Chapter Thirteen
Years have gone by since Alicia Jones decided I wasn't worth her time anymore.
Now, I can't seem to get rid of her. Everywhere I turn, there she is offering me a bowl of soup or a box of crackers or, heaven help me, a plush pink blanket to keep me warm.
She even tucks me in at night, I swear to God she does.
This mothering instinct is starting to get creepy.
Hard to believe I used to sleep with this kooky woman.
I finally put my foot down when she tries to get in the shower with me to help soap me up—in the nude, of course. That's where I draw the line. I slam the shower door shut before she can climb in. "Alicia, you lunatic! Jeez, can't a guy get some privacy?"
She sighs. "You're so finicky, Charlie."
Thankfully, my ex-wife leaves me alone—once I'm fully dressed and ready for today's practice. She did not try to dress me this morning. But she did feed me apple sauce, claiming it's good for my pitching arm. How, exactly? Alicia never explained.
Yeah, this is what they call rock bottom. At least my ex-wife hasn't followed me into the bathroom so she can try to wipe my ass for me.
"I'll wait in the car," she states, pulling up in front of the training facility. The chilly autumn air whips through her blonde hair. She's not staying out in it long enough to mess with that expensive hairdo of hers, though. She shuts the door before I get a chance to respond.
The muscles in my shoulder cramp up a touch as I carefully maneuver myself out of the car. The stupid thing still gives me trouble. It's getting better, but every minute longer it takes to heal seems like an hourglass dripping my career away.
A familiar figure flounces onto the field.
Alicia receives wolf whistles from my teammates and clearly enjoys it.
So much for her staying in the car. She installs herself near the dugout to watch the team.
Alicia has been making sure I get to and from practice as if I can't manage the pain myself.
She wasn't this attentive when we were married.
Hell, she wasn't around at all. Her career came first.
I try to shake off the memories of those lonely nights, focusing on the real problem. Why is she suddenly glued to my side? I can't tell if she feels guilty, wants something, or just craves an audience. The truth is, I don't have the heart to send her packing.
Phil greets me inside the locker room, clipboard in hand, just the way Amy had always done.
My throat thickens at the memory of Amy, but I chase it away as best I can.
"How's the shoulder, Charlie?" Phil asks. I can hear the question beneath the question. How much longer before you're back on the field? I give him a noncommittal shrug and try to sound convincing. "It's getting there."
Alicia waltzes in behind me, a gust of chilly air following her. I don't know how to tell her I'm in the middle of a meeting, so I don't bother.
"What time should I come back to pick you up?" she asks, her eyes darting from Phil to me.
"Give me an hour," I say, feeling Phil's eyes burn a hole through my pride.
"Charlie," he starts, "we need you back at one hundred percent." There's an edge to his voice, like he's trying to assuage the burn of a hard truth. "Ray's worried about his investment in you. But he's got faith in your talent. We all do."
Alicia raises a perfectly arched brow. "Does that mean he'll be back in time for opening day or not?"
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of their expectations. "I'm working on it."
Phil gives me a look that suggests he's getting tired of my excuses, and I don't blame him. "We need you fully committed, Charlie. That means no ex-wives clinging on."
My ex-wife bristles. "Of all the nerve—"
"He's right, Alicia. You're, uh, kind of…getting in the way these days. I appreciate that you want to help, but I'm a big boy now. It's inappropriate for you to keep hanging around." I give her hand a light squeeze. "Please go. You've got your own life to live."
She wipes away a few tears, then nods. "Okay, I'm leaving. If you ever need anything—"
"Goodbye, Alicia."
She pivots on her heel with the same cool grace she had when she walked away from our marriage.
As soon as she's out of earshot, Phil aims his best managerial stare at me. "You need to get back to your old self. We need you, but only if your shoulder is ready for away games. The season is about to start, you know."
I get what he's saying. I'm not out of time yet, but the clock is ticking, winding down to Judgment Day.
Phil leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and turns his hardest stare on me. "Your substitute coach wasn't working for you, that much is clear. We need our fastball king in prime condition."
"I know. And my shoulder—"
Phil interrupts with one raised hand. "I've seen your latest scans, which means I probably know your condition better than you do. But here's the deal. You can't get back on the field until you believe you can do it. My opinion is bullshit."
I swallow against a lump in my throat, having no idea what I'm supposed to say.
"Listen up," Phil says. "Because I'll only say this once. You're the best pitcher I've seen, and you can win the World Series this year. That's why I'm giving you a gift."
He stands up, shoves two fingers into his mouth, and lets out the loudest whistle I've ever heard. "Get your ass in here now, Coach!"
The locker-room door swings open—and Amy walks in.
Before my shock has even really set in, Phil pats my shoulder and says, "Here's your gift, Braddock. Don't fuck it up. You have no idea how many favors I had to cash in for this."
I still can't speak even as Phil walks away.
Amy traipses up to me, wearing an expression that's impossible to decipher. "Are you ready to practice like your life depends on it? No whining, no excuses, just grueling practice."
Clearing my throat, I stand up straighter. "I'm ready, Coach."
"You'd better be. Otherwise, I'll have to cancel our weekend trip."
"Where are we going? Zimbabwe?"
She rolls her eyes and straps her arms over those luscious tits. "You won't find out until you've proven to me that you're ready to sweat blood and train until you drop."
"Are you serious?"
"Do I look like I'm pranking you? You're off the bench, but not for long if your form stays like this."
She waves toward the slouch I've somehow fallen into lately.
I fake-wince, trying to mask the thrill I feel with mock resignation. "So, we'll be, what? Stuck together twenty-four seven?"
A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. "If you can't handle it, now's the time to back out. I hear the sanitation department needs another garbage man."
"And lose my chance to make the opening roster? No way."
She tilts her head. "Charlie, this won't be a vacation or a romantic getaway."
"You can stop whacking my head with a shovel, Amy. I'm not that stupid."
"Good," she says sharply, but with warmth just beneath the surface.
I'd almost forgotten this push and pull is exactly what I thrive on with Amy Keller. Alicia never made me feel this invigorated.
Bracing myself for whatever insane schedule Amy's cooked up, I follow her down the hall to the gym.
As she leads the way, I can't resist admiring her ass and the way her tight pants accentuate every delicious curve.
I need her for more than training. She's become the most important person in my life, period, and it has very little to do with baseball.
I can't let her down again. I won't. After a fruitful workout, I'm ready to go.
"Okay, what's in store today?" I ask as we step out onto the diamond.
She swivels toward me, already tossing a baseball in my direction. "Show me how you throw these days."
I catch the ball with my good hand and roll my shoulder back as if it doesn't ache like hell. There's no sympathy in her stare, only high expectations. Yeah, I've missed that too.
I wind up and pitch, feeling the muscles scream under the strain, but it feels far less painful today. The ball blasts past Amy before she's even ready for it. The ball makes a loud smack against the backstop and bounces back toward us.
She raises a brow, clearly impressed. "Not bad for an old man."
"Hah-hah. Better not annoy me, Keller." I stride up to her and cup her ass with one hand. "I'm not too old to spank you, kid."
"Are you sure you aren't too elderly to do that?"
"Next you'll be saying I'm washed up."
"If the shoe fits," she says with a teasing glint in her eyes.
"How about I show you another one, Coach?"
"Sounds good," Amy replies, catching the ball on one hop and throwing it back with a fluid motion that reminds me why she's so damn good at this.
I grind through another pitch, a hard fastball with some menace to it. This time she's ready, sidestepping out of the ball's path as it crashes into the backstop.
"Not bad." She winks at me. "Maybe you've still got it after all. Maybe you deserve a mini vacation this weekend."
"Where are we going?"
Her smile could light up the universe. "My hometown, the place where baseball truly lives and breathes—Cooperstown."
"Are you kidding? I've never been there, but I always wanted to go." I sound like a ten-year-old, and I might just start jumping up and down. But I don't care.
Amy laughs, and it's the sweetest sound on earth. "Better start packing right after practice."
She's given me just enough encouragement to give me hope. That small sliver of belief is like sunlight warming me after weeks of clouds. Even though every nerve in my body burns, I brace for another throw.
Maybe I could do this with any one of a thousand other coaches, but none of them would make me feel like I'm ten feet high. Why is that? The answer smacks me like a curveball to my head.
I'm in love with Amy Keller.