Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (17 page)

“It means Major League Baseball teams want players the kids can look up to.”

“They’re . . . the Friars are . . . they won’t release him, will they?” Paige flinched as she said it. Even though
Trevor claimed he didn’t want a call-up, she knew that wasn’t really true. He knew, she knew, everyone who saw him play knew, that he belonged in the major leagues. He was incredibly gifted and had a passion for the game. If the Friars released him, he’d be back in the independent leagues, or the Mexican leagues, somewhere where he’d never get to show the world how great he was. It would be a tragedy.

“Who the hell knows?” Crush dug in his back pocket for his silver flask and took a long pull from it. “Don’t worry, it’s root beer,” he growled when he was done. “I don’t know what the fallout will be. A lot depends on public reaction, media, all that bullshit. I don’t care about any of that, Paige. I care about you. Are you going to keep seeing him?”

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and tried to imagine not seeing Trevor anymore. Or seeing him only on the ball field, or maybe not even there, if he ended up in a cactus-studded outfield in Mexico. “Why should he be punished again? It happened when he was barely a teenager. He’s already done his time. And with all this publicity, he’s going to need support.”

“Support?”

“Yes,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not going to just walk away when he needs me. Would you walk off the mound just because batters are starting to hit your curveball?”

He stared at her hard for several long moments. Was this going to be a repeat of the scenes they’d had over Hudson? she wondered. When he’d threatened to cut her off—then
had
cut her off?

But no. “It’s your decision,” Crush said. “But I’ll be watching him like a hawk.”

She startled, thinking of Trevor’s hawk tattoo.
Watchfulness was a way of life for Trevor. What was he going through right now, knowing that his past was public information? She needed to call him right away.

On his way out of her cubicle, Crush tossed a wry smile at her. “And honey, I can’t believe you used a baseball analogy on me. We’re winning you over, aren’t we?”

S
EEING HIS NAME
in the paper next to the damning words “assault” and “incarceration” was a special kind of hell for Trevor. He called Nina right away and warned her to be extra alert and cautious. But the danger to her right now was probably minimal. If the gang knew where he was, they’d have no interest in Nina.

He thought long and hard about disappearing before word spread to Detroit. But small town Kilby was a different world. The Wachowskis might never see the obscure sports news item about a minor league player. This time, he had too much to lose, so he decided to wait and see what developed.

In some ways, walking into the clubhouse after the article came out required more guts than it took to face the Wachowskis. Knowing that the guys on his team would look at him differently—as a criminal—cut right to his core.

Brazening it out, he strode in as if nothing was different. As he walked through the clubhouse, the back of his neck prickled with heat and a buzzing sound rang in his ears. Were people looking his way? Fuck, some badass he was. What was he, in third grade? What did he care what the team thought?

So what if he’d come to care about his fellow Catfish? A guy like him couldn’t afford that crap.

As he opened his locker, the ordinary sounds of the clubhouse, the joking and the taunting, the cleat-tying and towel-snapping, quieted. He looked neither right nor left, but kept his focus on his gear. This was a job, nothing more. He was here to play baseball. Hit home runs. Win a championship for Crush Taylor.

He felt an eager presence at his elbow and shot a glance sideways. “Bieberman.”

“What was it like? Juvie? Did you call it juvie? Or is that outdated? I looked it up in Urban Dictionary and it says ‘juvie’ is also a haircut. Or a fictional character who appears when you experience misfortune.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ramirez strolled over and put a hand on Leiberman’s shoulder. “Easy, boy. You ought to know not to mess around with a guy who did hard time.” He winked at Trevor.

Trevor snorted. Judging by Ramirez’s tattoos, he had an interesting past as well.

“Were you on a chain gang? Did you have to pick up trash by the side of the road? Make license plates?” Bieberman’s ridiculous questions kept on flowing. “What about baseball?”

Now there was a question he could answer. “We had a team. A pretty good coach too. Grizz, an old Negro League player, he was about eighty. I think he had one stint on the Tigers before his career ended.”

“Grizz Walker?” T.J. Gates, who was half African-American, had done extensive research into the Negro Leagues. “Great player. Nearly got elected to the Hall of Fame.”

“Yeah, he got robbed.” Trevor shut his locker door. “He was a great scout too, and he volunteered with our
team up until his arthritis got too bad. Taught me how to work the count. I owe my whole career to him.”

A couple more players had gathered around. Dan Farrio, Manny Becker, Sonny Barnes. He nodded to them. “What’s up?”

“Just want you to know we got your back,” said Sonny, the gentle giant of the team.

“Also, if you want to scare the living fuck out of the Express, we got some ideas.” Dan Farrio grinned. “Especially their pitcher, Jon Golden. Get inside his head, rattle him up good. I could use a victory, man.”

Trevor snorted. “What do you want me to do, wear a jumpsuit?”

“Orange is the new black,” Leiberman pointed out.

“We were thinking we’d all wear orange, mix things up.” Ramirez gestured toward his locker. “I got a box full of orange jerseys. Goes great with Catfish blue.”

“You fucking guys. You’re not serious.”

“Nah, Crush would have our asses. But maybe during BP?” Ramirez looked around the group hopefully. “The Express would get the message.”

“What message?” Trevor still wasn’t quite getting it.

“Intimidation, dude. We have Trevor Stark on our team, and we ain’t messing around. It’s about assault with a deadly weapon,
on the field only,
baby.” He high-fived T.J. Gates. “Make ’em think. Make ’em afraid every time one of us comes up to bat. Except Leiberman.”

“Stealing’s a crime,” he piped up. “I’m the top base-stealer on this team.”

“True that, my man.”

Trevor was laughing by now. “I’d like to see Duke’s face if we all walked out wearing orange. Might be worth it just for that.”

“Right?”

With his back to his locker, he stripped off his shirt so he could put his jersey on. Then he hesitated. He never showed his back if he could help it. None of the guys had seen his scars in detail. But maybe the time for secrecy was done.

Deliberately, he turned his back and thrust his arms through the sleeves of his jersey. A short silence fell over his team members. The fluorescent lights of the clubhouse probably made the hard ridges of scar tissue even uglier. Good—maybe they’d start taking this shit more seriously.

“That brand don’t look like something you chose.” Ramirez, who was almost entirely tattooed, would know.

“No. But the tat is.” He let his jersey drop over his back like a curtain.

“Nice ink.” Fist bump from Ramirez, another from T.J., then he sat on the bench to put on his cleats. His heart was pumping harder than it did when he was at the plate. It felt good not to hide his scars . . . or juvie . . . or Grizz. He’d loved that man. Grizz had probably saved his life. He used to give him extra time, solo batting practice. He told stories from the old days barnstorming with the Homestead Grays. Playing on dusty old fields at the end of country roads, when the games would take place on Sunday after church, so the crowds wore their best hats and the scent of barbecue filled the air. When barely a teenager, Grizz had played with Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson, all the great black players.

And Grizz would tell him over and over how much potential he had in baseball. He drilled it into his head that self-pity would get him nowhere. Even when he’d been dumped back at the juvenile hall, half dead, his back on fire, infection setting in to his burn wounds, Grizz hadn’t let up. As soon as his fever was under con
trol, he’d gotten Trevor back on the field. Even though every swing tore at his healing skin, Grizz insisted on practice.

“Gotta keep the skin stretched out. Don’t let it affect your swing. This is how you’ll get your revenge, boy. On a baseball field, under the lights, with everyone screaming your name. That’s how we do it. That’s pride, that’s respect. That’s the game of baseball.”

A pair of cleats entered Trevor’s field of vision, interrupting the memory. He looked up to see Dwight looming over him. His gut tightened all over again. He couldn’t read Dwight’s expression at all. “My brother died in a DUI,” he said.

“I know.” That information had come out last year, when Dwight organized an impromptu tribute to catcher Mike Solo’s brother.

“I know you know. Because I told you.”

So that’s what this was about. Trevor finished tying his cleats and stood up. “I couldn’t tell anyone.” And that was all the explanation he intended to give. It was just too fucking complicated.

“That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“No.” He took a moment to work out exactly what he wanted to say. For so long, he’d basically kept everything personal to himself. But being with Paige, who talked so easily and asked so many goddamn questions . . . well, maybe it had changed him. “You’re my friend. So I hope you trust me that I couldn’t tell. I had my reasons. Still do. And I hope you’re still my friend.”

There. That was about all he could say, and it was more than he’d ever said before. Dwight narrowed his eyes, assessing, as if testing each word for truth. Then he reached out and squeezed Trevor’s shoulder. “You need anything, I’m here.”

Trevor gave a short nod and turned away to grab his
gear bag. Even for him, so used to hiding behind “the badass,” it was hard to keep from showing the emotion inspired by Dwight’s statement. He didn’t deserve a friend like Dwight. He didn’t deserve a girl like Paige. But for some unfathomable reason, there they were. And he was going to do everything in his power not to let them down.

T
he crowd at the game had a field day with the news about Trevor’s juvenile record. Several busloads of Express fans made a special trip to Kilby, armed with banners that said things like
Baseball’s Most Wanted Outfield
and
Three Strikes, Go Back to Jail
and
The Kilby Jailbirds.

Kind of funny, Trevor had to admit. But if they were trying to rattle him, it wouldn’t work. As always, hecklers fueled his drive to win. When he stood in left field, he held his glove behind his back, his other hand nestled in the webbing, and every time he heard a taunt, he flashed a subtle middle finger. Anything too obvious would get him busted.

He got his true revenge, as Grizz had always promised, at the plate. He absolutely dominated the Express pitcher. He worked every count as deep as he could, then hit for the cycle. A single, a double, a triple, a home run. In that order.
Fuck y’all.

The Kilby fans ate it up. Not to be outdone in the signage department, they held banners that said things like
We Heart our Deadly Weapon
with a picture of Trevor’s face. Or
Don’t Mess with Kilby, Texas.

He didn’t respond to the show of support explicitly, letting his play at the plate do his talking for him. That’s where it counted. On the field. He allowed himself one single moment of expression. When he ran the bases after his home run, he pointed at the crowd and put a fist to his heart. They roared in response.

The other Catfish took their cue from him, lighting up poor Jon Golden like a pinball machine. By the fifth inning the score was 10-2, and the Catfish had a swagger like the New York Yankees.

Crush sat in the owner’s box alone, Armani shades firmly in place, either watching the game or talking on his phone. Why wasn’t Paige with him? Between innings, Trevor paced the dugout, checking and rechecking the owner’s box. She must have seen the article; everyone had. She’d left a couple of messages on his voice mail, but he’d been too busy dealing with his agent and Nina to call her back. Would things change between them? Would she want nothing to do with him now that his sordid past was public knowledge?

He wouldn’t blame her. In fact, he’d probably encourage her to dump his ass. He would do it himself, except that he’d noticed a tiny item in the entertainment section of the same edition that revealed his juvenile record. Newlyweds Nessa Brindisi and Hudson Notswego had signed a contract to star in a reality show about Hudson’s first season in the NBA. There was no way he would add to Paige’s pain with another breakup.

Nine innings later there was still no sign of Paige. That fact bothered him more than any banner or harassing comment. Something was wrong. As soon as he made it to the clubhouse, he called and texted her, but got no answer. He quickly showered and got dressed.

The clubhouse was euphoric over the team’s victory. “The Express guys are going to the Roadhouse.” Ramirez grinned, looking gleeful. “Wouldn’t mind rubbing a little salt in the wounds, with a chaser of tequila.”

“Don’t do it,” Trevor warned. “That’s asking for trouble.”

“Hey, the Roadhouse is our spot and everyone knows it. If the Express are going there, you know they’re
looking for trouble. Just trying to oblige our guests.” Ramirez looked a little too excited about the prospect of a showdown.

Dwight zipped up his tracksuit jacket. “That’s right. Gotta be a good host.”

Leiberman was looking from one to the other. “Can’t we just send them a fruit basket?”

Everyone burst out laughing, and Sonny Barnes clapped him on the shoulder. “Good one. Maybe some oranges.”

The clubhouse filled with high-fives, hoots, and hollers.

“Count me out,” Trevor said, hoisting his gym bag to his shoulder. “I have to take care of something.”

“That something have a name?”

He ignored that. “Mañana, y’all. Good game tonight.”

On his way out, he passed the long buffet table the team set up after the games but didn’t stop. He’d eat later, once he knew where Paige was.

Taking the stairs three at a time, he hurried to Crush’s office, which was still lit up. Crush stood with his back to the door, a cell phone to his ear, nodding. He caught sight of Trevor’s reflection in the plate glass and signaled for him to wait.

“We’re on the same page, then,” Crush said. He ended the call and flung the phone across the room. Trevor jumped. “The amount of trouble you cause me is roughly triple that of any other player.”

Trevor bristled. “Did you say triple? Yeah, I hit one of those tonight. And a double and a homer. I hit for the cycle.” A little reminder that he might be worth the trouble.

Crush let out a long breath. “Always the smartass. That was the Friars on the phone. You’re still in for
now, but they’re watching very, very, very closely. One wrong move and you’re done. How’s it going to look for a team with the name of Friars to have a former criminal on their roster? Someone convicted of
assault
?”

Crush’s contemptuous tone was like sandpaper on an open wound. He longed to lash out at the man. But he was Paige’s father, and for her sake he wouldn’t. He cleared his throat. “I . . . uh . . . won’t cause any trouble. Any . . . more trouble.”

A steely glare raked him up and down. “You and I both know that’s impossible as long as you’re seeing my daughter.”

Trevor set his jaw. Maybe Crush had sent Paige somewhere just to keep him away from her. Maybe he’d locked her in the pool house and confiscated her cell phone. “I’m not going to hurt Paige.”

“I’ve seen how you operate. Fuck, I
was
you for most of my twenties. Maybe part of my thirties. Then again in my forties, come to think of it. You’re not talking to a rookie here.”

“Look, Crush, I’d probably see it the same way from your shoes. But Paige means a lot to me. I’d never want to hurt her.”

“Then leave her alone. You’re no good for her.”

Trevor clenched his fists, every muscle of his body tight. The memory of that asshole driving away in his Escalade with Paige in the passenger seat flashed across his vision. Who was he kidding? He’d already brought danger into her life. He couldn’t disagree with Crush, so he said nothing.