The Catch Page 5

  Family first.

  And while I’m choosing the contract now, opting to do something for my dad, I make a promise to myself to take care of me next.

  With a deep breath and a resolve I barely feel, I head out of the bathroom and come face to face with Cal. We both freeze.

  “I hope you were successful at whatever it was you were trying to accomplish, Ms. Dalton, considering you did it at the expense of my son’s future.” Disdain drips from his voice. “Your little lie had some serious consequences.”

  “It cost me more than you can imagine,” I say softly, voice breaking, as I try to keep my composure.

  “Really?” he sneers as he steps into me. “You don’t have a clue what this cost Easton. You tell me to protect him, praise him, and then you screw him over? It’s my son whose life has been turned around. He took less money for years to stay right here and have a life instead of the constant moving around most players do. To be loyal . . . But then again, it seems you know nothing about loyalty, do you? Your true colors burned bright, Dalton.”

  “There’s more to the story than—”

  “Ms. Dalton, Cory will see you now,” the receptionist interrupts from the doorway, and I wonder how much she heard.

  “Thank you,” I murmur with a tight smile.

  “Asshole,” Cal mutters under his breath. I snap my head his way, hoping for one more second to explain what I can to him, but he’s already walking the other way.

  The only thing he’s left unspoken is whether he was referring to Cory or me.

  “. . . and that is why I still believe Dalton’s Physical Therapy would benefit the Aces organization successfully with a team contract,” I say, completing my spiel with conviction all the while looking at the man across the table from me and wondering how I got myself into this position. Why I’m fighting for a contract with a team where I can’t trust—or stand, for that matter—the man who would be my boss.

  “And yet you couldn’t get Easton Wylder rehabbed and back on the active roster in the time frame allotted,” he rebuts.

  “Correct.” Every part of my body revolts at the lie. “As I expressed when I was brought on, I disagreed with giving him a time frame. Every body recovers differently from injuries.”

  “But I believe your other words were, ‘I can have him ready by mid-August.’”

  Asshole. “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs as he sits back in his chair and levels me with an unrelenting stare as if he’s trying to intimidate me. I meet his stare and don’t back down. “And what should I do about the matter that you breached the parameters of your contract?”

  “In concern to?”

  “Having a relationship with the player you were charged to rehab.”

  Is that what this is all about? Did Cory want to call me in here just to pull his chest-thumping bullshit and remind me he’s in control? Use this as his leverage and to justify why he traded Easton?

  But even then, it doesn’t explain why Easton’s signature was on those damn agreements. Or why Finn let him.

  “If I recall correctly, Ms. Dalton, I’m referring to your violation of section D, part five of your contract.”

  Every part of me clings to my attempt at civility when all I want to do is tell him where he can shove said contract.

  “Well, seeing as how my personal life is none of your business—”

  “It is my business when you’re contracted with the team.”

  “Noted,” I say with as much courtesy as possible as I attempt to regain some of my footing. “But seeing as how being in a ‘relationship’ with Mr. Wylder didn’t influence my opinions regarding his recovery, then our ‘relationship’ shouldn’t be taken into consideration. You’d think I’d give him preferential treatment. That I would be swayed to deem him one hundred percent, so he could return to the active roster. And somehow or other, because I didn’t show such favoritism, he’s been traded, which leads me to feel partially responsible for the situation.” It’s my turn to stare at him with eyebrows arched in an exclamation point to my comment.

  “Mr. Wylder’s trade has nothing to do with you. There were agreements in place before you came on board.”

  “Agreements? Like heal in a set time frame or be traded? I’ve worked in a lot of clubhouses, but I’ve never seen those stipulations made on a player’s rehabilitation.” I’m pushing the envelope, I know I am, and yet I can’t help it. All I can think of is the devastation on Easton’s face last night.

  “It’s a standard practice I implement for the teams I work with.”

  “Standard practice? Trimming costs is one thing, but making a body heal on a clock . . . I can’t imagine why an owner would allow that policy.”

  He sighs as if he’s bored with this conversation already. “There were terms agreed upon by Mr. Wylder. Just like the terms you agreed to and broke in your contract.”

  “I did.” I draw the words out intentionally, not oblivious to his sudden change of subject.

  “My concern, Ms. Dalton, is how do I know that if I were to give you the team contract, this situation wouldn’t happen again?”

  “Tell me something, Mr. Tillman,” I say shifting in my seat and leaning forward with hands clasped on the table in front of me. “Is this no relationship clause a standard part of your contract or was it only amended for me? If that’s the case, I’d hate to one, think of the organization as being sexist, and two, that they’d be narrow-minded enough to not think men can’t have relationships with other men too.”

  He furrows his brow, and for a split second I fear I’ve gone too far. Maybe he’s one of those men who can’t handle being challenged by a female. In my line of work, I learned early on that assertive women often scare men.

  He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, and I swear I see a hint of amusement in his eyes despite the silence suffocating the room. “Dually noted . . . but that still doesn’t give me an answer.”

  “To which question?”

  “How do I know it won’t happen again?”

  It’s a loaded question, and one I know I need to heed carefully. “Considering you’re in the midst of trading my boyfriend, then it’s a moot point. I’ll be here, and he’ll be wherever you send him so . . .”

  “I can see why the guys on the team like you,” he muses, leaving me to wonder momentarily if that’s a compliment or a slight. He stands from the table and walks to the window of the conference room to look to the empty ballpark beyond. When he doesn’t finish his thought right away I opt to remain silent and wait him out.

  “I came in here today with half a mind to let you go. There are rules. You broke them. There were terms of your contract, and I’m a stickler for following contracts to the letter. More importantly, you did not satisfy our agreement. But between your company’s reputation and your ability to handle whatever is thrown at you, you’ve given me pause in doing that.” He turns to look my way, and I meet him head-on.

  “You’re over halfway through the season, Mr. Tillman. Your current physical therapist’s last day is next week and most other therapists qualified to handle a club and its rigorous expectations are already employed.”

  He shakes his head and chuckles at my sales pitch. “Very true, so that’s why I’d like to give you till the end of the season to show me what you’ve got. A probationary period, if you will. You can use the staff we have already or bring in your own, but you’ve got the next fifty, hopefully seventy-ish days if we make the playoffs, to prove you can handle the needs of this team.”

  I swallow over the nerves that suddenly hit me and allow relief to flood my system. I may not have let my dad down yet.

  I hope he can hang on long enough to see it. Seventy-ish days when you’re grateful for the next minute, the next breath, can seem like forever.

  “I’ll get the contract drawn up now.”

  “Easton, how does it feel to be changing teams for the first time in your career?”

  Cameras flash an
d add to the percussion pounding in my head as reporters surround me.

  “How’s your shoulder? Are you ready to play for Dallas?”

  A camera hits against my shoulder. Questions are shouted. Hands on my back trying to steer me. Microphones shoved in my face.

  “Easton, at the press conference this morning, Cory Tillman stated you are parting with the team on good terms. We’d love to hear your opinion about that statement.”

  I glance up and am blinded by another flurry of flashes as I try to push my way through the throng of reporters. All questions I don’t want to answer. Another dash of salt in my open wound.

  “Easton, do you have anything to say to the fans of Austin who have followed you since you started?”

  That question stops me and is something I can’t ignore. I pause, my eyes down, hidden beneath the brim of my cap while I figure out what to say.

  There’s a slap on my back that I shrug away from. “Need some help?”

  I look over to my dad, surprised as hell to see him here. Relief fills me as the sound of the cameras clicking assaults my ears, everyone desperate to capture the photo opportunity. Father and son. The end of a legacy. No more Wylders on the roster.

  “Go ’head,” he encourages with another squeeze of my shoulder and nod of his head.

  I clear my throat and address the reporters. “Austin will always be my home regardless of where I play. The people, the city, and the atmosphere is in my blood, and I’ve been one of the fortunate few to have had the chance to stay as long as I have with one team. I’ll miss my teammates. I’ll miss the incredible fans here. But more than anything, I’ll miss being an Ace. I wore the jersey as a little boy wanting to be just like my father . . .” My words fade as I look to my left and notice Santiago standing nearby, hands shoved in his pockets, and shoulder leaning against a wall, watching me. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments and I hate that he’s here, listening to what feels like an intimate moment with the city I swore I’d never leave.

  “East . . .” my dad prompts, forcing me to turn my attention to the slew of reporters around me, waiting for me to finish.

  “. . . and I was one of the fortunate ones who got to grow up and be exactly what I wanted to be. So yes, I’ll miss Austin. The fans. The team. Even you nosy reporters snapping my every move.” I earn the laugh I was working for and nod my head. This time when I try to walk away, they let me while my dad remains and answers questions.

  Glancing back, I watch him in his element—with the attention on him, answering how he feels, knowing I’ve been traded by the team he’s been loyal to his whole life. I can’t help but wonder if his sudden appearance was a sincere show of support for me as my father or as an Aces representative wanting to ensure I gave the proper company line.

  Fucking doubt.

  It’s like a cancer you can’t erase until it grows and grows and eats at every part of you. I glance over to where Santiago stood and then back to my father, still chatting amiably with the reporters, before heading into the clubhouse, one last time.

  “So Dallas, huh?”

  I should have known he’d be here. Just like he’s always been throughout my life. There is no Manny-man or Easy-E exchange like we’ve done over the years. This time it’s different, and I know he feels the same.

  “Can you believe that shit?” I murmur to try and lighten the mood. I shake my head but my eyes don’t leave my nameplate adorning my locker. That would be his doing. Leaving it there for me instead of removing it the minute the trade has been made like is typical protocol. “I’ve lived my whole life thinking the designated hitter is cheating and now I’m headed for a team who plays with one.”

  “Traitor.”

  “Let’s save that term for Tillman.”

  “Agreed.” His chuckle makes me smile even though I’m at odds with everything about being here. “You okay?”

  I sigh and shake my head as I look at the scratched hash marks in the rear corner of my locker. The tally I kept my rookie year of how many homeruns I’d hit, and even despite a clubhouse renovation, he kept those there for me.

  When I don’t answer, he goes in for the laugh, in pure Manny style. “I mean we both know you look like shit and smell like eau de whiskey, but”—he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes—“you okay?”

  “What can I do, Man? Isn’t this part of the game?” I turn to look at him for a second, meet his eyes from beneath the lowered bill of my cap, before looking back at my boxful of shit I’ve kept over the years. Good-luck charms and tokens from fans who’d touched me. A St. Christopher’s medal given to me by Dex, the little boy from Make-A-Wish who spent an incredible day with me, and then whose funeral I attended three months later. The tattered note my mom gave me the first time I ever dressed in an Aces’ uniform to take the field.

  So many memories. So much history.

  “For most it’s part of the game, yes, but not for you. This team is all you’ve known.”

  I want to tell him thanks for stating the obvious but don’t even have the effort to muster the sarcasm. Besides, he doesn’t deserve my shitty mood being taken out on him. He’s on my side.

  “It doesn’t make any sense, Manny. None of it does. So I’m just trying my best to wrap my head around it and the fact that tomorrow I might be in a Wrangler’s uniform.”

  “Might be?”

  “Yeah. Finn organized for me to be evaluated by their lead PT. I’ll do the song and dance and if I get approved, I’ll get to play.”

  “You’ll get approved,” he says with absolute certainty.

  “I will? You never know, every PT has his own opinion,” I say perpetuating Scout’s lie.

  “How far is it from Dallas to Temple?” he asks, knowing that my outrage lies with more than just changing teams. He knows about my mom.

  I stare at him for a beat before letting it go. “Driving? It’s a little under two hours.” I nod, thinking of how this complicates matters. “It’s a straight shot down I-35 but two hours is two hours, you know?”

  “Yeah . . . but it’s better than across the country,” he muses as he takes a seat beside me, facing the opposite way. He doesn’t say anything else when I know he wants to. And as the silence settles, he makes his point with minimal words like usual.

  It could be a lot worse. That’s what he’s implying. And while he may be right, everything about this situation still stings like a son-of-a-bitch.

  “True,” I finally say but don’t quite feel.

  “You’ll do great there. Fuentes is something else. He’ll be a fun pitcher for you to catch. And a challenge. His curveball is wicked. Then there’s McAvoy. He’s got some high heat—”

  “I appreciate it, Manny. You trying to make me feel better so I say this with no disrespect . . . don’t waste your breath.”

  “I figured as much,” he says with a soft nod. “Does it make you feel any better if I say you were shafted?”

  My laugh this time is real, and it sets off the pounding in my head. “That’s the least of what I got. What are the guys saying?” I ask, curious how Tillman’s playing this.

  “They’re pissed. Confused. Rumor is Scout threw you under the bus. Saved herself somehow by screwing you.”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “Only if you think I am.” And there he goes again with his leading statements. I knew he’d get back to his point sooner or later.

  The locker room falls silent. I rub the St. Christopher’s medal between my fingers while he gives me the time I need to figure out what to say. I could throw her to the wolves. Distract. Diverge. Stop people from asking the questions I don’t want asked. Make her the villain to blame. And yet, even I’m not that much of an asshole.

  “She didn’t do me any favors, that’s for sure,” I finally say.

  He whistles softly. “Screwed by your girl and your team. That’s rough. Sorry, son.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess one clean break is better than a few little ones.” But hell if those br
eaks aren’t hitting me where it hurts.

  “Just remember not everything is what it seems to be,” he says, standing to his feet.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, looking up to meet his eyes.

  “It means she was fighting for you. And then, if rumors are true, she wasn’t.”

  “How the hell do you know that? What are you talking about? Were you there?”

  “Only when there was complete chaos. Coffee spilled on everything. Papers everywhere. Tillman’s clothes were splattered with it. People scrambling, trying to save the documents and clean up the mess.”

  “What does this have to do with anything, Manny?” I ask as he heads to his office and holds up one finger before disappearing for a few seconds and then returning with something in his hand.

  “I helped clean up the coffee,” he says as he stops a few feet from me. “I was there when Tillman’s assistant tore out of the conference room needing paper towels and so me being me, I helped. I didn’t even realize Scout was in there until I walked out and heard her voice. I assume she was under the desk picking up the papers that were all over the floor . . . but I didn’t think much about it. I mean, I knew what the meeting was about, and yet I didn’t worry because it was you. And it was her. I was more concerned with getting back downstairs to wish you luck and to let you know I’d be in the stands. But then the call came through and you stormed out of here. When I found out what had happened, I was beside myself, East.”

  “You and me both.”

  “It’s total bullshit. I was so flustered by it all, it took me the better part of the game to remember where I put my keys. After searching everywhere, I found them on the credenza in the copy room. Just as I was about to leave, I noticed a sheet of paper on the floor sticking out from beneath it. I thought nothing of it other than to put it back on the table for whoever dropped it . . . but when I picked it up, it was this. It’s so very different than the rumors, so I didn’t want to leave it and get her in trouble.”