Chapter 5
Hunter
Tulsa is an offensive beast. Of all the games to invite Renleigh to, I go and pick the one where I’m going to have to work my ass off.
On the iPad screen, I run my finger along the player and review the compilation videos of Tulsa’s heart of their lineup. Again. It doesn’t help that two of these guys are on rehab assignments from the Pirates. Even with oblique strains, they’ll be tough outs to get.
“You getting nervous, rookie?” Roddy passes behind me as I pause the video on Tulsa’s clean-up hitter.
“Nah, I don’t get nervous. Just doing my homework.” I slide the iPad on the top shelf of my locker and swing a leg over the bench while Roddy shoves his helmet into his locker and runs a towel over his sweat-drenched face.
“Good. If you listen to me, you’ll be just fine.”
He chuckles, but I know he’s not kidding. Just like I know if I blow off his pitch-calling against Tulsa, he’ll tell the four-hole hitter exactly what’s coming just to teach me a lesson.
“Right, hit my spots, throw what you tell me to.” I salute him, then lean back on my palms, propping one leg up along the bench while I weigh whether to get Roddy’s advice on another matter.
“So, Renleigh . . .”
He’s laughing under his breath before I say another word, shaking his head as his eyes shut.
“You knew I wouldn’t be able to leave it at one and done, Roddy. I’m a glutton. Hard-headed. I need a woman to shoot me down at least six times before I even think about giving up.”
It’s never taken six times. It’s never taken more than once, to be honest.
“Some might call that stalking, you know.” He puffs out a short laugh, then slings a towel over one shoulder before pushing his locker door shut.
“Persistence. Stalking. Same thing. Anyhow . . .” I push my tongue into my cheek and let my focus get fuzzy as I stare off to the side for a moment. I fix my gaze back on him with a shrug.
“She’s coming to the game. My game.”
“You mean our game.” He’s quick to correct me, and I roll my eyes as I drop my leg back to the floor.
“Yeah, fine. Whatever. Our game. Now, are you going to help me out or not?”
His head falls back with a bark of laughter.
“Oh, hell no. I’m not getting involved in this. I mean, it’s bad enough I’ve gotta catch for your ass. No way am I feeding Dale Blackwood’s daughter to some rookie on an ego trip.”
“Come on, man,” I groan, sitting up straighter. “I promise I’m not a dick. And I’m not just trying to score points or one-up the other guys. There’s something about her. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I’ve got to put in the work and see this one out, ya know?”
He stares at me, almost like I left him speechless. He’s not saying anything, so I suppose I did. Finally, he exhales and meanders toward me, straddling the opposite end of the bench.
“Okay, so give me the lay of the land. What’s your progress?” He drops his chin a touch as he glares at me.
“I talked her into taking my family seats for Thursday’s game. She’s bringing her dad. He seems to like me more than she does.”
Roddy laughs out hard.
“I bet he does. Dale’s a retired high school baseball coach. Won a few state titles here in Sweetwater. His uncle used to work for the Mavericks as a hitting coach. The Blackwoods are a bit of a baseball family. They’ve also got deep roots in Sweetwater. And Dale Blackwood is beloved by this town.”
I nod, taking it all in.
“What’s his deal? I mean, what happened to him? He had a walker, and he seemed to struggle when he spoke.” I don’t want to make assumptions.
Roddy nods slowly.
“Yeah, he’s had a couple of strokes. The last one was two years ago, and that’s when Renleigh came back home to help him out. He’s come a long way, though.”
“I see,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip as I let Roddy’s words sit with the picture I’m beginning to paint of Renleigh’s situation.
I’m about to ask Roddy for tips to ensure Dale is in my corner when his gaze shifts over my shoulder.
I follow the path of his stare and notice the young catcher he was arguing with the other day has walked in.
“You’re late,” Roddy says, and there’s something in his tone that makes me think I should busy myself and give the two of them space.
“I was with the trainer. Coach knows.” The young catcher doesn’t look Roddy in the eyes. He doesn’t even bother to glance over his shoulder, in fact. He simply grabs his gear from his locker and snaps the door shut before walking back out without another word.
“Wow, and you thought I had an attitude,” I mutter.
“Yeah, well . . . he’s got a better reason than you do,” Roddy says, getting up from the bench and heading toward the showers, pausing just long enough to say over his shoulder, “He’s my son.”
My attention zings to the exit where the young catcher is long gone.
Despite that, I try to reconstruct his build, the color of his hair, his eyes, the sound of his voice—all of it.
It’s fucking uncanny how alike the two of them are.
I feel stupid for not putting it together earlier.
Hell, I’m probably the last to know, which I guess goes along with Roddy’s assumption that I’m some self-absorbed egomaniac.
I guess, in a lot of ways I am. It comes with the pitching gig.
It’s hard to be so responsible for a win or a loss and not shoulder some of the God complex along with the burden.
But if Dale Blackwood is as passionate about baseball as Roddy says he is, I think he’ll be the first one to defend me.
I’m definitely going to need him on my side.
Looks like it’s time to pay the old guy a visit.
***
There are a few perks to living in a small town, at least as far as I’m concerned.
I like my congested cities and various strip malls, crowded rooftop restaurants, live music venues, stadiums .
. . plural. But I can’t deny there is a charming quaintness to places like Sweetwater.
The fact the addition of the second stoplight, something that occurred about a week before I got here, was a media frenzy for this town is amusing.
And the way everyone looks familiar, even after only being here for two weeks, does lend to the sense of home.
But perhaps the best advantage I’ve come across so far is how easy it is to find literally anyone who lives here in under an hour.
One visit to the main market was all it took for me to figure out where the Blackwoods live.
I did have to hear the produce man’s favorite story about playing ball with Dale Blackwood back in their day.
It was a good tale, even if I’m not quite sold on his recollection that Dale hit a ball so hard the cover came off during their state title game thirty years ago.
With a six-pack of Sam Adam’s tucked in my arm, I take a deep breath and march onto the porch of the white and gray Craftsman home on the corner of Fifth Street and Gully Ranch Road.
I glance to my right and note the long ramp that appears to have been built more recently, probably after one of Dale’s strokes.
I rap my knuckles on the screen door, then take a big step back to make some space.
I can hear the hum of a television behind the door.
It sounds like one of the afternoon news programs, or maybe commentary from a daytime game.
“I’m coming!” I recognize Dale’s voice from the day before, so I pull the screen door open in anticipation.
A chain sliding from a lock precedes the wood door’s opening, and when Dale spots me waiting on the other side, he laughs so hard it turns into a coughing fit.
“I’m not sure why my visit is so funny, but can I get you some water, Coach?” I’m proud of myself for remembering his title request.
He coughs a few more times into his fist, then scoots back from the doorway, pulling his walker with him.
“I had a feeling . . . you’d be by . . . is all. And screw the water. Hand over one of those beers.” He nods toward my hospitality gift.
I promptly hold it up and step inside.
“Coming right up, Coach.” I scan the wide-open living space, and smirk when I see the Yankees game on the television in the other room.
“Put the rest in the fridge, after you take one for yourself, of course,” he says. I guide myself into the kitchen, pulling a single beer out for him and tucking the remaining ones next to a gallon of orange juice and a wrapped head of lettuce.
“Wish I could, but I’m throwing tomorrow. I like to detox the day before.” I unscrew the cap and toss it in the trash before handing the cold one to Renleigh’s dad.
“You pitchers are . . . a weird bunch. If you think . . . drinking a single beer . . . is going to screw up your rhythm, you’ve got bigger problems.” He brings the bottle to his lips and tilts his head back, taking a big drink before releasing an, “Ahh.”
“You’re probably right,” I relent, sliding onto one of the nearby stools.
Dale rests his elbows on the high-top portion of the counter and cradles his beer, his walker tucked into his belly. He’s thin, but there’s muscle to his arms and chest, probably from the rehab work he’s been doing.
“So, I’ve been schooled on all things Coach Blackwood,” I confess. All things might be a bit overboard, but enough.
“Is that . . . so.” He smirks at me over the lip of his beer before holding it to his mouth and tipping it back.
“Yeah, Roddy McKinney is a big fan of yours.”
Dale chuckles.
“He is now. He sure . . . wasn’t a fan of mine . . . when he played for me.”
I narrow my eyes as I mentally piece it together. Makes sense that Roddy would have grown up here. And that he knows the Blackwoods better than most because of it.
“Don’t suppose you have tips for how to handle him?” I quirk a brow, and Dale sucks in the right side of his top lip. I don’t think he has full control over it.
“Just listen to what he says.” He sets his beer down and fixes his hands on his walker.
“Yeah, I’m learning it’s better to have him on my side.”
Dale maneuvers his walker toward one of the leather chairs in the main room. He awkwardly glances over his shoulder toward his beer, and I gather he means for me to bring it with me, so I do.
I set it on a wooden Maverick’s coaster on the nearby end table, then sit on the sofa across from Dale.
“How long have you been working with the walker?” I glance at the fancy contraption he’s parked next to him.
“About thirty-six . . . hours.” He chuckles, a bit out of breath.
I nod.
“I thought about going into physical therapy my freshman year of college, but then I topped a hundred miles per hour with my fastball. Talk of anything other than going pro seemed silly. Besides, it turns out I don’t like blood.”
Dale’s expression morphs into an almost suspicious smile.
He probably thinks I’m feeding him bullshit so I can get the secret code to crack his daughter’s armor.
I really did set out to be a physical therapist at first. Mostly because being an MLB pitcher seemed like a pipe dream.
I grew two more inches when I turned nineteen, though, and something just clicked.
“The girl likes . . . her steak medium rare.” He folds his hands over his belly and tilts his head as he continues to smirk at me.
“Renleigh?” I mean, duh. Of course, Renleigh.
He nods.
“I think I’ve got to get her to dinner first. I’m not sure I’ve earned my way past the smoothie shop yet.”
“You got her . . . to go to a game.” He takes a deep breath, then continues. “That’s more than most. Just . . . don’t fuck it up.”
My swift laugh surprises me. His candor is refreshing, if not harsh.
“I’ll try not to. Mind telling me how?” I squint one eye.
He picks up his beer, tipping it toward me.
“Don’t let Tulsa . . . jack a bunch of homers.” His silent snicker tells me all I need to know about his and Roddy’s relationship. I see why Roddy is protective of this man. And vice versa.
“Got it.” I get to my feet and step around the table, holding a hand out to shake his again. His grip is surprisingly firm this time. “So, basically, don’t look like—”
“An overrated jackass,” he finishes for me.
He winks, and I somehow feel less sure of myself than I did before I came over here. But I’ve accomplished one thing. Dale Blackwood might just be in my corner. And if it doesn’t piss his daughter off too much, she might just let me buy her a damn steak.