Cooking Up A Curveball (Mile High #3)

Chapter 1

I hate Colorado.

There, I said it. Everyone waxes poetic about the state like it’s the best place on earth to live, and I think they’re full of shit.

Traffic is ridiculous, no one knows how to drive in any kind of precipitation, and it might snow at any point in the year.

One hundred degrees one day and snowing the next?

I’m not saying it’ll never happen, but if it does, it’ll be somewhere in Colorado.

Not only was I unceremoniously traded here over halfway through last season, but I didn’t want to go anywhere.

I was happy with the Bridge Point Bears.

I thought I’d retire with the team I’d spent the majority of my career with.

But now I’m in fucking Colorado, with thinner air, too many Subarus, and so much beer.

“Callahan, you done with batting practice?” Coach shouts. When I nod, he adds, “Media training in the conference room. Go.”

“Aw, come on,” I whine, close to stomping my foot like a petulant child. “I don’t even have social media, and no one wants to interview me anyway.”

Coach Brady Dunn raises an eyebrow at me. “And why would that be, Callahan?”

“I don’t remember,” I mutter, dropping my gaze to study the floor at my feet.

Coach chuckles, the sound deep and raspy as he types on his phone. Lounging back in a chair at the edge of the bullpen, he props a foot up on the wall. He exudes masculine energy, and it’s been that way since the day I met him during my first year in the League.

Brady Dunn was a force on the field. While we never played on the same team, everyone knew who Brady was.

We’d often chat at events and celebrity outings, although Brady always got more attention than I did.

An excellent catcher, he made a seamless transition from player to coach when a torn ACL and MCL ended his career.

Getting to be coached by Brady Dunn was one of the very few reasons I wasn’t too unhappy about the trade.

I’d spent almost my entire career in the Bridge Point Bears system.

As a Southern California native, getting to stay with a California team was an absolute dream.

So when I was traded out of the blue last year, it hit a nerve.

I didn’t want to leave my friends there.

I could get a nonstop flight from San Francisco to San Diego easily if my parents needed anything.

Now I’m one thousand miles farther away, where the weather flips between sweltering and frozen tundra like it’s a game, and I can’t seem to find my rhythm here.

Probably doesn’t help that I’ve become the Clubhouse grump, choosing to sit alone and refusing invitations to anything outside of work.

I’d told my old teammates I didn’t mind the trade to Colorado because I’d visited a couple of times.

Boy, didn’t that sentiment turn out to be wrong.

And then there was the “incident” with the reporter, pushing me off the interview list.

“How did you know her shoe would get stuck in the ceiling tile?” Coach muses.

“I didn’t.” It wasn’t my finest hour. This snot from one of the local affiliates was interviewing me, and she couldn’t stop tapping her stilettos against the tile floor.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. It infuriated me. It was all I could hear, and I couldn’t focus on the questions she asked.

I’d politely asked her to stop, and she looked right at me as she tapped her shoe again.

So I slipped it off her foot and threw it at the ceiling.

That’s how I found out how much Christian Louboutin heels cost. Not that it’s a big deal, because my contract is a couple mil a year, but the principle of it was frustrating. Coach and our GM made me apologize, then buy her new shoes.

Needless to say, I haven’t been asked for an interview since then. The shoe incident happened at the end of last season, when I’d only been here for a couple of months. Now it’s March, and we’re pushing into the start of baseball season.

I fell in love with baseball when I was only three.

My dad and uncle bought me a tiny mitt, and we’d throw the ball around in our front yard.

It’s one of my favorite childhood memories.

To make it to the Major Leagues, you have to have a passion for the sport, but you also need to have drive, determination, grit, and just sheer talent.

I’ve always been fortunate to have all of those traits.

“Oh, Callahan,” Coach shouts as he’s exiting the bullpen. “Also, go talk to the nutritionist about what food you want for the first two away trips. She told me you haven’t filled out the questionnaire for her yet.”

And I won’t be meeting with her now. “Nah, I’m good. I’m fine handling my own meals, Coach.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a request.”

“I’m perfectly capable of ordering food for myself,” I say defensively.

“You eat like a fourteen-year-old boy who has been left alone at home for the first time, Callahan. Don’t even argue with me about it. I’ve seen what you eat, and none of it is healthy.”

Okay, he has a point. I know I’m not the healthiest guy out there when it comes to food. That’s why I make up for it with exercise. I love food, but mostly the full-fat, fried-in-oil, full-of-preservatives kind. “How about I promise to start eating better without involving the nutritionist?”

“No. She plans your meals, or you don’t play.”

“Come on, Coach,” I whine, throwing my head back in frustration.

“I said what I said. Handle it,” he replies as he leaves the bullpen.

God dammit.

Trudging into the locker room, I slam down on the bench by my locker. I don’t want to deal with her. The girl who looks like she just graduated from high school, and has yet to see the evil in the world. All sparkles, happiness, and innocence.

The exact opposite of me.

Layla Holmes was hired as the team nutritionist four months ago. We’d had a team chef, but he quit toward the end of the season. None of us were sad to see him go. He treated our away schedule as an opportunity to mass-produce his favorite foods. There’s only so much fettuccini Alfredo we can eat.

Then Layla rolls in, ready to plan custom meals for each of us.

We had to fill out forms about our likes and dislikes, allergies, any autoimmune disorders, and any medical conditions we had.

She wanted us to take pictures of our fridges and give her an itemized list of the foods we eat each week.

I didn’t make a list, but I did take pictures of my pantry, fridge, and freezer, and emailed them to her.

The response I got back said, “Oh, are we living in a frat house?”

Nice.

For some reason, it really pissed me off. Layla was probably teasing, but it aggravated the fuck out of me. So I didn’t respond, and I blew her off every time she emailed to set up a meeting.

Only when Coach cornered me in February did I finally meet her, and I hated every minute of it.

Not only because I didn’t like feeling mediocre, but also because I thought she was one of the most gorgeous women I’d ever seen.

That pissed me off more than anything, honestly.

Thirty-five years old, and I was lusting after a teenager? Gross.

Needless to say, our first proper in-person interaction didn’t go well.

“Are you even old enough to give nutritional advice? Have you had all of your shots?” I’d snapped. Layla had smiled in return, but the smile never reached her eyes.

“I assure you I’m allowed in gen pop, old man,” she’d replied. “But since I also managed to obtain my Master’s in nutrition, and hold a board certification in sports dietetics, I think it’s safe to say I’m legally an adult.”

“What the hell does that all even mean?” I’d asked, irritation evident in my tone as I crossed my arms over my chest. “And don’t call me old man.”

She’d cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’re the oldest player in this Clubhouse, are you not?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I track everyone’s ages.”

“But you’re concerned with mine.”

“Because you look twelve.”

She’d preened at that. “Aww, you think I look young? That’s so sweet. I’m thirty, by the way. So you don’t have to worry about thinking I’m hot.”

“I don’t think you’re hot.”

“Yeah, you do. It’s fine. I know I’m hot. Have you seen this ass?” she’d asked, turning slightly as she’d patted her rear. I’d tried to force my eyes not to look, but I’d failed. “You let me know when you’re ready for me to get your meal plan together, Sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” I’d muttered, bewildered.

“Yeah,” she’d said, as she turned to walk away, my eyes still trained on her ass. “Cuz you’re so happy and full of joy.”

Layla kept up with the sunshine bullshit, and the entire team picked up on it. They all began calling me Sunshine.

Needless to say, I won’t be working with Layla on anything. It’s just the principle.

“Yo, you hitting Putters tonight, Sunshine?” I roll my eyes at Jake Holloway, one of the pitchers for the Raptors, as he grins maniacally at me. “You know I can’t enjoy my beers unless you’re there.”

“Aren’t you pitching tomorrow?” I ask, standing to rummage through my locker for my phone. “Last time you came in reeking of beer, Coach was pretty pissed.”

Jake scoffs, waving a hand at me in dismissal. “Exaggeration. He wasn’t that pissed.”

“But you were that drunk.”

“I mean … define drunk.”

I turn to stare at him blankly. “You peed in your locker.”

Jake lets out a loud bark of laughter. “I totally forgot about that! Ahh, memories.”

I chuckle as I stand, deciding to do the media training before I change out of my uniform.

Hard to stay mad at the kid, especially when he can make fun of himself.

But that’s what he is: a kid. At twenty-six, he’s nine years younger than me.

I know I’m a rarity. Most clubs have only one or two guys who keep playing after they hit thirty-five.

Honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be playing.

My body has started staging protests every morning.

“Come on,” Jake says, throwing an arm over my shoulders. “Have a beer. Inhale a burger. A little time out with the team will do you some good.”

“Fine,” I huff. “But I have to go get the media training done first.”

Jake laughs. “I’d say it’s a piece of cake, but clearly you and the media don’t mix. So, I’ll just say good luck, and the first beer is on me.”

“Gonna hold you to it,” I mutter as I walk further into the building.

Front Range Field is a beautiful baseball stadium built with spectacular views of the Rocky Mountains from the seats along the third base line, and I’ll admit I’ve been captivated by the view whenever I’ve been in the stands.

Built in 2010, it can hold up to forty-five thousand fans, but I’ve yet to see that happen.

Suffice it to say, but the Raptors suck.

We’re basically the laughing stock of Colorado.

We’ve got the Denver Wolves hockey team and the Colorado Coyotes NFL team both taking home championships over the past few years, and our basketball team is almost always in the playoffs.

Hell, there are even some really good college hockey teams here.

But the Raptors? Nothing to write home about.

Last year, we had the third-most losses of any team in the modern era, with a record of 43 to 119.

We lost twice as many home games as we won. Absolutely appalling.

Why did I get traded here? I’m unsure if my agent was being honest when he told me that Bridge Point had to make some cuts due to financial constraints. It just seemed odd. Way out of left field — pun intended. Ironic, considering I play right field.

But here I am. Stuck in Colorado, on a team that doesn’t seem to have any willpower to succeed, and I’m wondering when I should hang up my cleats.

Where will I go? Back to where I grew up near San Diego?

To Bridge Point, where I still have a house?

I’m only renting an apartment in downtown Denver.

I’ve barely furnished it, because no one comes over anyway. Who do I need to impress?

After the most ridiculous media training, where the social media manager had me practice how to look into the camera and smile, I quickly change out of my practice uniform in the locker room.

Grabbing my bag, I stride out of the locker room and immediately run full-force into someone who smells like sweet fruits and sunrises.

God dammit.