chapter 24
RYAN WAS DAMNED if he was going to go cap in hand to Dembinski’s office to beg, and just the thought of having to ask the GM to cut him a break made him want to grab a bat and bash something. But as much as he wanted to storm around, cursing a blue streak, that wouldn’t help the situation.
Dembinski held all the cards, contract or no contract. The Patriots could ruin him in the blink of an eye, leaving him to collect his salary for a year but facing a future that held nothing but uncertainty. Whenever he envisioned life after a forced retirement at thirty-three, it wasn’t pretty. Not financially, and sure as hell not psychologically.
The GM usually showed up in the dugout at some point during batting or infield practice and today looked like no exception. As Ryan cleanly fielded a sharply hit ball from Pedro Delgado’s fungo bat, he noticed Dembinski striding out of the tunnel from the clubhouse and up the dugout steps to stand beside Jack Ault near home plate. Ryan held up a hand to signal Delgado that he wanted a break.
“Can I have a word, Dave?” he said as he approached Dembinski and Ault, who was leaning against the backstop.
Both men gave him curious looks, Dembinski’s a little hostile. Ryan followed as the GM started toward the third base coaching box. “What’s up, Locke?” he asked, coming to a stop halfway there.
Ryan was in no mood to be anything but direct. “Your messenger laid an ultimatum on me today. She said I’ve got to see some New York shrink, or else.”
Dembinski’s brow creased in a deep frown. “Yeah, so?”
The bastard’s arrogance made Ryan’s anger spike. “So, why did you make her do it? Hell, you know how big a deal it is to make a player see a shrink. I’d have appreciated hearing something like that from you, not your underling.”
The GM’s lip curled. “Underling? Make her do it? Jesus, where do you get off asking me shit like that, Locke? You don’t get to question what I do, or what Taylor does, either. You get to follow orders, like everybody else.”
Ryan gave himself a mental kick. He needed to ask Dembinski for a break, and now he’d let his frustration lead him to start off the conversation talking about Taylor instead of what he needed. But it was hard to separate the business from how he felt about her and what she’d said. The personal angle kept hammering at him, no matter how much he tried to put it in its rightful place.
Still, Ryan knew that Dembinski would never have treated a superstar like Carter or Miller that way. Not even Marriner, who was nearing the end of his career due to a string of injuries. He figured it showed how low he’d sunk in the GM’s estimation. Not that he was ever all that high to begin with.
But none of that matters. The guy’s a jerk, and your situation is what it is. So, get on with it.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” he said, keeping his gaze steady with Dembinski’s. “I don’t need to see that guy or anybody else. Yeah, I’m struggling, but the season’s barely started. I can work through this, but I need you to be patient. Dishing out ultimatums doesn’t help anybody. It just piles even more pressure on me.”
Dembinski shook his head. “No, what you need is to get a grip. We’re trying to take the pressure off you, for Christ’s sake. That’s why Ault’s benching you. You can still practice with the team and maybe pinch hit while you’re working with Farley. Taylor says he can do some of his work over the phone, so you might not have to spend that much time in New York.” He unzipped his jacket, no doubt because they were standing in the full afternoon sun.
Or maybe because he was just pissed off.
Ryan took off his cap and wiped his perspiring brow with his forearm. Everything was piling on top of him at once, and everybody was handing him ultimatums. Devon was in trouble at school, and was giving him an ultimatum about leaving. He was in trouble on the field, and the team was giving him an ultimatum about seeing Farley. His relationship with Taylor had imploded under the strain, too. The pressure had now built up in his head to the point where Ryan thought it might explode and splatter his brains on the lush infield grass.
He knew that in the end he’d have no choice but to comply with the crap that Dembinski and Taylor had concocted for him. Superstars could thumb their noses at management’s demands, but he was a long way from that kind of exalted status. No, he’d have to submit—but not before making one last ditch effort.
“Look, Dave, let’s see if we can find a middle ground on this. As much as I don’t see the need, I’m willing to go to New York if I absolutely have to. But I want you to give me another shot at fixing the problem myself. Give me a few more starts. At least four or five. If I’m still making errors after that, I’ll do whatever you want. See whoever you want.”
When the GM kept silent and appeared to be considering the proposition, Ryan tried to seal the deal. “If I see that I can’t make the plays, I’ll take myself out before Ault even gets the chance—I promise you that. I’m not going to hurt the team any more than I already have. I just want one more shot, that’s all.”
Dembinski still didn’t say anything, and Ryan could practically hear the wheels turning inside the guy’s bull head. On the one hand, he knew it was risky for the GM to grant him more starts since he could very well cost the team a couple of wins with more throwing errors. On the other hand, though, the Patriots clearly had no realistic backup plan yet. Ryan knew how little Dembinski and Ault thought of Ramiro Cruz’s hitting—the guy usually struggled to hit his weight—and there was no one in the minors who fit the bill, either.
Dembinski pinched his nose between his thumb and index finger, grimacing as if he had a sudden headache. “Ah, Jesus, I’m probably nuts to do this, Locke. But okay, you’ve got a few games. But if you cost us even one run, you’re out of the game and benched until you’re fixed. Are we clear on that?”
Though Ryan heaved an enormous sigh of relief inside, he didn’t let it show. “Crystal clear. Thanks.”
“You still need some time off, though. You can pinch hit the rest of the home stand, but that’s it. Jack’s not going to agree to anything more. But I’ll talk to him about letting you start the weekend series in Miami. If he agrees, that’ll be your last chance. Screw up there, and your ass better be in New York the next morning.” Dembinski’s rigid expression told Ryan how much it pained him to have to make the compromise. “Understood?”
Ryan nodded. “Absolutely. I really appreciate this, Dave. I won’t let the team down.”
“You’d f*cking well better not,” the GM snapped as he turned on his heel.
* * *
NO MATTER HOW rotten a day she’d endured, Taylor had almost always found that watching a live baseball game in the evening lightened her mood. As she leaned back in her chair in the GM’s suite, she concluded that today was turning out to be no different. Barely able to concentrate after the soul-wrenching meeting with Ryan, she’d been climbing out of her skin until the first pitch was thrown ninety minutes ago. But as soon as the roar of the crowd greeted the Patriots, she instantly became absorbed in the game despite everything that kept roiling her mind in the background. To her, baseball never got old. She watched hundreds of games every year, both live and on TV, and rarely found her interest flagging. The passion her father had instilled in her as a kid hadn’t waned at all.
Only Rick Clark and Cal Doyle had joined her in the suite tonight, and the three of them had barely spoken for seven innings. The men—neither was loquacious anyway—had no doubt picked up the vibe that Taylor preferred to watch the game in relative silence. She was glad Dembinski had a speaking engagement at some sports dinner, because not having to spend the evening with her boss was a decided bonus. All she wanted to do was try to enjoy the closely-contested game, drink a beer or two, and forget about Ryan Locke for a while—though that was a tall order if there ever was one.
So far, he hadn’t poked his head out the dugout, but there was a chance he would be called on to pinch hit in the eighth. The score was tied, and Patriots’ pitcher Noah Cade had already thrown a hundred and fourteen pitches according to Doyle, who was keeping count on the shiny silver clicker in his right hand. With a Mets’ leftie on the mound and Cade due up fourth in the inning, chances were high that Ault would bring Ryan in to pinch hit if one of the first three batters got on base. Ault would then put Cruz in at first base in the top of the ninth.
If Ault did call on Ryan, it would be no surprise. Dembinski had said he’d pinch hit if necessary, though he’d see no action until the weekend series in Miami where he would be given at least a couple of starts at first base. When her boss had dropped that particular bombshell on her after batting practice, Taylor had been stunned. And her shock at the GM’s unexpected decision to let Ryan start in Miami had magnified when he’d gone on to tell her that Ryan had pretty much begged him for one last chance before having to submit to seeing the psychologist.
Even now, more than three hours later, Taylor remained perplexed by what Dembinski had done. She’d screwed up her courage to the breaking point in order to be firm with Ryan when they talked in the park, going so far as to predict he could be released if he refused to get help. So, now it felt like Dembinski had undercut her. While that was certainly his prerogative, it made her feel like a failure.
Ryan had every right to appeal to Dembinski after he didn’t get what he wanted from her, so she couldn’t really blame him. On an emotional level, she could be happy for him even though she knew his plea was simply a delaying tactic that wouldn’t work. But her boss had left her with egg on her face by giving in. It showed that she couldn’t rely on Dembinski to back her in the future, either, and she couldn’t think of anything much worse than having to navigate delicate and difficult situations without the sure knowledge that her boss had her back.
What a freaking mess.
Taylor vowed that when she sat in the GM’s chair—she’d always found herself thinking in terms of when, not if—she would always back up her staff after she sent them out to act on her behalf. That was the right thing to do, even if the staffer made a mistake. It was the way you built confidence and self-esteem in your people, and inspired personal loyalty to you as their boss. Unlike her mentor, Dragons’ GM Bud Carlyle, Dembinski didn’t seem to get that crucial fact.
As she turned her attention back to the game, Gavin, the Patriots’ shortstop, drew a ball from the Mets’ southpaw for a four pitch walk. Ault climbed out of the dugout and Ryan followed, moving over to swing a weighted bat in the on-deck circle. A few seconds later, a smattering of boos echoed around the stadium as Ryan’s name was announced as the pinch hitter for Cade. Angry at the fans’ reaction, though not surprised, Taylor’s heart skipped a beat or two as she watched him stride to the plate. The poor guy was going through so much, and it seemed so unfair and wrong for those fickle fans to be on his case.
Then again, she knew a lot more than they did about what was going on.
Take four straight pitches, Ryan.
Taylor silently wished him to lay off the lefthander’s offerings unless he had a two-strike count. This pitcher had a high walk ratio, and he’d just thrown four straight balls to Gavin. With Ryan’s experience and eagle eye, he should take any pitch that wasn’t clearly over the plate.
The pitcher checked Gavin at first base, and then delivered a fastball from the stretch position. The ball was up—well above the strike zone—but Ryan swung anyway, fouling it off against the backstop. Taylor exhaled fully, having just realized she’d been holding her breath since Ryan entered the batter’s box.
Why did he swing at such an obvious ball? Is he screwed up mentally, or is he trying to prove something?
Ryan scratched a deep cut into the dirt with his right cleat and sank into his stance, whipping the bat back and forth as if it were toothpick-light. Even from high in the stands, Taylor thought she could see the depth of his concentration written on his face. He couldn’t have looked much grimmer.
After checking Gavin again, the Mets’ pitcher unleashed a wicked curveball that broke sharply down and in on Ryan, who took a quick step backward. The ball bounced in front of the catcher and hopped past his glove, rolling all the way to the backstop. By the time the catcher had whipped off his mask and retrieved the ball, Gavin was already standing on second base. The go-ahead run was now in scoring position.
When Ryan stepped back into the box, he’d choked up on the bat at least an inch if not more, and Taylor suddenly got it. Ryan wasn’t looking to get on base with a walk—he was determined to drive in the run. With Gavin on first, he’d swung from his heels at that high first pitch in the hope of connecting for at least a double, if not a homer. Now, though, the speedy runner at second would score on practically any hit that got past the infield, so Ryan was choking up, looking to poke a grounder into a hole between infielders, or punch a short shot over their heads.
Smart, Ryan. You’ve always been a crafty hitter.
Even with all Ryan’s on-field and off-field troubles, that quality about him hadn’t changed. A little glow warmed Taylor’s insides, because that was exactly why she’d pushed the trade for Ryan Locke. The man had always known how to produce runs, and would do whatever it took.
“Ten bucks says your boy whiffs,” Clark said as he turned toward her. “After that first pitch, it’s obvious he can’t catch up to this guy’s heater.”
Your boy? Taylor grimaced inside but stifled the reaction so it wouldn’t show on her face. Clark couldn’t seem to repress his uber-competitive nature whenever he was around her. Though he was the senior AGM, he’d obviously felt threatened by her since her hiring. The more the Locke trade proved to be a catastrophe, the better Clark liked it. He’d never admit that, of course, but Taylor had sensed it from the day she’d pitched the trade.
Even Doyle, a Clark man, gave the guy a doubtful look.
“That’s called betting against your own team, Rick,” Taylor chided.
He gave a little shrug. “Nah, not when it’s a friendly little bet between pals, right? Just something to pass the time.”
“Okay, then. My ten bucks says he won’t strike out. And another ten says he’ll get a hit and drive in the run.”
Are you crazy, Taylor? With this wild pitcher, it’s way more likely Ryan will draw a walk.
“Woo-hoo,” Clark chortled. “You’re going to stick with Locke to the bitter end. You’re some brave soul.”
“Shut up and watch the game,” Taylor shot back.
She didn’t give a damn about the twenty bucks she’d just bet, and didn’t even much care of Clark rubbed it in if he won. But she cared deeply about what Ryan would do in the next few seconds. With the game pretty much on the line, a hit could give him a huge moral boost, while failure to drive in the run would probably sink him deeper into his morass of bad play and self-doubt. Her stomach ached just thinking about it.
Ryan took the next pitch, a sinking slider that missed well below his knees. Taylor inched forward in her chair, perching on the edge. With two balls and one strike—a hitter’s count—Ryan would probably get a hittable pitch now. Almost certainly a fastball, as the hurler was having obvious difficulty getting his slider and curveball across the plate. Gavin took a big lead off second base, ready to take off as soon as the bat made contact with the ball.
Would Ryan be able to get on top of the guy’s fastball, or would Clark be proved right? Taylor glanced at the wide-screen TV monitor. Maybe she noticed because she’d kissed and stroked Ryan’s stubbled face what seemed like a million sweet times, but his strong, square jaw was tighter than she’d ever seen it. In fact, he was probably grinding his teeth down to stubs at this point. As much as hitters were incessantly told to relax at the plate, they rarely managed it when a game depended on the next swing of their bat. Ryan’s gritty determination was so apparent that only a dimwit like Clark could miss it.
But no matter what happened in the next few moments, Taylor suddenly knew she wanted nothing more than to kiss that jaw another million or more times, and have Ryan hold her in his strong arms every night until she fell asleep.
Nothing more? I want nothing more than that?
That conclusion startled her more than anything else that had happened during this troubled day. Despite their recent quarrels, Taylor had to admit that she couldn’t stand the idea of seeing Ryan day after day at the ballpark, and yet remaining as distant as if they’d never been anything more than manager and player. Several times this afternoon, her stupid thoughts had run away from her as she pictured Ryan with some other woman, laughing and kissing at a team event while Taylor struggled against an overwhelming urge to flee the room.
Then again, the way things were going for Ryan now, they might not be on the same team or in the same city much longer, anyway. But that prospect filled her with an equal amount of dread.
Forcing her focus to the scene below, she saw the lefty serve up the predicted fastball. Ryan clearly recognized the spin as soon as it left the pitcher’s hand, and with a short, choppy swing smacked a rising line drive straight at the second baseman. The fielder pushed off into the air like Michael Jordan, his glove extended to what seemed like an impossible height, but he couldn’t quite get leather on the ball. By the time the center fielder scooped it up on the second bounce, Gavin had rounded third base and scored standing up without drawing a throw.
At first base, Ryan yanked off his batting glove and stuffed it in his back pocket as the coach gave him a congratulatory pat on the butt. Though Ryan’s look remained grim, Taylor had to believe he was bursting inside with both relief and, hopefully, pride.
She exhaled and turned to Clark, holding out her hand, palm up. “So?”
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a billfold and handed over a twenty. “Clutch hit,” he acknowledged with a sheepish smile.
“Clutch hitter,” Taylor said, stuffing the bill into her bag.
“Yeah, maybe. But he still can’t throw more than six feet without making an error. And that’s not likely to change anytime soon, Taylor, no matter how much you want it to.”
No, not without help.
She decided to keep silent.
“I guess it’ll all be on the line in Miami, won’t it?” Even after Ryan’s key hit, Clark could barely repress his need to gloat. “You’re going, right?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t made a final decision on that.”
Taylor had originally planned to make the Miami road trip, and had already made sure Samantha and Carter were available to see to anything Bridget might need. But since the events of the afternoon, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to accompany the team after all. Despite the clutch hit they’d just witnessed, she had no confidence that Ryan would have a good series against the Marlins. In fact, she had to put the odds on him making one or more horrid throws, probably costing the Patriots runs, and possibly wins, too. Though it made her sick inside to think that way, she was a relentless realist, and the reality was that she didn’t know of a single player with Ryan’s problem that had miraculously snapped out of it overnight.
Leadoff hitter Esteban Nunez struck out swinging at a curveball that broke so hard it nearly clipped his shoes. The whiff was the final out of the inning, and stranded Ryan at first base. Still, the go-ahead run had scored, thanks to his key hit, and the fans gave Ryan a nice ovation as trotted back to the dugout.
Taylor rose to stretch her cramped body, praying that she’d be wrong about his problem. Praying that tonight’s key hit would be the catalyst that would turn Ryan’s slump around and give him the confidence he needed to play well defensively, too. Praying that he wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of another screw-up in Miami.
She’d done everything she could to try to help Ryan, to the point of damaging the relationship she’d come to care about more than she’d have believed possible, so prayer seemed all she had left.