Chapter 21
The Season
[Ford]
Divorces happen every day in this country.
Why some make the news, and others don’t is a matter of sensationalism.
The average person couldn’t care less that a sport figure got a divorce, or married, for that matter.
The only thing a fan cares about is the athlete’s performance on the field. Could he or she win a game?
But when you are a musician or an actor, the stakes seem to rise higher the greater your level of stardom.
So, it wasn’t that people cared so much that I was divorced; they cared that Cadence had been to a Chicago Anchors game and was “seen lingering close” to me afterward, implying something nefarious. Even adulterous.
Within a day, news broke in the sports-centric arena that I am now single.
Our PR firm handled the details. I was a proud family man and had sole custody of my three daughters.
I’d been warned questions would soon arise, asking for more of an explanation than irreconcilable differences with Felicity, but the inquisition shouldn’t be too invasive.
Instead, speculation focused on Cadence.
Are we dating? Are we an item? How long have I known her? When did this happen?
Did I cheat on my wife with her?
I hated everything about the shitshow spiral, but nothing bothered me more than this question.
I didn’t feel the need to defend myself.
And I certainly wasn’t interested in protecting Felicity, but I had the girls to consider.
It was no one’s business what went down in my personal life.
I also didn’t like the implication for Cadence.
It reminded me of when her father accused her of getting pregnant after meeting me only the night before.
Not an impossible feat but still uncalled for.
Within hours of my divorce making sports news, Cadence’s story had broken.
She was going to be the mogul of her own production company, taking back her songs, and breaking up with her management team.
If unable to reclaim her rights, she’d then re-produce the sounds of her music.
This woman was accomplishing a major achievement and yet the only thing making video reels and audio clips were questions about me.
Are you dating Ford Sylver? Will he be the topic of your next album?
People had even been cruel enough to suggest we break up—when we weren’t even together—as inspiration for her next round of heartbreak songs.
Cadence remained poised and controlled when she explained in a statement that her sister was married to my brother.
We were friends by family association. Her visit to Arizona was in support of her sister’s brother-in-law, nothing more.
She tacked on that she attended the spring training music festival.
Not exactly a lie; but not the whole truth.
Thankfully, she skipped the sneaking into each other’s room fantasy, which was something I’d had trouble wrestling from my head as I lay on my couch that night, fighting through the surges of pain radiating along my arm and across my upper back, and struggling with my dick that wanted Cadence.
I had no doubt she’d be a handful, both in and out of bed, but I wanted her quirkiness and the quack.
I’d chuckle to myself when I thought of that riotous snort coming out of such a beautiful woman, reminding me she’s just a girl and I’m a guy attracted to her.
I wanted to reach out to her. See if she was okay with the unnecessary chatter surrounding us when there wasn’t an us. As she eloquently stated, we were friends. Circling back to that concept, I decided, as a friend, I should check in on her.
Me: You okay, TQ?
Me: Checking in on you this round.
Me: Cadence?
Me: Caitlin.
For three days I struggled to not let the news surrounding us unsettle me. I also tried to dismiss the fact that Cadence had ignored my text messages. After those three days, though, anxiety got the better of me and I called her number.
“Cadence?”
“She’s not available. May I ask who is calling?” The stern Southern voice was not my songbird.
Making an assumption as to who might be answering her phone, I’d asked, “Lana?”
“Who’s calling, please?” She almost sounded like an old switchboard operator. Formal. Direct. And a real hard ass who wasn’t going to put me through to Cadence.
For a second, I’d hesitated. I should have simply said my name but not knowing who I was speaking with, I didn’t want to add to the rampant speculation about us. I didn’t need the headache. Cadence didn’t deserve the distraction our friendship was taking from her new venture.
“No one,” I’d replied, deciding not to leave a message.
If Cadence had wanted to speak with me, she’d have responded to my text messages. I wasn’t going to jump through the hoops of a gatekeeper to get to her. I had my own issues to battle and three little ones to protect.
“Lose this number,” the female voice warned. “It’s being disconnected anyway.”
The line went dead, and I was instantly embarrassed by a gift I’d left for Cadence after she’d spent the night at my place.
Knowing she’d sneak out early in the morning, leaving me to wake in a cold, empty bed again, I’d left her a note and an item.
In hindsight, the gesture seemed silly, and I cursed myself.
I don’t know why I thought we were actually friends.
Cadence burned too bright and too fast, and perhaps it was better to keep my distance.
Only my heart had lost the memo. Once again, I’d been disappointed that someone I was starting to care about had walked away without a backward glance.
She’d wanted a reprieve for twenty-four hours. The game was over and so were we.
+ + +
Spring training ended in March.
The girls and I survived the six weeks in Arizona.
We missed Ruby, especially June, but we had a new au pair as I needed round the clock care for the girls.
Fighting off the advances of a nanny was not on my bingo card for the new season.
Thankfully, Blake was a decade older than me and not interested in men.
She had more Trunchbull than Ms. Honey vibes about her.
Sometimes she was even stern with me, but she fit my needs.
Through physical therapy, I’d worked out most of the pain in my arm, but my range of motion was still off. I couldn’t extend my arm backward without twisting my body, which could help leverage a ball, but it also hurt like hell. Athletic tape and ice packs were my friends.
The regular season officially started at the end of the month.
We had an away series first, so the official opening day in Anchor Field was in April.
Stone, Vale, and Hudson made the trip to Chicago for the game.
Knox and Halle promised to bring the kids in June after school was out for the summer.
Even Enya asked if she and Sebastian could visit.
In our call, I’d been foolish enough to ask how Cadence was doing.
“Busier than she’s ever been, which keeps her out of trouble,” Enya had laughed.
As team captain and a starter, I was pumped for the new season despite my arm and the animosity with Romero.
Things had not gotten better as I’d filed a lawsuit against Felicity for forgery.
The suit was the only way to solidify our divorce, although the Dominican Republic’s day-divorce was legal and binding pending the correction to my signature.
Felicity was countersuing me for money from the sale of our house and alimony, claiming motherhood and her lack of employment earned her the right to my finances in the future.
Hell could freeze over first.
When the umpire calls “Play ball,” we take our positions on the field.
The stadium is alive with the excitement of a new season.
This will be our year, as the saying goes in hopes of making it to the big game in October.
I already owned a championship ring, but I wouldn’t mind ending my career by earning another one with a team I loved.
I brush away any hope of finding Cadence’s presence in the stands to cheer me on.
Standing in center field, I focus on the first smack of a bat against a ball that sends a resounding crack over the dirt.
The ball projects in a sweeping arch toward me, but I sense it falling short.
I race forward. Romero is moving backward.
We both call ball, ball, ball. The moment is reminiscent of our first day out for spring training.
Only this time, I stop short.
So does Romero.
And the ball drops between us like something you’d see in a little league game.
We both stare at the round object with red stitching on the grass before I look up at my nemesis.
“Why didn’t you fall back?”
“Why didn’t you pull forward?”
Before I know it we are nose to nose with each other, a scene not unheard of in baseball but unseen between teammates. On the field. During a game.
“You’re fucking up, amigo.” Romero scowls.
“You are not my fucking friend.” I point at him.
Wrong move as he grabs my finger and twists my bad arm. An ugly pop accompanies a strange ripping sensation in my shoulder.
And I know I’m done.