Homeruns: Wild Pitch Part 1

Wild Pitch.

Sloan Johnson.

Prologue.

The four of us lined up, two on each side of Mason in front of the stainless steel bean at Millennium Park. We tried to keep from b.i.t.c.hing too much about the fact that we'd all rather be anywhere other than posing for wedding pictures. That wasn't entirely true; we'd gladly freeze our a.s.ses off to make Mason's future wife happy if she wasn't the Ice Queen. It seemed fitting that the weather had turned unseasonably cold the night before their nuptials.

I stood directly to Mason's left, plastering on a smile I hoped no one would realize was completely fake. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from flagging down a taxi and throwing him inside.

The photographer snapped a few shots and checked them on the LCD screen of his camera. "Okay, those look good," he called out. Even he looked miserable, and he was dressed in a thick wool coat and bright scarf. "Let's get a few of just the groom and his best man, then the groom with his father and we'll get someplace a bit warmer."

The rest of the guys tried to act cool as they speed walked over to where our winter coats were piled on the ground, leaving just the two of us alone. "All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You" by Heart blared from Mason's pocket, signaling at least the fifth call of the day from Teresa. For all of her obsessing over every detail of this wedding, being superst.i.tious of the bride and groom speaking before the wedding apparently wasn't on her radar.

"Hey, sweetie," Mason answered, flipping me off as I rolled my eyes. It was immature, but I couldn't help it. He was so in love with her he couldn't see what a controlling, manipulative b.i.t.c.h she was. I couldn't hear what he was saying as he walked away, but it sounded like she was freaking about something. Again. She'd made Bridezilla look calm and laid-back about three phone calls ago.

Mason scrubbed at the back of his neck as he disconnected the call. When he turned to face me, he looked miserable. "There's still time to back out," I teased. "We could jump in a cab and be at the airport in less than twenty minutes. By the time people start piling into the church, we could be at cruising alt.i.tude on our way to somewhere warm and sunny."

My c.o.c.k twitched at the thought of joining the mile high club with Mason. It'd never happen, but that had never kept my mind from wandering into fantasy territory. Mason stepped closer, reaching up to straighten my tie. His gaze remained fixed on mine as he ran his hand down the center of my chest. I blinked, telling myself I had to be imagining the look of longing in his green eyes. It was as though he might actually be considering my suggestion.

"I can't do that." He sighed, curling his fingers around the lapels of my wool tuxedo jacket. "This is what I want, Sean. I know the two of you've had your differences, but I can't think of many women other than her who would put up with me."

"That's no reason to get married, Mace," I argued, trying to keep my voice quiet enough that we wouldn't be overheard. The other groomsmen quickly turned away when I glanced their direction. Over the years, our friends had joked that Mason and I were like an old married couple, not only because of how we bickered at times, but also because of times like this. Mason didn't shy away from getting into someone's personal s.p.a.ce and had no problem seeking comfort when he needed it. Mason's parents were old hippies who didn't believe in raising their son to believe that men should hide their emotions and he didn't. Right now, he looked utterly terrified of getting in the town car to head over to the church. I'd seen guys going to prison for life who handled their fate with more ease and grace.

"I know, Sean, but this'll be good for me," he conceded. I was about to tell him how screwed up it was that he hadn't once mentioned how much he loved her when his dad, Bill, joined us.

"Everything okay over here?" He raised an eyebrow, more to me than his son. I got the impression he wasn't thrilled with this expansion to the family either.

"Yeah, Dad. We're all good." He patted his dad's back before walking back to the front of the sculpture.

I followed, wondering how I'd get through the ceremony without blurting out my objections when the minister asked for them. Mason and Teresa were the last two people who had any place getting married, and that wasn't only because I'd wanted him since we met.

Twenty miserable minutes later, we were dismissed with strict instructions to be ready for more pictures an hour later. The short ride to the church would have been somber had Mason's cousin not brought his iPod with him. I draped my arm over the back of the seat and leaned closer to Mason.

"Hey, I'm sorry for what I said earlier," I told him. I stood by my statements, but he didn't need my s.h.i.t on his big day. He needed me to suck up my feelings and support him. That's what good friends did.

Mason shrugged. "I get it, Sean. The two of you have always been like fire and ice. I don't think that'll ever change. It'd be nice if my best friend and my wife could be in the same room without wanting to rip each other's throats out."

His hand dropped to my knee and my entire body stiffened. I looked around nervously, wondering what the guys would think if they saw my arm around his shoulders and his thumb rubbing the soft wool of my pants. I reminded my now achingly hard d.i.c.k that he didn't mean anything, that Mason was just being Mason. The faint smile he flashed before straightening in his seat felt like both the greatest reward and a punch in the gut.

It hit me that I was just as much of a problem in his mind as she was in mine. All Mason wanted was for everyone to get along. His ability to play the peacekeeper most of the time was one of the many traits that attracted me to him. If it meant not seeing him threatening to crumble, I'd promise him just about anything. "Mace, I'm never going to go out of my way to be her buddy, but I promise I'll work harder at trying to get along. For you."

Mace looked up at me with bright eyes. "Yeah?"

"Of course," I said quickly. "It'll be tough, but I'm not going to be your Yoko."

Mason wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a tight hug. "Thanks, Sean."

The car pulled up in front of the church before I could make an a.s.s of myself. Mason and I got out first and Bill greeted us by thrusting two gloves and a ball into my chest. "The boy needs to settle down. Take him out to the courtyard and throw the ball around for a bit. I'll come and get you when it's time to go inside."

Catch. I could do this. It'd been a long time since I'd thrown the ball just for fun, but I agreed that it was just what Mason needed to keep from freaking the h.e.l.l out about saying 'I do'. And I could focus on not hitting him in the face rather than trying to figure out how to get Mason to walk away before it was too late.

Chapter 1.

The sight before me when I walked into the visitor's locker room shouldn't have been a surprise. Until I rounded the corner and saw Eric standing in front of his locker, I'd almost managed to convince myself that the deal would fall through in the eleventh hour. I wanted management to realize that Eric was an a.s.set to the team. Then again, neither of us were foolish enough to believe that'd happen. Seattle had a weak outfield and the Mavericks needed strength in the batting order. That's why we said our own goodbyes last night after we all went out for one last dinner together.

"I hear the weather's always nice in Seattle," Eric said as he emptied his locker. He was the type of guy who never let anything get to him, yet he looked about ready to break down. When he glanced up at me, his eyes were dull and rimmed with dark circles. He shrugged as he rifled through his bag. "Maybe this will be a good move for me. It'll be nice to not worry that Ackerman's going to tell me to pack my s.h.i.t every time I see him walk down the hall."

He was trying to put on a brave face, but I imagined he saw the announcement that he was no longer a Maverick as a sign of his inability to perform up to standards. Like myself, he'd grown up watching the Mavericks play and dreamed of stepping onto the field as a player someday. When he'd gotten the call, it only took him a few days to buy a house right on Lake Michigan. He'd hoped to stay in Milwaukee until he decided to hang it up. Unfortunately, ball players understand from the time they sign their first contract that there are times when their best may not be enough. Without notice, the club has the right to trade them to another team without even asking if they're interested in the deal. It's all part of the game.

Eric sat on the bench running down the center of the aisle, slumped forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he'd worn Mavericks' gray and blue uniform for the last time. I wanted to give him some rea.s.surance that this was a good career move for him. Seattle had different strengths and he'd be more of an a.s.set to their team. I sat next to him and draped my arm over his shoulder. He scanned the room to make sure we were alone before leaning into my touch. I shook my head and let out a long breath, trying to figure out what to say.

"This is one of the few things I hate about the game," I grumbled. "You're a great guy and an even better player. It's going to suck not having you around."

Not having Eric jogging to catch up to me as we walked to the dugout at the end of the inning was only one reason I was going to miss him. When Eric first joined the team, I'd been the only player who didn't have a roommate on the road. We developed a friendship that wound up reaping great benefits for both of us once we got to know one another well enough. Unlike most of the guys, we weren't free to troll the nightclubs looking for packs of groupies eager to spend a night sweaty and naked with a major league baseball player. That wasn't a bad thing because we also didn't worry about girls sneaking compromising pictures to share with a thousand of their closest friends on social media. We needed to be much more discreet because loose lips would spell the end of a gay athlete's career if it was a giddy fanboy snapping selfies.

Faint voices in the distance warned us that our time alone was almost up. When I hugged Eric goodbye, I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent to commit every possible detail to memory. I wasn't in love with Eric, but I suppose my feelings for him were somewhat akin to love on some level. He was one of very few people I trusted with my secrets and we worked well together in every aspect of our lives. Looking back, I wondered why we never tried to have more than a casual relationship. I suppose it was at least partly because a day like today was probable.

"Don't be a stranger," I whispered as I pressed my lips to his neck. I pulled away from him a split-second before the door opened. I had to get out of the locker room and into the bullpen before I lost the tentative hold I had on my emotions.

Jason Klein followed me to the bullpen and I almost felt bad for the guy. With the mood I was in, he'd either be chasing b.a.l.l.s when they fell short of the plate or he'd have a bruised hand from the force behind my arm. In the seven years I'd been in Milwaukee, I'd never been this bitter over having to say goodbye to a friend. I appreciated that he knew me well enough to realize today was a day I needed him in the bullpen with me, not one of our other catchers. We needed the time to get in sync with one another before facing the Bulldogs on the field.

Get it together, I scolded myself as I tapped the chain link three times before stepping up to the pitching rubber for warm-up. I had less than an hour to leave my personal feelings behind and pitch as if my life depended on it. And just like every other day, it did, because Eric's hasty departure was a reminder that none of us had job security.

I rolled the ball around in my hands as I struggled to push everything but this pitch out of my mind. My shoulder ached as I released the first pitch, so I took a step back and stretched a bit more. Angel Johnson, the pitching coach, watched me closely, more than likely nervous that I'd strained something and wouldn't be able to make the start.

"You okay, Tucker?" he asked, never getting too close to me. He knew my little quirks better than anyone, and short of me lying on the ground clutching my throwing arm, I needed people to stay out of my personal s.p.a.ce before the game.

"I'll be fine," I a.s.sured him as I got back into position. I stuffed in my earbuds, cranking up volume to block out the fans in the first row hollering back and forth about which bar to hit after the game, Angel's commentary, everything.

The next few pitches were better, but nothing to write home about. I felt more like a prospect at the start of training camp than the team's leading starter. And given the scowl on Angel's face, I looked about the same.

It's okay, you still have time, I reminded myself. Okay, so not much time, but some. There were forty-three minutes until the first pitch. I closed my eyes and tried to count the st.i.tches as I slid my fingers across the horseshoe, blocking out everything but the next pitch. Jason smiled for the first time since we'd started warming up as he threw the ball back to me.

The pitches never got pretty, but by the time we stopped for the "National Anthem," I had reached a point where I wasn't worried I was about to have one of the worst outings of my career. Jason patted my shoulder as the final notes echoed through the park and we said a quick prayer before making our way to the infield. I wasn't a particularly religious man, but Jason was, and this was part of his pre-game routine. Given all the s.h.i.t he put up with, it wasn't a hardship for me to bow my head with him. And today, I needed all the help I could get, even from the Man upstairs.

I hated playing games on the road. If this were a home game, I'd be up there on the mound and everything but the next pitch would cease to exist. Instead, I was stuck in the dugout, my leg bouncing so fast it shook the entire bench. By the time the Bulldogs' Sully Monroe threw a beautiful fastball over the plate to strike out Ricky White, we were up by two. That allowed me to breathe a bit easier as we took the field for the bottom of the first.

The start of the inning was a total nightmare. Cooper Townsend sent my second pitch of the afternoon sailing over the wall into the bleachers behind left field, cutting our lead to one. The next two batters wound up on base with a combined eight pitches and only three strikes between them. I wiped the sweat from my brow and adjusted my cap as Jason jogged out to the mound. It was never a good thing when the catcher had to come out for a pep talk this early.

"Man, I get that it's a rough day, but you have to leave it behind," he told me. "Don't let the first three define you. You're better than this and we both know it."

"You're right," I responded. I am better. When I looked toward home plate, I cracked a faint smile. Jason glanced over his shoulder and gripped my biceps tightly.

"Strike. Him. Out. If there's one man in their lineup that you can't let get past you, it's Atley. He's c.o.c.ky enough, you'll be hearing about it for the next twenty years."

I nodded and straightened the bill of my cap. Jason was right, as usual. And the man knew what to say to spur me into action. We'd paired up so many times, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a few seconds, and Jason was crouching behind the plate when I opened them.

Mason settled into the batter's box, and unless it was a trick of the light, the man winked at me. It wasn't anything s.e.xual, more of a "Hey buddy, it's good to see you. I hope you don't mind that I'm getting ready to send your ERA through the roof," type of gesture. c.o.c.ky son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. He'd been my best friend for the past seven years. We met when he was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie and I was quickly becoming a staple in the triple-A pitching rotation, but right now, my only objective was to take him down.

Jason signaled the pitch and I shook it off. Mason would be expecting a fastball. He was a closet geek who loved a.n.a.lyzing numbers and statistics for fun. While most players cheered for their teammates, he'd sit back and mentally tally the pitches thrown so he'd have an idea of what he'd be up against when it was his turn at-bat. He used to boast that he could figure out a pitcher's preferences and pattern within the first inning.

We decided on a sinker and I centered myself before throwing a textbook sinker. I heard Mason's bat cutting through the air as he swung and missed. He shook his head as he got into position and I knew he knew what I was doing. Jason signaled for another sinker and I nodded. Strike two.

The count was stacked in my favor, with no b.a.l.l.s and two strikes. There was no doubt that Mason a.s.sumed I'd change it up, which was exactly why I didn't. It was a gamble, but one desperation made worthwhile. Everything about the pitch felt perfect, right up to the point where Mason connected with it. I scrambled toward first base, ready for Keith Henderson to toss me the ball for the out. He fumbled before scooping the ball and lobbing it to me. The ball connected with my glove at the exact moment Mason's foot crossed the plate and we both looked to the ump for the call.

"Out," he hollered as he sliced his hands through the air.

"Getting old and slow, Atley," I goaded him as he muttered something under his breath.

"I've got your old right here," he responded, cupping his groin crudely. I shook my head as I made my way back to the mound, my spirits slightly raised.

It may not have been what Jason wanted me to do, but keeping Mason from getting on base was a turning point for me. If I didn't let him get in my head, there was no reason to let anyone else there, either. The rest of our team worked together like a well-oiled machine to get the final two outs of the inning and we made our way back to the dugout.

I watched as Kevin Green knocked one into the bleachers to start the second inning. As much as I wanted to hate him for taking Eric's spot on the roster, there was no denying he had one h.e.l.l of a swing. We all congratulated him when he got back to the dugout and I made my way to the stairs, ready to do my part to stretch our two-run lead. To make up for my mediocre performance on the mound, I had to do something from behind the plate. Henderson ran as if he were in the Olympic trials, losing the race to first base by a split-second. Nothing was riding on my performance at the plate, other than my own desire to do something, anything, to make up for that first inning. I waited out the pitches, collecting a strike and two b.a.l.l.s before making contact with a curveball.

As I hustled to first base, I was in shock that I'd even hit the ball. My disbelief only grew as I watched the ball sail past me into the Bulldogs' dugout. I practically sauntered to second base, happy to be able to sit back and relax a bit before being forced to do a d.a.m.n thing. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't a run, but I was in a good position.

"You got lucky," Mason grumbled as I stretched my legs a bit.

"I think Colfax knew how much you wanted to see me and this was his way of giving us some time," I quipped, rubbing a bit of salt in the wound over the fact that Chicago was having a worse game than we were. Townsend slapped Sully on the back before jogging back to the mound.

"Yeah, that's it. He's good that way." He turned his attention back to the game as Jason walked up to the plate. The third base coach shot me a disapproving look and I shrugged. We might be on opposite sides today, but that wasn't going to stop me from talking smack with a friend.

I'd like to say we turned the game around and had the defense to keep the Bulldogs from scoring, but that'd be a lie. The second through fifth innings weren't much better than the first, and Stu pulled me from the game with one out in the sixth. Our saving grace was that the Bulldogs continued to struggle as well. We held onto our lead, winning by one run. I was credited with the win, but I wasn't sure I deserved it after my lackl.u.s.ter performance.

The mood in the locker room was somber following the game. No one celebrated, other than to quickly congratulate the guys who helped us earn the win as they headed to the showers. We kept waiting for Stu Ackerman to come storming in to scream at us, but it seemed he was sympathetic to the fact that Eric's sudden departure had thrown nearly every player out of his typical routine. Whether they'd admit it or not, every man had his own pre-game ritual, and his play suffered when it was disrupted.

It was shortly after five in the afternoon and the next game wasn't until the following evening, which meant most of the guys planned to hit the hotel bar or nearby clubs for drinks and debauchery. If nothing else, copious amounts of tequila would help them forget today's disastrous outing. Jason invited me to go for drinks with the older, mostly married players and I turned him down the same as I did every other night. It was yet another reminder that Eric was already on a plane headed west.

Not in the mood to party, I pulled my cell phone out of my duffel and tried calling Mason. A low-key night at his condo with a six pack and a pie sounded perfect. The call went straight to voicemail, which meant it was still turned off from before the game. I followed the rest of the guys out to the bus back to our hotel, even though I knew exactly where I'd find Mason and I could grab a ride with him. After a day like today, it was best not to p.i.s.s off Stu.

Chapter 2.

I f.u.c.king hated days like today. There was no reason for our s.h.i.tty showing, other than the fact that our team was so green it surprised me we didn't lose anyone in the meticulously groomed outfield. After Ray gave us a thorough dressing down, most of the guys cleared out as soon as they showered and changed into street clothes. Not me. I needed to ground myself, to get back in harmony with the park. No one understood why I did half the s.h.i.t I did, but they didn't give me a hard time about it, because it worked for me.

I snuck into the dugout after everyone had left and watched the grounds crew raking the sand. Watching them drag their rakes along the baselines reminded me of the small Zen garden my mother built in our backyard when I was a kid. She'd sit out there for an hour every day, working until the lines were perfectly straight. "Mason, someday you'll understand the peace to be found in the simple things," she'd tell me when I gave her a hard time about it. Now, I got it. I understood what she meant because all of the tension seeped out of my body as I watched them work. When I closed my eyes, the soft sc.r.a.ping of metal across sand steadied me.

As the last groundskeeper finished for the night, he looked to the dugout and gave me a quick wave. I'd much prefer they not know to look for me, but such is life when you're struggling to get through the season. I was far from the only problem child on our team, but my problem wasn't talent, it was that my head wasn't in the game. My life was unrecognizable compared to last winter, and I was getting tired of trying to juggle my personal issues with my job. Teresa seemed content to make my life as miserable as possible right up until the minute she signed the divorce papers.

When I was younger, I had this delusional idea that I'd have it all by the time I reached thirty: the wife, a house, a career they'd be talking about for decades to come, and maybe even a kid or two running around in the backyard. Now, a few months shy of that benchmark, I had nothing I dreamed of. Instead, I had a soon-to-be ex-wife, a rented condo in the city, a career that seemed to be fraying by the day, and wasn't sure I'd ever have a little boy to teach how to throw a ball. It was unsettling, to say the very least.

I stood from the bench and leaned on the railing, looking out over the silent stadium. The sun dropped behind the outfield wall, signaling that it was time for me to pack it up and head home. To my empty condo. I'd get a dog, but then I'd have to hire someone to keep an eye on the d.a.m.n thing when we were on the road. The more I dwelled on it, the more miserable my life seemed.

I waited until I was in my Jeep before turning on my cell phone. It was a habit, more than anything else, to not have the distraction when there might be some kid straggling behind to get me to sign something for him. I remembered all too well what it was like to be young and have the men I idolized blow off the kids at the fence. I promised myself long ago that I'd never be that guy. There was a text message waiting from Sean with nothing more than a room number. It was a call for help, and I turned the opposite direction from home as I left the parking lot. I figured both of us needed a night to forget about the stinker of a game we'd just played. Seriously, there were rec leagues out there that could've have whooped either of our teams.

A few of Sean's teammates waved to me as I made my way through the lobby of the Westin and I returned the gesture. The groupies were already circling like sharks around chum and I chuckled, glad that wasn't me tonight. I used to be the guy who'd gladly take a girl to his room for the night, but the l.u.s.ter of that wore off before I'd even met Teresa.

It was a s.h.i.tty thing even to think, but I should have never asked her to marry me. There was a time when she and I got along. h.e.l.l, she was one of my best friends for a time, but it was never the type of relationship that led to happily ever after. Before her own career took off, she was always there for me. I married her because it was what I felt as though I owed her for putting up with my tantrums after bad outings, the stresses of extended road trips, and all of my eccentricities, as she referred to them.

"Excuse me, sir." I looked up to see a bulky security guard blocking me from pressing the elevator call b.u.t.ton. "Are you a guest at the hotel?"

"No, I'm here to see a friend," I told him. He crossed his arms over his puffed-out chest, as if daring me to try to go around him. If I hadn't been so busy wallowing, I would have asked Sean to meet me down here. It was standard procedure for hotels to tighten their security when a team was in the building. We brought in enough money between three-hundred dollar a night rooms and bar tabs that they didn't want to risk us going elsewhere.

"He's good, Paul." I turned to see Jason Klein standing behind me, smirking. "Hey Mason, glad you came down. Our boy's in pretty rough shape up there. I tried getting him to come down for a drink, but he's taking Eric's trade pretty hard."

s.h.i.t. That explained a lot. Sean had tried telling me repeatedly that what they shared was no different from our friendship, but I wasn't stupid. There was something about the subtle glances when they didn't think anyone was looking and the way Eric's hand dropped slowly when he'd smack Sean's a.s.s on the way back to the dugout. I didn't think it was enough for anyone else to notice, but the signs were there if you knew what to look for.

Rumors had been circulating for a few weeks that the Mavericks wanted to trade Eric to the Seattle Wildcats, but there had been no announcement as of this morning when I shut down my phone. Had I known, I would have gotten in touch with Sean before the game to set up something for tonight.

"He'll be fine," I a.s.sured Jason. One of the first facts I learned about Sean was that he never allowed his personal life to affect the game. It might trip him up momentarily, but he'd always bounce back, more determined than ever. "When was the trade announced?"

"Not even two hours before game time. When I got to the locker room, Eric had finished packing his gear and was walking out the door. He barely had enough time to take a cab back to the hotel, grab his suitcase, and get to the airport."

Seeing that I wasn't a psychotic fan or a reporter looking for salacious gossip, Paul pressed the call b.u.t.ton and gave me a quick apology. It was apparent that this was his job whenever teams were staying at the hotel, and he knew when to back down. I appreciated his vigilance, even if it was a bit inconvenient.

"I'm going to see if he wants to go back to my place. He's done for a few days, and the last thing he needs is to sit in that room all night dwelling on s.h.i.t." I didn't know why I was telling Jason this, but it seemed like a good idea to make sure someone knew where he'd be tonight.

"Sounds good. Do something mindless to help him get out of the funk before his next start." Jason and I shook hands as the elevator door opened and I played Candy Crush on my phone as the elevator climbed to the tenth floor. They should call that game Candy Crack because it was addictive as h.e.l.l. Most of the time, it was exactly what I needed to clear my head, but it did nothing to help the images of Eric and Sean together.

You have no proof of anything, I chided myself. I swore this had to be the world's slowest elevator. I'd nearly convinced myself I'd be trapped in a broken elevator when the doors opened.

Sean was waiting at the end of the hall for me when I stepped off the elevator. It didn't shock me that Jason had given him a heads-up, and I was grateful he had good guys looking out for him. He turned to face me and I saw how much of a toll today had taken on him. Even from a distance, I saw the dark circles under his eyes and there was tension radiating from his body.

"Hey, bud, you look like h.e.l.l," I criticized as we did that whole man-hug, back slapping thing. I followed him into his room. It was painful watching him wander aimlessly around the small s.p.a.ce, pacing as though he had no clue what he was supposed to do. I reached out to him, curling my fingers around his wrist to stop him before he drove both of us crazy.

"Thanks. I don't know if you heard, but it's been a pretty s.h.i.tty day." His gaze shifted to the still made bed near the window, pristine except where someone sat on the edge of the mattress.

"I might have heard that," I teased, trying to lighten the mood. "Which is why we're going to get the h.e.l.l out of here, pick up a pizza on the way home and kill some s.h.i.t on the Xbox tonight. Sound like a plan?"