Hard to Lose Read online

  “Yes, how can I help you?”

  “Chase Kincade with Kincade Sports Management.” I reach my hand out to him and he shakes it.

  “I currently don’t have any players even close to the caliber needed to play in the major leagues so I’m quite curious what this is all about.”

  “Ryan Camden.” I smile and shift on my feet as his expression grows guarded.

  “What about him?”

  “I was wondering if you happened to know his whereabouts or how I can get in contact with him?”

  He eyes me beneath the bill of his cap, his arms still crossed over his chest. “Why?”

  Why? A part of me sags in relief at the simple word, because doesn’t that mean Ryan is still alive?

  I didn’t realize until right now how much I feared I’d find out otherwise. And I’m not certain why it’s so damn important to me that he is alive.

  I draw in a shaky breath and clear the thoughts from my head. “It’s going to sound weird, but long story short, we tried to recruit him off an email you sent us almost six years ago. He never responded to us and then two weeks ago, we received a letter in the mail from him. A letter he mailed more than five years ago from a Forward Operating Base in the Helmand province of Afghanistan. Apparently, it’s been lost in the mail all this time and . . .”

  “You expect me to believe that you’re coming to recruit a player from five, six years ago when he’s older now and there are new crops of athletes in your face every day?” He lifts his eyebrows. “C’mon now.”

  “I never said I was going to recruit him. All I said was I was looking for him—”

  “For what?” He raises his voice, and I shake my head to deny the accusation in his voice.

  “To tell him we got it. To see where he is and what he’s doing and maybe highlight his plight somehow—”

  “Come to think of it, I didn’t see you present anything proving you are who you say you are.”

  “Oh. Yes.” I’m flustered—when I’m never flustered—as I reach into my purse and produce a business card. He takes it and stares at it for a beat. “You can call the number to verify I am who I say I am.”

  He turns the card over and over in his hand. It appears he’s grappling with something unbeknownst to me. “Why do you want to find Ryan?”

  “I don’t have a direct answer for you on that,” I fib. “But something is telling me I need to follow up with him.”

  When Coach Bassett looks up to meet my eyes, his lips are pursed and his stare’s relentless. “So let me guess, you’re looking to recruit a ‘war hero’ and gain media attention for yourself in the meantime? The spotlight’s that irresistible? You agents are all the same. Every time I think it’d be different, one of you go and prove me wrong.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He emits a short laugh. “I know I’m not a big-shot agent or anything, but I’m astute enough to know you’re not telling me the whole story. Five, six years ago everyone wanted something from him but damn, it’s amazing how quick they forgot about him once they got what they wanted.”

  My head spins with the information he’s providing but isn’t clarifying. He’s adding pieces to a puzzle I don’t even know the picture of to solve.

  “I’m sorry, but again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “And yet, you’re still looking for him?” Sarcasm laces his tone and I shake my head ever so slightly as I try to understand.

  “I’m not sure how I’ve offended you, Coach, but I’m simply looking for Mr. Camden. His letter came five years too late. For some reason, it arrived on my desk, and I can’t let go of the feeling that I need to find him, even if he’s in his mid- to late twenties now. My father was interested, and I guess, I want Mr. Camden to know that. That he was . . . noticed.”

  “So you’re going through all this trouble to throw it in his face and let him know he had his chance and oops, now he doesn’t? Sounds kind of cruel to me.”

  He has a point, and I hate that I’m suddenly doubting why I’m here.

  “What’s it to you?” I ask, getting frustrated. “Are you his keeper? Isn’t it up to him if he talks to me or doesn’t?”

  Coach Bassett nods slowly. “It is.”

  “And who’s to say that he still doesn’t have a chance? Stranger things have happened—unless, of course, you know something different about him.”

  “Can’t say that I do,” he says.

  “If you respect him as much as it sounds like you do, then isn’t it up to him who he talks to? Besides, why are you so protective of him if he no longer even lives in this town?” My question is a fishing expedition, and I’m hoping Coach Bassett won’t shut me down.

  “Because the kid was given the shit end of a stick most of his life. The most he had going for him was baseball. He may have been rebellious, had a bit of an attitude, but when it came to pitching, that was the one thing he could focus on. The kid was gifted—so much so that I’ve yet to see another one like him in the past six years.”

  “That’s why you reached out to recruiters,” I say, more than surprised that he’s giving me so much information when he was so guarded moments before.

  But I’ll take it. I’ll take anything I can get to help me find Ryan.

  He nods. “I wanted to help the kid but was in no position to interfere in his family dynamic. Regardless, I was surprised there weren’t teams lined up looking at him. Then again, this is a small town and rumors go far—especially when you’re a scout who prefers to steer clear from what you perceive to be trouble.”

  “And yet you still tried.”

  “Ryan had good in him. He just needed to know someone saw it.” Coach looks out to the empty baseball field for a moment before looking back at me. “He left here and never came back.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “I haven’t talked to him in a few years at best. Rumor is he’s in Destiny Falls.”

  “Where’s that?” I ask.

  “Some Podunk town outside of Virginia Beach.”

  “Is he still enlisted?” I ask.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Thank you, Coach. I assure you I have the best intentions when it comes to Mr. Camden.”

  He chuckles. “When you meet him, then you best not tell him you’re an agent upfront or he sure as hell won’t talk to you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Destiny Falls,” he repeats, effectively ending the conversation. And I don’t push. I know it was hard enough for him to give me this much, and I’m more than grateful that he did. “Thanks. I’ll check there. Thank you for your time.”

  I’m about ten steps away when he says, “Miss Kincade?”

  “Hmm?” I turn back to face him.

  “I’m trusting that you’ll do right by him.” Our eyes meet. Hold.

  And with a nod, I walk away with more curiosity than when I showed up here. Strangely, I’m also glad that Ryan Camden did have someone in his corner. That he wasn’t completely alone.

  Chase

  “DESTINY FALLS?” BREXTON ASKS THROUGH the speaker of my car. “It sounds like a cutesy town name from one of those cheesy, Netflix, made-for-romance series.”

  I look around at my surroundings. Clapboard houses with well-manicured lawns. Mature trees with yellow ribbons tied around their trunks. Rocking chairs on stoops with an American flag waving from the rooftop.

  “Pretty much.” I laugh as I drive through the town. “The question is now that I’m here, what am I supposed to do? Where do I go?”

  I twist my lips in thought as I make a split-second decision to ignore my GPS directions and turn left onto a street that looks like it leads toward the heart of the small town.

  “You didn’t think to ask yourself this before you drove all that way to get there?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not everyone plans every little thing out.”

  “You do.”

  Touché.

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “How big is this town?” my sister asks.

  “Bigger than a dot on a map but not huge by any means.” I pass a man taking trash out to the garbage can on the curb and marvel at how different this life is from my Manhattan skyrise. Neighbors waving to neighbors down the street versus my life where we all tuck our heads down, keep to our own business, and don’t make eye contact, because God forbid that means we might have to talk to one another. “From what I gather, it’s a military town through and through.”

  “So is this guy still enlisted?”

  “Not according to the coach.”

  “What did his social media tell you?” She asks the question like I’m a dumbass.

  “I can’t find him on it.”

  “Everyone’s on social media.” She laughs.

  “I know but I’ve looked and he’s not on there.”

  “Maybe he’s on there but uses a different name. An old safety precaution from his military days.”

  “Perhaps.” I shrug and slow down when I come upon a group of kids riding their bikes. “All I’ve found upon searching are a few grainy images of him pitching from his junior college and high school newspapers. The photo from his military award showed a stern, clean-cut soldier, mostly hidden by the bill shadowing his face. He could be any guy from anywhere.”

  “You sure he’s still alive? I mean—”

  “No obituaries. Not that I could find.”

  “And your purpose again in doing this is what exactly? I mean, I see you trying to one-up Finn in the public display arena, but it sounds like you’re on a wild goose chase.”

  “Where exactly should I go?” I ask, nipping in the bud this same damn line of questioning that I got from both Dekker and Lennox. I guess they’re doing tag team
little-sister therapy, and I’m not here for it.

  “Jeesh. Testy. Testy. You’re obviously still pissed at us for the meeting last week.”

  “Not at all.” I feign indifference.

  “Oh.” She sounds surprised. “In that case—”

  “That conversation is over. No need to rehash it.” My hands clench the steering wheel. “Where do you think I should look?”

  “A bar.”

  “What do you mean a bar?” I ask, breathing a sigh of relief when I see a decent-looking hotel. So far it has been slim pickings and not that I’m high-maintenance or anything, but—

  “You’re silently freaking out about finding a place to stay, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I answer too quickly.

  “Because you’re distracted and I can all but feel your panic attack through the phone,” she teases.

  “I am not having a panic attack. In fact, I just pulled into the parking lot of what looks to be a respectable one.”

  “You are such a freak.” That has my spine straightening.

  “I am not. Once you find a bed bug crawling on the pillow next to you in a hotel room, you’ll never look at them the same.”

  “Jesus. Chill. I’m just teasing you.”

  I exhale an audible breath and put the car in park. “Can we stay on track, please? Why do you say a bar?”

  “It’s a small town. The bar is where the locals hang out. Where they’ll gossip. My bet is you mention his name and you’ll find someone who knows him or knows of him and so on.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right,” she says, and I can see her gloating smile through the phone. “But here’s the thing, you can’t go in there asking everyone about this guy.”

  “Um, why not?”

  “Because you’re in a small, military town. They like to protect their own. If you go in there with guns blazing—pun intended—I guarantee they’ll clam up and not give you any information whatsoever. Besides—”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Make friends.” I don’t respond, because the thought is annoying. Why do I need to make friends here? It’s not like I’ll ever be back in this town again. “Look, I know you’re used to blowing into town, making your pitch, winning a client over, and flying back out, but this is going to take finesse. This is going to take earning their trust. The coach said this Ryan guy’s not a fan of agents, so this slow approach might help win you what you want—whatever that may be.”

  “That’s annoying.”

  “What, the small-town vibe or the fact that New York Chase has to adjust how she does things?”

  “Both.” I laugh. “Thanks for the advice. I don’t know if I’ll heed it—”

  “You will if you want to find this guy and then you’ll be thanking me,” she says in a singsong voice.

  “I’ve got to go.” I reach for my purse on the seat next to me.

  “Don’t think we didn’t notice you chose to go rogue in this month of all months.”

  Her words stop me mid-motion. And the therapy session has commenced. I pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re twenty-six, Chase. You running off to find Lost Letter Boy isn’t going to make the anniversary of her passing any easier.” Brexton’s words are soft, compassionate, and I hate hearing the empathy edging them.

  Of course, she’s talking about the death of our mom, but in true Chase Kincade fashion, I deflect from the topic and pretend everything is perfectly okay.

  “Seriously? Did it ever cross your mind that I needed a break from you guys and your prying eyes? That maybe I needed to get laid without my three sisters sticking their noses in my business?”

  “No, but it crossed my mind that you make sure you’re nowhere to be found around this time every year. You have a habit of making sure you’re on a recruiting trip or a vacation or somewhere other than here so we don’t know if you’re okay.”

  “Your point is?”

  “My point is that it’s okay to need someone. To need us.”

  “Noted,” I say in a clipped tone, wanting to click the padlock on Pandora’s box before she tries to pry it open.

  “You’re our little sister. It’s okay to be worried about you.”

  “I’m a big girl,” I add. A big girl who shoves her feelings away so she doesn’t have to live in the painful reminder that her mother missed out on so much of her life.

  “Just promise me you won’t be alone on the anniversary.”

  “Yep. Will do.” I huff out a sigh.

  “Chase . . .”

  “That’s my name,” I taunt, like the little sister I am and have no shame in doing so. “Besides, maybe I needed a change of venue for a bit. After all, you guys did challenge me with dating someone new.”

  “So you fled one of the most populated cities in the country?” She sighs. “Classic Chase deflection.”

  Nothing will ever bring Mom back.

  Nothing will ever fill the hole her death created.

  Nothing.

  “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to check in to this hotel, pray there are no bed bugs, and then find a nice, friendly bar to butter up the bartender for info.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she murmurs.

  “You didn’t.” My smile is tight even though she can’t see it. “You know me, I have my sights set on something—”

  “And therefore, nothing else matters.”

  “Exactly.”

  But when I hang up, I sit back in the driver’s seat and close my eyes.

  Is this why I’m so hung up on finding Ryan Camden, who by all accounts could be a complete jerk and undeserving of my time?

  Am I desperate to fix his misfortune because I know I can’t fix mine?

  Gunner

  SHE OWNS MY ATTENTION THE minute she walks into the bar. A new face in this bar gets noticed pretty damn quick to say the least. The town is small. The bar patrons are regulars.

  She’s not one of them.

  I wipe my hands on the towel hanging from my waist, lean my hips back against the counter behind me, and study her across the distance.

  Her dark hair falls a little past her shoulders in long waves as she swings her head from side to side to survey the lay of the land. Her lips purse, and I can assume she’s contemplating where to sit. She has an athletic body with curves in all the right places, and yes, I’m noticing. Especially how her red V-neck sweater is snug, her deep-blue jeans hug said curves, and the heels on her feet are more than sexy.

  Most women don’t walk into a bar without a gaggle of other women around them. If they do, then they’re meeting someone, and I know almost everyone in here right now. Either that, or they’re looking for one thing.

  Maybe I just might want to be of service for her and that one thing.

  A pair of fingers snap in front of my face and pull me back to the task at hand, running FU-Bar. “Earth to Gunner,” Nixon says and holds up his empty glass. “Care to refill this so I can keep my buzz or do I need to go hit on her just to get your attention?”

  I glare at him as I snag the glass from his hand and pull down the tap. “A man can look.”

  “Mentally you were already in bed with her.”

  “Fuck off.”

  I might forget to slant the glass so his beer has a huge foam head as payback. But he’s right. I was thinking that. I still am. And it would be a great goddamn place to be.

  Besides, when was the last time someone caught my eye as much as she has?

  “Here.” I slide the foamy beer back toward his usual seat to the right of me at the bar, my grin a solid fuck you back at him when he notices my pour.

  “Bastard.”

  “I think you meant to say thank you,” I joke.

  “It’s okay to have impure thoughts,” he says in his holier-than-thou voice.

  “Impure is an understate—” The words die on my lips when I turn back to look for Snug Sweater and find her taking a seat right in front of me. She looks up, and I’m met with a pair of the biggest, bluest eyes framed by thick lashes that I’ve ever seen.

  She’s even prettier up close.

  What’s worse? When she smiles, her entire face lights up, and the emotion in her eyes dances unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

  She’s stunning. Her eyes are too big for her face and her lips are fuller than average to offset a button nose . . . but Jesus, it works somehow in the best of ways.