The Rival Next Door

Chapter 1

DRAKE

The crowd loved him – and honestly?

Drake loved them back.

It felt like on the field, specifically on the base waiting for the ball to cross the plate, was the one place where he could truly be himself or be free of all the pressures, the commitments, the grind that sometimes pressed upon him.

The fans devoured his antics, the playful way he was lobbing the erratic dances, the lip-syncing, the outrageous things that he did – like earlier today.

He’d been doing an interview, and when his part was finished, the table was cleared, and the coach walked in… something clicked in his brain.

Maybe he shouldn’t have done it.

Perhaps he should have his head examined…

But whatever was wrong with his brain, the media loved him – even if the coach didn’t.

Yeah, putting one knee in the air, both hands behind his head, and grinding against Coach Martinez’s chair behind him like he was dancing probably wasn’t the smartest idea in the book.

He could end up benched, traded, or fired – but as long as he filled stadiums, Drake knew he was getting away with murder… in a fashion.

Coach slowly turned to him, Drake paused, made a face like ‘What just happened’ – and took off, scampering like a scene out of Scooby Doo, making the crowd laugh in delight as the cameras exploded in a series of clicks, whirls, and he heard his name being called once more.

So long as they called his name, he was safe… in theory.

Did he learn his lesson?

Heck-to-the-nawww…

It was the eighth inning, and Drake already been chased by the umpire, bunted his way onto first base with a flair that was comical, and slid into home, scoring a run.

All in all, it should have been a good game, heck – a great game – yet he felt empty inside.

He knew what was coming next, and there was no excitement anymore. Life was… monotonous.

Slap the other team’s hand after the game, shout encouraging things, do a little playful something for the camera filming so he made it on television – good, bad, or otherwise – and it kept him fresh in the fans’ minds.

It sold jerseys, baseballs, hats, heck – he even had his name and number on one of those plastic baseball cap cereal bowls.

He knew because he used them for ice cream bowls at home and mailed one to each of his brothers.

Pete was living in Alabama, flying for the Air Force and married to the cutest little ‘hobgoblin’ to ever grace the planet…

and his brother, Tommy, was living in Detroit as a ‘Kept-Man’.

Gosh, it irked Tommy when Drake called him that, but what else did you call it when the guy stayed home taking care of the kids while the wife was the breadwinner?

A mife? A man-wife?

A stay-at-home-dom… like a stay at home dad-mom? Nah, sounded raunchy even to his ears.

He wasn’t all about the patriarchy, no fist in the air crusade or comments about ‘Manly-Men’ because frankly, he had nothing and wanted something.

He was happy for Tommy and Pete… and maybe a little jealous.

Okay, maybe a lot jealous, if he was being honest with himself as he sat there on the bench in the dugout, chewing a wad of bubble gum that would choke a small elephant.

“DRAKE!”

Oh shoot, he thought, completely taken aback that he missed the cameraman getting a close-up of him… and let his gum wad roll out of his mouth, rolling childishly down his chin with a mischievous flick to get it to drop, before giving them a brilliant and innocent smile – and then a flirty wink.

Was he a ham? Most definitely.

Kicking a little dirt over his clod of bubble gum, he shot to his feet, putting his hands on his hips, and did a little twist to the left, then a twist to the right.

His Pilates instructor online – because he was not going to get mobbed in public, eyeballing a bunch of sweaty women in spandex in public – called that move a ‘hula rotation’ to help keep him limber.

He never wanted to admit that things were getting to him, that he was starting to feel his age in ways he never imagined.

He wasn’t old, but hitting the ground, sliding, slamming his body into the earth to catch a ball, well – it was taking a toll, and while it never bothered him before, he needed those Pilates stretches and yoga moves.

In fact, he put a foot up on the bench, turned, gave his hamstring a stretch…

before giving his butt a slight wiggle and winking over his shoulder at whoever was watching.

There was always one watching – if not several.

It was part of the reason his Ferrari was parked in the garage and was rarely driven.

It was the reason he drove a Toyota Camry with illegal tint because it was common and didn’t stand out…

and it was also the reason he lived in a normal subdivision instead of a McMansion where he was sure to get spotted, stalked, or harassed.

Nahhh, instead he paid for security to monitor the subdivision, funded the ‘gated community’ idea, and even paid for the construction of the gatehouse, making it the safest place on the freaking earth if word got out.

And it did – because people were people.

He was trapped in his house, sprang for a bunch of big bushy hedges to separate him from his neighbors, and kept the shades drawn on the place.

The fans were everywhere, and he couldn’t exactly get mad about it because their admiration and loyalty paid for everything, kept him employed, and would keep him cozy if the day ever came that he couldn’t play baseball anymore…

and he was terrified that day was getting closer and closer each year.

“Nowwww, up to bat, we’ve got number seventeen of the Timberwolves, Drake Walkerrrr!”

A sharp whistle, a gesture, a look, all the indicators from the other guys that he should have been ready, should have had his butt in gear, up and swinging the bat – preparing himself – but ohhh no.

He was fooling around in the dugout instead of waiting in the circle, testing the weight of the bat he was gonna use in a moment.

Well, now.

He was going to use the bat now. Grabbing the bat from the bin, he gave it a few test swings, looked to his coach, who gave him a stern glare, and Drake winked, focusing on the pitcher.

Staring, he saw the slight motion, hidden by his glove, as he started to wind up the pitch…

and smirked. The dude was throwing him a ball.

Sure enough, it whizzed past him, just outside the box, as the umpire called it.

“Ball one…”

Drake squared up his shoulders, dug in his foot into the red clay, and focused once more, waiting. The ball came flying once more and he swung only a split second before he realized it was wide. Craaap…

“Strike one!”

This continued for several moments, and frankly, he was getting pissed.

They were making him look like an idiot and preparing to walk him.

He didn’t want to be walked during the eighth inning – he wanted to slam it home, run the bases, do a little dance rounding third, and then make a complete douche of himself as he crossed the home plate.

Can’t really work the crowd if you never get a chance to show off, now can ya?

“C’monnn!” Drake shouted angrily at the pitcher.

“What’d you do, pull a muscle playing with yourself before the game?

I don’t think you’ve thrown one ball over the bag yet, Hendricks.

Now are we playing baseball or is someone getting me a ‘T’ and a plastic bat – because I love a mean game of T-ball with all those sweet, chubby-cheeked kiddos who are digging for gold, picking their little button noses and… ”

Oh crap!

Hendricks was rearing back, his leg up, and his face focused before Drake had finished talking a bunch of trash to the man.

His voice faded away as he tensed up, ready to slam it home, if it was a good throw…

and as it whizzed toward him – and struck his hip much too close to his groin.

Drake dropped at the explosion of pain, eyes squinted shut as tears threatened, and his ears rang.

“Walk!” the Umpire shouted, and Drake hesitated, drawing in a ragged breath as he cracked open an eye.

“Not… sure… if that’s gonna… happen,” he wheezed, bent over, and clenching as he clutched himself. “I know that’s… why we wear… a cup… but that stung.”

He saw several pairs of cleats around him as Drake opened his eyes, sucking in air, trying to pull himself together, and prayed that whatever physically just climbed in his pelvis out of sheer terror seconds ago would someday descend once more as he stared at the ground, focusing on breathing and not puking up his lunch.

“Walker – you okay, buddy?”

Hendricks – the jackhole, did this on purpose and knew he wasn’t okay.

“And that’s why I asked about the ‘T’,” Drake grunted, straightening up and rising to his feet, locking his knees as he felt one buckle, refusing to give the other arrogant man the time of day.

“You missed, just like you missed the box, Hendricks. Maybe you need glasses or need someone to show you what…”

“Maybe you need someone to teach you a lesson,” Hendricks shot back, interrupting him.

Drake did not feel up to this right now, not while his hip and right testicle were singing in unison – in a falsetto voice. Heck, he was practically in the same vocal range as he backtalked the pitcher a second later.

“What was that anyhow – do you ever throw a ball faster than eighty miles an hour? I mean, I’m not a pitcher and play outfield where I can have a little fun… but dang buddy – that sucked – and not in a good way.”

“Why you little…”

Hendricks exploded at him – and thankfully, the other guys were there. They started blocking, protecting, and grabbing at the other player, keeping him away from Drake as he slowly began to trot toward first base.

Yeah, that ball was going to leave a mark, and he probably needed to get to a restroom to make sure he wasn’t bleeding in one of his favorite spots.

Looking down at his white pants, he didn’t see anything – no lump, well, nothing abnormal beside the cup at least – and no broken skin.

He’d once been hit, and it left a massive welt – another time it fractured his jaw.

This wasn’t the first hit he’d taken, but it did have the distinct honor (or dishonor) of being the one that made him question if he could ever father a child after today.

Sure enough, the camera came over and got in his face.

“Drake, did ya’ shake it off, man?”

“You know it,” Drake chimed back, focusing on the pitcher once more as he tried to walk another player.

Hendricks was an absolute twerp – and maybe he’d deliver a flaming bag of poo onto his front porch for Christmas in one of his plastic lunchboxes.

Wouldn’t want him to think it was some other guy, now would we?

“The cup protects all, my brotha. Ladies – we’re safe, I promise ya. ”

An hour later, things were throbbing painfully ‘downstairs’ – and the game still wasn’t over. Making his excuses, Drake knew he could take off and ask medical to check him out, but he sure didn’t want to give Hendricks the satisfaction.

“Coach – I’m gonna run to the john,” Drake shouted.

“Go on,” the man said, waving him off as he jogged past the man, darted through the crowds leaning over the walkway heading back to the locker rooms of the stadium.

Frankly, he liked this stadium because it was two levels and big enough to make you feel like a pro, but cozy enough to yank you back down to reality.

He was a thirty-four-year-old man playing a game for money and keeping his aches and pains as much of a secret as he could.

By passing the locker rooms because he didn’t want medical involved, he shot up the walkway that was full of distracted people balancing their popcorn and their Cokes.

Getting medical involved meant going over his records – again.

They wouldn’t be just checking him, but working his knee once more to make sure they caught the beginnings of any issues, and he didn’t need someone to tell him that.

He already knew.

Instead, Drake darted onto the elevator that would lead to the second floor, where it was less crowded…

and as he saw the elevator doors close, he was spotted.

Drake held up a finger to his lips, shushing them silently, as he winked just as the doors shut.

The clock was ticking now. He’d been spotted.

When the doors opened, he was going to have to carefully make his way down to the private boxes where those bathrooms were located and…

“OH MY GOSH!”

“DRAKE WALKER!”

“MARRY ME…”

“SIGN MY SHIRT, DRAKE…”

“SIGN WHATEVER YOU WANT TO…”

“Eh,” Drake grimaced, seeing the heads swirling around as the shrieks began in earnest. Okay, so maybe this was a mistake. He had to get two sections down the pedway, and he’d be home free – or until he could call security from his cell phone… oh no.

He didn’t have his cell phone on him – he was in uniform.

Cursing softly under his breath, Drake started making his way through the crowd, angling himself carefully so he could break free and run. He haphazardly accepted the marker, signed a few books, a shirt, a popcorn bucket, but when a woman jerked her shirt up for him… that was his sign.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said quickly – yoinked the marker up into the air – and shot off like a cannon in the other direction.

His groin hurt from the sudden sprint, but not as much as being mobbed, groped, and manhandled by the ravenous crowd behind him would hurt.

Spotting the sign up ahead, he saw the ‘Do not enter’ banner across the door and pressed his hands together for a second in a silent ‘thank you’.

A janitor, he could handle.

A herd of fanatical fans who’d just caught him out in the wild… not so much.

“DRAKE!”

“DRAKE, MY KID LOVES YOU…”

“DRAKE, I WANNA HAVE YOUR BABY…”

“Don’t talk to my mom,” he yelped over his shoulder – and slid under the fabric banner, yanked up the kickstand on the door, and shut it, throwing the deadbolt.

“Whew! I’m safe…” he muttered, shooting a hand down the front of his baseball pants and checking to make sure there were no problems hidden by his cup.

Man, something was sore on his hip and groin. Did he have a bruise? A hernia?

And froze a second later as he heard a voice behind him. A voice he recognized in the back of his mind and heard in his nightmares. Instinctively, he yanked his hand out of the front of his pants – and turned slowly to face the inevitable.

“What in the world is going on?”

“Hi neighbor,” Drake began cheerfully before grimacing. “And I can explain…”