chapter 19
FOCUSING ON WORK had never been harder. Taylor had bluffed her way through three different meetings as she struggled to contribute to discussions ranging from marketing promotions to analysis of the Patriots’ first week of games. She had to chair two of those meetings since Dembinski was on the road with the team for the Patriots’ four-game series in Atlanta. Her professionalism had kept her head above water, but barely, because it proved impossible to shove Ryan Locke out of her mind.
Now, as she pulled into the driveway of her mother’s townhouse, she vowed to finally put aside her obsession with the man, both his continuing troubles on the field and all the deliciously sinful things they’d done in the days since that wild romp in Ryan’s hotel room after the reception. Now, she had to devote her full attention to Bridget for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Her mother deserved that, not some dutiful, half-interested interaction.
When Taylor let herself in, Bridget remained in her worn La-Z-Boy recliner, a cup of tea in her hand and one of the family photo albums open in her lap. “There’s ginger tea in the kitchen if you want some,” her mother said, as Taylor juggled two grocery bags and her keys.
“Maybe later. How are you feeling, Bridget? Any better since we talked?” She’d complained of back and neck pain earlier that afternoon when Taylor checked in.
“A little.” She sipped her tea and made a satisfied sound as if it went straight to her pain center.
Taylor dropped the bags on the carpet, took off her raincoat and hung it up. It had drizzled all day, adding to her troubled state of mind. She tossed her keys into the little enamel dish that her parents had used for that purpose since Taylor was shorter than the mahogany side table on which the dish rested.
“Samantha mentioned that you’d asked her to help you find an apartment for one of the new fellas,” her mother said as Taylor leaned down and kissed her cool, lotion-scented cheek. “I have to say I was surprised, Taylor. Surely the team has gophers for that sort of thing.”
Samantha should learn to keep her mouth shut.
Taylor couldn’t help a little sigh as she lowered herself onto her mother’s ancient chintz sofa and cast a glance at the photo album. Bridget rarely hauled the family photos down from the top shelf of her bedroom closet, and when she did it was usually to reminisce about Carter and Taylor’s pre-school days. But today this volume was open at a page containing honeymoon pictures—ones Taylor hadn’t seen for about a dozen or more years. A shot of the newly-married Vance and Bridget Page grinning in front of a poolside cabana on Waikiki Beach immediately caught her eye.
Happy days, if sizzling looks could be relied upon.
But she still needed to answer her mother’s comment. “It just came up in casual conversation when one of the new guys was telling me he needed to find an apartment as soon as possible. Since I knew Samantha had an in with Becky Greenbaum, I thought I could do the guy a favor by helping to speed the process along.”
“I see,” Bridget said dubiously.
Taylor’s stomach twisted a little. She recognized that tone of voice. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“Oh, it’s just that I could tell from the look on Samantha’s face that there might be something going on between you and this Locke,” Bridget said. “You know Samantha—you can read her like an open book.”
Grrr.
“Just tell me what she said, please.” Taylor hadn’t told her sister-on-law anything other than that she was looking to help one of the new Patriots locate an apartment as soon as possible. Could her tone of voice have been so transparent that Samantha had leapt to a conclusion—like that Taylor had spent the previous evening having hands-down the best sex of her life with the player in question?
Or was she getting paranoid?
Bridget shrugged. “Oh, just that you seemed particularly anxious that this Locke get himself set up.”
Taylor didn’t fail to register the depth of innuendo in that innocent-sounding statement. “Bridget, the player’s name is Ryan Locke, so you can stop calling him ‘this Locke’, as if he was some sort of convicted felon or something. And it was important that he locate a place, because he told me needs an apartment where his daughter can feel comfortable when she comes home from boarding school. He’s a single parent, so it’s not easy for him.”
“A single parent?” Her mother made a humming sound. “Ah, well, then. But why you? You’re the assistant general manager of the team, not some flunkey.”
Taylor tried for a dodge. “You’re going to like what I’m making for dinner tonight. I found some really nice asparagus and green beans at Whole Foods. And some great-looking artisan bread, too. I just love that store.”
Her mother eyed her over the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Wisps of fragile blond hair dangled around her thin face. “That sounds lovely, Taylor, but aren’t you going to answer my question? Can’t you just tell me whether you’re seeing this man—this Ryan Locke—or not? It certainly sounds that way to me.”
Her mother should have been a detective, because she had the ability to grill people with relentless efficiency.
Reluctantly, Taylor pondered the question. Was she seeing Ryan? What was the honest answer to that question, and did she want to give her mother one, anyway? Should she tell her that before Ryan took off for Atlanta, she’d spent three straight nights in his hotel room—or part of those nights, anyway—and yet she had no real understanding of what the two of them were doing.
Other than having fabulous sex and engaging in extremely dangerous behavior. Dangerous to her, anyway, prompting her to slink up and down in the elevator between his floor and the parking garage, anxious to avoid being recognized by anyone, even the hotel staff.
“We’ve seen each other a few times socially,” Taylor said after a few moments of indecision.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, here comes the lecture. Her mother had always warned her that practically the worst thing Taylor could ever do was to get involved with a baseball player.
Bridget heaved a dramatic sigh. She flipped two pages in the album until she found what she was looking for. Without a word, she picked up the heavy book and struggled to pass it to Taylor who had no choice but to take it from her mother’s weak, trembling hands.
“You see the photo in the lower right corner?” Bridget asked.
Taylor glanced down. Her mother was referring to a candid shot of her father and another Toledo player—Johnny Tremaine, if she remembered, correctly—at a publicity photo shoot for one of the Triple-A team’s advertising campaigns. Taylor had always thought it was one of the best images of her father—handsome, virile and incredibly buff in his white uniform at just twenty-five years of age. “What about it?”
“There are two people in the background. A woman and man.”
A well-dressed, long-haired brunette with doe-like eyes and an impressive bust, and a curly-headed young guy with a clip board and a pencil stuck behind his ear. “Yes,” Taylor said. She’d never paid the slightest attention to either of them in all the times she’d seen this photo, assuming they were part of the photography crew.
“That woman was your father’s lover, Taylor,” Bridget said with barely a trace of emotion in her voice. “For quite a long time.”
Taylor wouldn’t have been more stunned if the ceiling had suddenly cracked apart and fallen down on her head. “What?” she finally blurted. “Are you serious?”
It was a stupid but instinctive thing to say. Her mother wouldn’t make up a painful story like that, would she?
Bridget nodded, then sipped her tea. Taylor knew the photo was more than three decades old. It was a couple of years before she was born, but a quick and horrifying calculation told her that Carter would have been less than two at the time.
“Dad had an affair when Carter was practically a baby?” Taylor asked, her stomach lurching. She wouldn’t have ever nominated her parents’ marriage for storybook romance of the twentieth century, but it had never crossed her mind that Vance Page would have cheated on his young wife. Yes, ballplayers were constantly tempted, but her dad? He’d always seemed like such a straight arrow, putting loyalty to his family above everything else in face of the difficult circumstances facing major league scouts with wives and kids.
“Yes, indeed, he did,” Bridget said coolly. “When your father finally owned up to it—after I found him out, of course—he told me the affair had gone on for a whole season.” She gave a little snort. “That woman—Delia Crane—handled the publicity for the team. It was no wonder they were always using Vance in their advertising.”
Taylor couldn’t help focusing again on Delia Crane’s image. The woman was lovely in a sultry way and—now that Taylor took a really hard look—she noticed Crane’s eyes held a sensual, almost proprietary look as she gazed at Vance Page’s muscular form.
Oh, yeah—she was doing Dad, all right.
“I forgave him—eventually,” Bridget said when Taylor remained silent, too stunned to speak. “I had a little boy to think about, after all. But we were never the same again. I thought maybe that having another baby could repair some of the damage, but I learned it doesn’t work that way, Taylor.”
Taylor snapped the album shut. Why was Bridget doing this to her? All her life she’d adored her father—why would her mother want to tarnish his memory now? What was the point? So much anger boiled up inside her, that she didn’t trust herself to speak. Problem was, she didn’t know who to direct that anger at.
Bridget went on in a relentless monotone that seemed to hammer into Taylor’s brain. “Delia wasn’t the last, either. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t really Vance’s fault. Taylor, you’re in the business. You know that certain women are relentless in hounding athletes, especially the handsome ones like your father. It would take a very special man to resist those temptations, and I’m afraid he just wasn’t up to it. Not until much later, anyway. But, actually, I’m not sure he ever really was.”
The undertone of bitterness in Bridget’s voice made Taylor feel sick. It was like she was hearing about a completely different couple. A whole other life had been going on beneath the calm surface of what had appeared to be a successful marriage.
Her mother obviously needed to talk so Taylor simply nodded her head, resisting the temptation to speak.
“Pro baseball did that to Vance. Tempted him with women. Tempted him with money and fame, and then dashed his hopes. So, he ended up in a crummy scouting job, Taylor, his dreams gone, his career reduced to running all over the country trying to convince spoiled adolescents to sign with the Patriots. That was your real father—an ordinary, flawed man, not the larger-than-life hero you idolized.”
Her mother’s bitingly calm description of her husband utterly jarred with the memory of Vance Page that Taylor had cherished for so many years. Her dad had doted on his children—well, at least on her—and had treated Bridget like she was made of the finest porcelain.
She gave her head a mental shake. Was that image merely a product of an impressionable young girl’s mind? Her brother Carter would probably say it was. After all, he and his father had mixed like oil and water after a certain point, the jock father riding the non-athletic son so hard that by his early teens Carter had abandoned any attempt at pleasing him. To this day, Carter hated sports and baseball in particular, choosing business and political pursuits in obvious rejection of the path his father had followed. Had Taylor been so entranced by her dad’s love and endless enthusiasm for her accomplishments that she hadn’t been able to discern what was going on inside her own family?
She sucked in a deep breath, trying to put the guilt into perspective. She’d been a young child during those times, and only thirteen when her father died on that operating table.
Taylor studied her mother’s calm expression, taking in the hollow look of exhaustion under her eyes. She knew it was no coincidence that Bridget had chosen to drop this bombshell on her now. Her mother had a phenomenal nose and, after Samantha’s unfortunate comments, had clearly surmised that her daughter had become involved with one of the Patriots. While Taylor’s dad had often been oblivious to what was going on behind the curtains with his kids, Bridget Page had been a cross between an eagle and a bloodhound. She had a knack for sniffing out trouble, and had always done her best to get out in front of it.
“Okay, Dad made mistakes and he hurt you,” Taylor ground out, trying to wade through the thick morass of emotions threatening to swamp her. “And I’m so very sorry for that, Mom. I truly am. But he was a good guy and the most loving father a girl could ever want, and nothing you can say to me now is going to tarnish my memories of him. I can’t pretend otherwise.”
That truth had come pouring straight out of Taylor’s heart. She could spend the rest of her life trying to analyze the whys and wherefores of the bomb her mother had just dropped on her, but it wouldn’t make any difference. After everything he’d done for her, loyalty to her dad’s memory was as important to her as breathing.
Surprisingly, her mother leaned over and patted her hand. “I know I’ll never change your mind about him, nor do I want to. He was your father and he loved you. So that’s not the reason I’m finally telling you all this. I think you understand why, because you’ve always known exactly how I feel about you getting involved with a ballplayer. Or any professional athlete, for that matter. You’ve always avoided it in the past, and you need to keep straight on that path because those men would never make you happy. Never.”
She shook her head hard enough that more hair came loose from her barrettes and swirled down over her cheeks. “Players never really grow up, not after they’ve spent their whole lives playing a game. Please believe me when I tell you that, Taylor. I lived it.”
Taylor could totally understand her mother’s cynicism, but it made no sense to tar every ballplayer in the world with the same bitter brush. “I get it, Bridget. Let’s not talk about that anymore. You don’t need any more stress. You know it’s bad for your condition.”
Her mother gave a dismissive little snort. “What’s a little stress when your daughter’s future could be at stake?”
Taylor pushed herself up from the sofa and adjusted the little pillow behind Bridget’s head, making sure it gave her mother’s neck the proper support. “Why don’t I start on dinner now?”
Bridget smiled up at her. “Yes, I’m getting hungry. But I’ll come soon and make the salad.” Her mother always wanted to make the salad, no matter who was cooking the main meal. It made her feel she could still contribute, and Taylor was more than happy to oblige.
“Fine, but now, just rest. I’ll call you when it’s time.”
In truth, Taylor longed for the solitude that working alone in the kitchen—just her and a bottle of white wine—would bring. Her mother had just thrown an emotional grenade into Taylor’s past, and part of her couldn’t help resenting that. But it had given her cause to think even harder about what she was or wasn’t doing with Ryan Locke. Not because she didn’t trust Ryan, but because she didn’t trust herself.
* * *
ATLANTA WASN’T THE easiest city on a visiting team. For years, as a HornetHornet, Ryan had suffered creative chants of abuse from the left field bleachers at Turner Field. Now that he was playing first base for the Patriots—though that experiment might soon come to an ignominious end—he heard fewer heckling comments from the expensive seats nearby. But whenever the Braves got men on base, like the three hyped-up runners now, the red foam tomahawks came out in force, chopping the air as tens of thousands of fans chanted their team’s wordless war song. It was a pain in the ass for the visiting team, and especially for the pitcher trying to concentrate and throw strikes amid the din.
Every one of the Patriots felt big-time pressure tonight because it was the last game of the team’s four-game stand in Atlanta. The Braves had taken two of the three previous contests. Only the Saturday afternoon match, when Nate Carter had shut down the Atlanta batters with a two-hit, one run gem, had gone the Patriots’ way. Ryan had stunk the joint out during the whole series, and had been lifted for Ramiro Cruz yesterday after the sixth inning. He couldn’t blame the manager for yanking him once the Patriots got a lead. Not when one hit in fourteen official at bats along with two walks summarized Ryan’s three days of misery. Not when Cruz was a far more reliable defender, too.
Even worse, Ryan had made yet another throwing error in the Sunday game, though it hadn’t cost the team any runs. It was another botched throw to pitcher Jeremy Jenkins covering first. What should have been an easy little toss had turned into a double-pump nightmare that was mercifully blocked by Rome, backing up the play, before the runner could take an additional base.
The past week had been one of the hardest of his life—psychologically, at least. He’d played like a raw amateur, all the while agonizing over whether he was doing the right thing with Devon. After a dozen attempts to reach her on her cell phone, he’d risked her wrath by calling the office of Edenwood’s Dean of Students. A frosty functionary had called him back the following day to confirm that Devon Locke had in fact been attending classes and had not reported any illness, but the school could not force its students to communicate with their parents. Mildly relieved but still frustrated and worried, Ryan had kept leaving messages on Devon’s voice mail from Atlanta. Unfortunately, whatever he was saying appeared to have no influence in terms of motivating her to get back to him.
Teenage snit, he told himself. She’d get over it.
But every time he had that optimistic thought, he remembered what Taylor had told him and started to worry all over again. Though he and Taylor hadn’t talked too much more about it after the opening day reception, it had never left his mind for long. By Thursday night, when he met real estate agent Becky Greenbaum and signed the lease on his Society Hill condo—the same building she told him Nate Carter had lived in until after his marriage—he’d made up his mind to head back up to Westchester on his next day off and try to convince Devon to come down to Philly on the following weekend.
Thanks to Taylor, finding the apartment had been a breeze, and that had relieved him of a psychological burden. He’d already arranged with movers to bring most of his and Devon’s stuff down from Pittsburgh on the day after he got home from Atlanta. More than once since the team headed out of town, Ryan had given silent thanks that Taylor had come into his life. Their nights together the past week had been magic and had, for a few hours at least, lifted him out of the twin quicksands of baseball and parenting. He’d never had better sex in his life—that was for sure. Taylor might hold herself back and resist whenever he tried to reassure her that she wouldn’t get in trouble for seeing him, but she sure didn’t restrain herself when it came to enjoying—and demanding—everything he had to offer in bed, or anywhere else they made love. She was so damn beautiful and sexy and sweet that Ryan temporarily forgot all his problems as he lost himself in the joy of her.
It frustrated him, though, that she’d insisted on leaving his hotel room barely after midnight every night, and that she’d flatly rejected his suggestion that he come to her apartment. Ryan didn’t buy that a catastrophe lay at hand if they were seen together—intimately, as she’d put it—but he made himself respect her wishes. He just worried about what that might mean in terms of their future. Taylor didn’t seem to want to break it off with him, but she was clearly uncomfortable with what they’d been doing.
Their future.
He shook his head every time he started to think that way. He knew he’d have to give it time and let things sort themselves out, the same as he had to do with Devon. But that was a hell of a lot easier to say than to do. Patience had never been one of his strong points, and he’d struggled over the years to keep his hard-ass tendency to dominate under control. But his instincts told him that it was absolutely vital not to push Taylor, or else he’d lose her for good.
With his team up by one run in the bottom of the eighth, and with one out and the bases loaded, Ryan couldn’t help praying again that nobody would hit the ball right at him. It was a brutal failure of nerve, but the simple truth was that his confidence had evaporated. Though he had no trouble snagging even the toughest ground balls—the glove part of his game remained as solid as ever—his throws had descended into the nether regions of hell. No matter how hard he tried, the ball would rarely go where he wanted it to go—not even in practice. It seemed like there was an almost complete disconnect between his brain and his arm, with the command signals becoming garbled somewhere in the middle.
Pedro Delgado had worked him hard, with extra infield practice every day. But his problem had nothing to do with the amount of intensity of practice. Like everybody else, Pedro kept telling him to relax, to do what came naturally, to throw free and easy, like when he was a kid. Yeah, right. Maybe it was about being too uptight, but if so, why had he been able to keep hitting fairly well—until the last few games, anyway?
Yesterday, for the first time, he’d let the dreaded words Steve Blass Disease slip into his consciousness. Or maybe Steve Sax Syndrome was a better label, since Los Angeles Dodger Sax had been an infielder like Ryan, while Blass was a great Pirates pitcher from four decades ago. But both men had become as famous in baseball history for their inexplicable throwing problems as for their All-Star and World Championship seasons. Like a few dozen other major league players since, Blass and Sax had been at the top of their games when suddenly they could no longer throw the ball where they wanted it to go, and nothing worked to correct the problem. While Sax eventually got better after several error-plagued seasons, Blass collapsed completely, never pitched effectively again, and was out of baseball within a couple of years.
Sax was only twenty-three when the malady struck, but Ryan was a decade older. If he had the same problem—God help him—he didn’t have the time Sax had taken to recover. He’d be consigned to the scrap heap before the season was out.
Ryan pounded his fist into his glove, hard enough that the leather made a resounding crack. Why had that kind of negative shit invaded his brain? He didn’t have some weird throwing disease. He couldn’t let such stupid worry cloud his mind and blow his concentration even more. He told himself he was just wired over Devon, and that was compounding the unease he still felt after switching positions. The only way out of this slump was to concentrate even harder, wiping all the negativity and worry out of his brain. Maybe it was true that all he needed to do was relax and play the game like a kid again, for the sheer joy of the competition.
If only. It was damn hard to act like a kid when you depended on the game for your livelihood. And when you were getting older every day, with no real future other than on a baseball diamond.
The Braves’ left-handed hitting center fielder took a couple of vicious practice swings as he waited for another pitch. Ryan played deep and shaded toward the first base line, following the signals relayed by the coach. He knew the Patriots’ pitcher was going to try to keep hammering the outside corner of the plate, keeping the ball away from the pull hitter’s wheelhouse. With any luck, the guy would squib a grounder to shortstop Josh Gavin, who would then have to make a lightning fast choice—to either throw the ball to second to try for an inning-ending double play, or to fire to home plate to ensure the lead runner didn’t score.
Just don’t let him hit the damn thing my way, whatever you do.
Ryan crouched, his eyes locked on the batter. As soon as the guy started his swing, Ryan knew he was in trouble. The pitcher had clearly missed the target, and had sent the pitch straight over the heart of the plate. The batter hit it squarely—a screaming grounder right down the first base line. Ryan dived frantically to his left, stretching his body full out. Just before he hit the ground, the ball smacked the top of his glove’s webbing but didn’t stick, instead rolling a few feet away.
The runners had taken off as soon as they realized the ball had been hit on the ground. Ryan scrambled to his knees, reached out and grasped the ball in his right hand. He took a lightning quick glance toward second base. It was too late for the double play—that runner was too fast. But there was still time to nail the slower lead runner at the plate and save the run. He knew he didn’t have time to haul himself to his feet. Whatever throw he was going to make had to come from down on his knees.
Ryan clenched his teeth and let fly, putting everything he had into the awkward throw to the plate.
But his stomach twisted as the ball left his hand and he saw the shock on Nick Rome’s face. The Patriots’ catcher jumped high in the air and somehow got his big mitt on the ball, but by the time he came down, the runner had already crossed the plate, brushing Rome as the catcher landed awkwardly. The crowd roared as the umpire gave the safe sign.
The Braves’ man on first shot Ryan a grin as he pulled off his batting glove, keeping his foot tight to the bag. “Great stop, Locke. That was a tough throw to have to make from your knees. Our scorer won’t give you an error for that one.”
That was player camaraderie in post-1994 strike baseball. Guys didn’t often rub mistakes in your face anymore, at least not like they did in the bitter rivalries of other eras. “Thanks,” Ryan mumbled, though he felt like slugging the well-meaning guy out of pure frustration.
As Jack Ault climbed the dugout steps and began his slow trudge to the mound, signaling for the left handed reliever to come in from the bullpen, Ryan was dying inside. He’d let the team down again. His rotten throw had resulted in a blown lead and still left the bases loaded. It would take a bit of a miracle for the Patriots to get out of this jam now, but he forced himself to hold his head high as he and the other infielders approached the mound.
When Ault took the ball from him, the middle reliever shot Ryan a withering glare before jogging off the field. Three long seconds later, the new pitcher huffed in from the bullpen and took the ball from the manager. Ault slapped the big hurler on the ass and then pulled Ryan aside, just off from the mound. “Listen, Locke. Just bear down, and for Christ’s sake don’t f*ck up another one now.”
Ryan gritted his teeth as he nodded. Ault’s growled words were tough on the ears, but he deserved them.