make out on the couch; it’s not like we haven’t already done that.

The bed is unmade, and clothes are strewn all over the floor, mostly T-shirts and different Royals merchandise with tags still on them. With a bedside table and a lamp, this is the most furnished room in the entire apartment.

Long, dark curtains cover almost an entire wall. Looking for a distraction from the bad news, I drop his hand and cross the room, shifting the dark blue curtains aside. On the other side is a sliding glass door and a beautiful balcony overlooking the stadium with its famous crown.

“Wow,” I say, hoping to divert his attention. “How did I not know this was here?” I open the door and step outside, heading straight for the railing. I lean against the metal, keeping my gaze focused on the stadium and the city lights. I’m literally digging for excuses, for ways to wipe that sad expression off his face.

The warmth of Brody’s body invades my personal space. He leans against me, his cheek touching mine, his hands drifting down my arms.

“This view’s amazing,” I say, trying to conceal my nerves.

He turns his head just enough so his nose brushes my cheek. “Best spot in the whole apartment.”

I take a deep breath and focus on the beautiful lights. “Brody—”

His lips brush against my neck, cutting off my words.
Okay, not breakup moves
. “We should go in,” he whispers.

My heart is sprinting, and I shuffle my feet backward as I’m pulled through the door, curtains closing behind us. And this isn’t the mad rush to touch as much skin as possible like we did in the car last time. He’s looking me over carefully, still wearing those sad eyes, while his fingers glide at a snail’s pace under my school polo. My heart is aching already, a physical pain spreading across my chest.

When did we get like this? When did it stop being about having fun and sneaking around?

Who am I kidding? It’s never been about that. Exactly why I’m so scared right now.

My shirt is slowly raised over my head, landing lightly on the floor. Since Brody’s philosophy of openness has worked well in the past, I attempt to start up a discussion regarding his shift in mood. “Do you think we should talk about—”

He shakes his head and pulls me against him, skin-to-skin. I open my mouth to speak again, but he cuts me off with a kiss so gentle and so intense at the same time that I can tell he needs something from me words can’t offer. And I think I need this, too. I know I do.

His skilled fingers find the button and the zipper on my skirt, and soon it’s landing at my feet, leaving me standing in my underwear and bra. I tug the waist of his gym shorts until they, too, fall around his ankles, giving me a view of his black Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Our eyes lock again, and just to be sure we take things further than last time, I tug my panties down until they’re on top of my skirt. Brody shuffles back a step, draws in a breath, and then
his
underwear are on the floor and he’s laying me across the bed.

And even though we’re both nearly naked, I’m not thinking about sex. Not specifically. I just want him to touch me—with his hands, with his mouth—and I want to touch him.

I nudge him gently until he rolls all the way on his back. The lamp beside the bed is on, casting a dim light over us. I muster up the courage to let my gaze travel south, taking in his very erect
…yeah.

I move my hand down his chest, pausing to feel his pounding heart, then down over his abs and eventually,
lower
. His breath quickens just from that small touch, and an instant surge of power comes over me. I want to drive him crazy. I want him to keep thinking about this for hours, maybe days, after I leave.

I take hold of him, but loosely enough to make this more of an examination and less of a hand job. The skin is stretched tight, and I can feel a pulse beating against my hand.

Warm fingers are gliding up my back, fiddling with my bra clasp. Cool air brushes against my skin, and Brody tugs the straps down my arms, forcing me to let go for a second. My gaze lowers, and I’m thinking about going for it, but I’ve only done this one time before and it wasn’t the most pleasant experience.

I can’t stop my mind from calculating this, being relieved that he’s fresh out of the shower and everything is squeaky clean. It’s not the most romantic thoughts a person could have in this situation, but I can’t help it.

Brody touches my cheek. He seems so calm, not in that urgent kiss-me-or-I’ll-die mode, but he’s obviously turned on and into this. I can see
that
with my own eyes. “Annie…what’s going through that head of yours?”

“You ask me that a lot.” I return my hand to its previous location, enjoying the feel of his smooth skin. “It’s usually a girl question, you know?”

He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“I’m thinking about putting my mouth where my hand is right now.”

His eyebrows shoot up, but he says nothing. Maybe he’s afraid to encourage me. His fingers trace gentle circles down my arm. His patience, the lack of pressure, relaxes me enough to share my concerns.

“This one time—well, the only time I’ve done that…”
Breathe in. Breathe out.
“I didn’t get any warning before—you know—and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Maybe you can warn me—”

“Okay,” he says so quickly I know he wants me to do this. I lower my head and slide him into my mouth before I can change my mind. I expect some kind of bad taste or at least an odd one, but I only get a hint of water from the shower and maybe a little bit of soap.

Within seconds he’s completely tensed up, breathing irregularly, both hands tangled in my hair. I stop after only thirty seconds, feeling a little guilty for starting something that I’m not willing to finish. But Brody doesn’t seem frustrated. His eyes are wide, his chest rising and falling quickly. I lay my head beside him and allow him to shower me with dozens of kisses landing in nearly all the spaces between my neck and my waist. His fingers dance around the inside of my thighs for a while before he finally makes his move.

Without giving it a second thought, my hand is reaching out, wrapping around him, stroking up and down, until we both tip over the edge at almost the same time.