Chapter Eight
The training facility is supposed to be empty this time of night.
Just me and the stars and my fastball. Shadows should be my only company, but a figure hovering near the dugout proves otherwise.
It's Amy, buried in charts, her ponytail a slash of brown amid the dim light.
I pause, taking in the unexpected sight.
Ever since our scorching sex in the dugout last week, Amy won't even look me in the eye, much less talk to me. On that night, she ran away—literally—without even saying goodbye. Women confuse the hell out of me. Well, it's not like I wanted a relationship. Did I?
The answer to my own question baffles me. That's not a good sign.
But today, I realize we need to talk about that night. So, I clear my throat. "Couldn't sleep?"
Amy jerks her head up, eyes wide. Her shock wears off swiftly. I don't know whether to feel relieved or uneasy about her reaction. Either way, we need to talk things out.
She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. "Charlie? I thought I'd be the only one crazy enough to come here this late."
I edge closer, trying to read the papers she's huddled over. "What are you doing?"
"Checking your recovery stats," she replies, not missing a beat. Her gaze is cool, her voice measured. "You're behind schedule, you know."
I let out a breath that's part laugh, part relief. "Couldn't sleep either, huh? Thought maybe pitching a few would help me."
Her attention flicks back to the charts. "You've got to take it easy with that shoulder. Otherwise, it won't be just sleep you're losing."
I don't know why, but hearing her concern almost makes me feel better. Almost. I cross my arms, trying to act casual, like being in this kind of limbo doesn't eat me alive. "Nice to know I'm keeping you busy."
Her lips quirk in a faint smile, but there's something behind it, like she wants to say more but doesn't. "I'm always busy, Braddock."
No more "Charlie, please, make me come." Nope, we're back to "Braddock" and chilly glances.
"Honestly, my shoulder is a lot better. Phil agrees. He told me so yesterday."
We stand here, the silence hanging heavily between us. I feel the pull to say something, anything that might break through whatever wall she's put up between us. "You were a kid in the dugout, right?"
The question seems to catch her off guard, but her confusion quickly turns to something gentler. "Grew up there. Just like you, probably."
"Dreamed of being the best," I admit. "Aiming for Cooperstown from the time I could hold a bat, desperate to make it into the Hall of Fame."
"With all the progress you've made with your shoulder, you'll be back on track soon."
I shrug and change the topic. "Living up to your dad's legacy…is that why you do it? Coaching, I mean."
Her gaze is unwavering, though she isn't looking at me. She stares into nothing, with the intensity of a pitcher staring down a batter. "I owe my father that much."
I nod as if I understand the kind of pressure that makes her work herself raw. And maybe I do get it. We aren't so different, after all. Baseball has been my world for as long as I can remember. But right now, I need to push for an answer concerning one vital question.
So, I shove my hands into my pants pockets. "Amy, why did you run away after we, uh, had sex in the dugout."
Amy bows her head, scribbling something on her clipboard. "We had great sex, it's over, there's nothing else to say. We could both get in big trouble for what we did."
"I won't tell anybody."
She flips a page over on her clipboard, studying it briefly, and then looks up at me. "How about we start with something light? No need to throw yourself back on the injured list."
Discussion over, that's what she's saying. "Thanks for worrying about me, Coach."
Amy shrugs one shoulder. "Nothing I wouldn't do for anyone else."
That's not exactly what I want to hear, but now isn't the time for a serious talk. "Lead the way, Coach."
The night is quiet except for our footsteps and the steady buzz of the fluorescent lights.
I try a few stretches, and my shoulder is tight but manageable.
Amy watches from a short distance away. Her gaze follows my movements as if she's already diagnosing the problem, determining how much better I've gotten—or how much worse.
She joins me shortly, demonstrating a few exercises that seem almost ridiculous but actually work.
"Keep your elbow up," she instructs, mimicking a pitching motion.
"Got it." I try to match her precision, testing my arm a bit more even while I hide the wince that comes with it. "What do you think? The old man's still got it, huh?"
She shakes her head. "Don't be so sure about that. If you get overconfident and try to throw a fastball before you're ready, you might injure yourself even worse."
"Thanks for the pep talk, Coach." The sarcasm in my voice is unmistakable, though I hadn't meant to sound that way. Amy's pessimistic attitude threatens to infect me too. But I refuse to let that happen.
To either of us.
"I'm being realistic, Charlie. Not many players make it past thirty before they need to retire."
Did she just call me Charlie? Not Braddock? Hmm, I'm beginning to think she's way more worried about my injury than she's letting on. Why else would she vacillate between calling me Charlie or Braddock? The only explanation I can come up with is a dumb one.
I roll the ball between my hands. "Any advice for a washed-up pitcher, Coach?"
"Take it slow. But don't give up."
"Could say the same for you."
She almost smiles, which I take as a positive sign. "How about a real warm-up? Test those skills a little?"
"Yeah, why not."
We move through the exercises, a series of throws that feel better with every movement.
The tension melts away, replaced by a connection that grows with every catch as both of us focus on the game.
And on each other too, though not in a romantic way.
Amy gives me pointers as needed and lets me do my own thing too.
For a moment, it's like everything else fades.
Just the ball, the glove, and this fragile thing between us.
Then I hear something. A whistle. Off-key and deliberately obnoxious.
Groaning, I throw my head back and hiss, "Jared."
He strides up to me like he owns the place, all swagger and cockiness, his voice echoing as he draws closer. "Still awake at this hour, Chucky?"
I don't respond, but I do clench my fist around the ball.
Jared grins, clapping me on the shoulder like we're best pals.
Like he's not here strictly to screw with my head.
"Insomnia sucks, huh? Must be super worried about our next matchup.
" He glances at Amy, raising an eyebrow.
"What a shame to waste that hot body on coaching a has-been. Or is it babysitting?"
Amy's eyes narrow, and her posture stiffens. "Not now, Morris."
"Didn't realize I was interrupting something." His knowing gaze shifts between Amy and me. "Come on, Coach Keller. Show me how to pitch a fastball after hours."
The innuendo in his tone rankles—not just me, but Amy too. I can tell by the way her lips pucker slightly. As much as I want to tell him off, to throw his words back in his face, Amy gets there first. "We're busy, Jared. Go bother someone else."
He's enjoying this too much to leave quickly, though. His exaggerated sigh makes that clear. "Working with Chucky has made you no fun at all. Guess I'll let you get back to your, uh, workout ." He tips his ball cap at me. "See you on the field, Braddock. If you make it that far."
As badly as I want to clock him in the face, I refuse to stoop to Jared's methods.
He finally walks away, whistling all the while.
Amy turns to me. "You okay?"
"Absolutely. That guy's got a gift for getting under my skin, that's all."
She studies me for a moment, then her posture relaxes. "Ready to pick up where we left off?"
I try to find that zone again, the one I'd achieved before Jared barged in, but it takes time.
Amy's still here to guide me, fortunately.
We return to the field, easily reclaiming our earlier focus.
I suspect that's only possible because of the rapport we have, or at least, used to have before the dugout-sex incident.
Amy leaves before I do.
By the time I walk out of the facility, it's coming up on three o'clock—in the morning. The air is chilly, stinging my face as I make my way back to my car. My shoulder aches, but it's a good kind of pain and not as intense as it once had been. The kind that says yeah, I can do this.
And it's because of Amy Keller.
While I climb the stairs to my apartment, the hallway is empty and silent. I push the door open, still reflecting on the night and Amy. Her voice, her eyes, the tolerant smile she gives me whenever I crack an inappropriate joke. The way she seems to understand me like nobody else can.
A sharp knock jerks me out of my thoughts. I hesitate, then pull the door open wider.
My ex-wife stands there, looking like she's just stepped off a magazine cover. It's been a long time since I saw her in person, and the sight stuns me. Why is Alicia here at three in the morning?
"Hello, Charlie," she coos, a half-smile playing on her lips. "Surprised to see me?"
Damn straight I am. But I don't say that. Instead, I step aside to let her in, my mind racing with crazy thoughts about what her unexpected arrival means. I keep my hand on the doorknob, twisting it side to side. "What do you want this time, Alicia? I'm wiped out from midnight practice."
My ex-wife sashays closer. "I want to talk about us. Our future."
"You divorced me , so there is no future for us ." I wave toward the open door. "Get out. Now. I'm in no mood for your bullshit. You can walk away on your own, or I can toss you out myself."
She pats my cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow, honey."
Alicia sashays out the door.
I slam it after her. If my life gets any screwier, I'll need to get fitted for a straitjacket.