Chapter 15 Brooks #2
“Come on, son. All I need is one chance to prove it to you. Maybe a little boost to help get me back on my feet, too. You know, I could help you out a little, huh? I’m sure you’re busy.
You probably have a lot of places to go.
I could house sit for you while you’re gone.
I could watch after that roommate of yours, help with her kids.
Or . . . hey, maybe hire me as your driver. I was always good at driving, and—”
“I can’t do this,” I say, standing and pulling another forty bucks from my wallet.
I press the bills on the table in front of my father, between the two plates of food, then look up at him through my lashes.
That’s what I was waiting for—the grift.
He knows I’m doing all right for myself, despite the hand I was dealt. He’s come to collect.
“My home is off-limits to you. My roommate does not need your help. I do not need your help. And I’m not giving you a penny more than this.” I tap my index finger on Andrew Jackson’s face.
I glance at Daisy when I stand, and she pulls her attention up from the coffee she’s pouring for the other diner long enough to meet my gaze and shake her head in sympathy. I’m glad she’s the only one to witness this moment. She doesn’t make me feel ashamed.
“You’ll change your mind one day, maybe regret this,” he says as I walk away.
I hold up a hand as he continues with his new tactics.
“I won’t live forever. I’m an old man, and you and I won’t have many shots at fixing this,” he says.
I pause at the door. I should leave without another word, but I just can’t let him have the final say.
“Then, maybe you shouldn’t have broken us to shit, Dad. That’s on you.” I hit him with a hard glare and hold in the other vitriol I’d love to spew. My disdain is obvious, and I don’t need to practice forgiveness today. Besides, he’ll somehow work me into paying for it. That’s what he does.
I march through the exit and head straight to my SUV.
I fire the engine up remotely, so it’s ready to go when I climb in.
I focus on the interior of Earl’s one last time before I pull away, though, and catch my father folding the bills I left on the table, including the one meant to pay the bill.
He stands and pushes them into his front pocket. My gut twists.
I’ll stop in again when I get back from this road trip to cover the bill. My dad’s about to dine and dash; I’m sure of it. I’m just not going to stick around to be his getaway driver.
I expect to play like shit today, given the mood I was in when I got on the bus.
And my rage only got hotter the closer we got to the Ozark stadium.
But instead of letting it tear me down and riddle my glove with errors, I channel it into strength.
I hit my first homerun as a Maverick by taking the first pitch I see—four-twenty, over the bleachers and into a swamp behind the right field wall.
Then, in the sixth inning, I hit my second.
I should be living it up, celebrating my great game in the hotel bar with the guys. But instead, all I want to do is crawl into bed and turn off the lights, maybe flip through a few videos of Holly on my phone.
I’m the only one in the elevator as I head up, so I pull my phone from my gear bag to check my messages. My voicemail says it’s full, and there are twenty-two missed calls in my notifications. All my dad.
I play the first voicemail, which is from him, and his message starts politely, carrying on the same rehabbed personality he tried to sell me on this morning.
But about thirty seconds in, he loses it.
My gut says he probably took a hit of something and the drugs just hit his system, because in a single breath he goes from apologizing to a lunatic raging about what a fuck-up I am.
“How dare you judge me, you little shit. I’m this way because of you, I hope you know that. You weren’t planned. Your bitch of a mother, ha! She tricked me, got knocked up before I could leave her. But ohhh, you’re too good for me now!”
I stop the message there, not needing to hear the rest. I scroll my finger down the line, selecting every message he left, and then I select the option to delete them all at once.
I’m about ready to press YES when my phone prompts me, asking if I’m sure, and something makes me second guess my action.
Scrolling through the list of messages one more time, I eyeball the incoming number, noting the California area code from my dad’s phone.
Then, at the very end, is a call from Lindsey.
I uncheck that box and delete the others before pressing play on her voicemail.
I hold my phone to my ear as the elevator opens, and make it three steps into the fifth-floor lobby when her words make me halt.
“Hey. It’s uh . . . it’s me. I don’t want you to worry, but there was a break-in at the house. I’m fine. Holly is fi—”
I hold my phone out in front of me and check the screen to see if the message accidentally paused. It didn’t. That’s all there is.
I spin on my heels and press the elevator call button with my knuckle before dragging the message back to the start so I can listen again. This time, I pay attention to her tone. She sounds out of breath. Maybe a little panicked. Someone broke in.
Was she there when it happened? Was Holly? Are the boys still at their dad’s?
I call Lindsey’s phone, but it goes right to voicemail, so I dial again and get the same result.
“Come on, Linds. Come on,” I chant, calling non-stop as I head back to the main floor.
The coaching staff is walking into the main lobby as the elevator doors open, so I rush to Coach Kessler since she’s lingering behind the others.
I don’t want this getting out. I’ve seen things like break-ins for athletes get overblown by social media, and while I’m not in the majors yet, a lot of reporters are paying attention to my story.
Word got out that I’m the single dad in the clubhouse.
All I need is to fuel a breaking news story that lands a media circus in front of our house back home.
“Hey, what’s up, Brooks?” Coach Kessler’s eyes dim, and she tilts her head to the side, urging me to follow her to a quiet corner by the front desk.
“Someone broke into my place. I don’t know the exact details yet, but I’m kind of freaked out. If I need to talk to authorities, what do I do? I don’t want to leave, but—”
“Brooks, we won by eleven today, and we had shit on the mound,” she says, leveling me with a hard stare to really make her point.
It was a bullpen day, and when you’re a minor league team scraping together innings, it can get kind of rough.
The fact we handled the Ozark team easily says more about them than it does us.
“What I’m saying is, if you need to go, go. That’s what we have a PR team for. We’ll manage it.”
I consider her advice, but I’m still uneasy leaving in the middle of a series.
I know it’s in our contract, contingencies for emergencies, but in many ways, pro ball at this level isn’t so different from my high school days.
If I’m not here, someone else is going to get my innings.
And if they perform, I’m shit out of luck. And I just got the two-hole.
“Brooks,” she says, snapping me out of my spiral. I meet her eyes. “You hit two dingers. You’re good.”
I exhale and smile for a heartbeat before the stress takes over my jaw again, and all I can do is gnash my molars.
I hear her, though, so I nod and head out the lobby doors to the curb while attempting to get Lindsey to pick up.
I order a rideshare between my calls, and within ten minutes, I’m on my way to the tiniest airport in Missouri where a charter plane is waiting to fly me three hundred miles to the west. How my shit is going to get back to me, I have no clue.
All I know is I can’t get Lindsey on the phone, and someone fucked with my family.