Pitcher's Baby

  Pitcher’s Baby

  Saylor Bliss

  COPYRIGHT 2016 Prism Heart Press

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written Permission from the publisher or author. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or received an advanced copy directly from the author, this book has been pirated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Dedication

  To my amazing husband, the one and only man who speaks to my soul.

  Description

  Lucas always thought that when he fell in love it would be easy, like catching the perfect pitch. The right girl would slide into his life as seamlessly as a ball into his glove. That's what he wanted. A typical boy meets girl, girl falls for jock story.

  But that's not what he got.

  He had to fall for the one girl he couldn't have. The one girl he shouldn't want. His best friend Aaron's younger sister, Charlee. How could he not? She breathed fresh life back into his empty soul just by existing. Loving her was as simple as breathing. He just did and nothing would change that.

  Now if only he could convince her of that.

  Charlee Cooper isn't interested in starting another relationship. The scars from her past left her feeling like it would be impossible to ever truly love someone. It was a part of her life she had come to accept. She has her daughter and that is all the love she will ever need.

  When secrets from the past are revealed, the subtle sparks between Lucas and Charlee ignite into a fiery passion neither can ignore.

  Will the heat destroy everything she is? Or will a chance at love prove the greatest victory of all?

  You decide.

  Yours Truly,

  Saylor

  “But if I sit in the rain

  maybe I can drown

  in something other than

  my own thoughts” . . .---Anonymous

  Chapter One

  Lucas

  The ball in my hand feels so light compared to the heavy bag of sand I had been tossing in the air moments before. I wrap my fingers around it, rubbing against the rugged threads raised against the soft leather. I love the way a brand new baseball feels in my hand before the first toss—before it’s been hit over and over again, abused by the batter. Right now, it’s perfect, easily molded in my grip. I toss it into my glove and relish the sound of leather hitting leather. This is my calming strategy, my way of focusing before I have to look out across the mound to Aaron squatted down behind home plate.

  It’s time.

  I take my position on the mound and look at Aaron, my catcher and best friend, to see which signal he’ll give me this time. I’m in total control of this. Barry Mendes, the first hitter up, is one of the best in the game, but he doesn’t scare me the least bit. My catcher finally decides on a two-seam fastball to start this new battle on the field.

  What most people don’t know about baseball is that the game is as much strategy and statistics as it is talent and fun. I have to out-think the hitter, stare him down, and make him wonder what pitch I’ll be sending his way. Just when he thinks he’s got me figured out, I change it up on him. Aaron and I work great together, because he knows how I think and respects my opinion in the game. Nine times out of ten, he’s already guessed my pitch choice. We just click together like that. Thank God I’ve never had to pitch against him. I don’t want to see how that would turn out. He’s one of the best hitters on the team. It would be a tough one for sure.

  And here we go.

  I shut down all thoughts circulating through my mind and focus only on Aaron and his glove. All the noise from the stands ceases to exist. All the dumbass, drunken, arrogant fans shouting and throwing peanuts are gone, right along with the screaming children and announcers overhead. I hear nothing now. I hear everything. For the amount of time it takes me to pitch the ball, I transcend reality and live for that moment on another plane.

  It’s between me and big ugly.

  I go through my wind up, pulling my arm back, lift off my right leg, and then I push forward, extending my left arm.

  It’s beautiful, the perfect two-seamer fast pitch right on the left corner, way low, my favorite.

  "Strike one," the umpire screams. This is the way it’s gonna go today. I’m all in, on top of the world. Nothing else matters. They won’t get the chance to touch even my weakest pitch today. I can feel it. Today is going to be a good day.

  Aaron throws the ball back to me and crouches back in his position. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up while the batter warms up for his next pitch. It’s pointless. He could spend an eternity warming up today, and I’d still strike him out. I didn’t get an ERA of 2.23 by sucking on the mound.

  I repeat my wind up and throw the pitch. This time, I curve the ball. He’s not expecting that. He jumps backward and the ball glides over home plate. A perfect strike. I love it. The batter is getting angry, either with me or with the game. It’s hard to tell, and to be honest, I don’t really care. We are all here to do a job. It’s why we get paid millions per year. I try not to ever take a bad game too seriously, but it happens to us all. Sometimes, it’s not so easy to shut everything out and find that perfect place in your mind between here and there, where you can exist but not exist. Sometimes, this world won’t let you leave, not even for five seconds.

  I pitch again. This one is straight down the middle, so he has no excuse not to hit it, except for the fact that it flashes past him at 94 miles per hour before he even has the chance to swing.

  “Out,” the umpire calls. The batter throws the bat to the ground and stomps toward his team’s dugout. Aaron stands and grabs the bat, tossing it toward the fence and the waiting ball boy. He turns back to me, and I see his grin behind his catcher’s mask. Raising my glove to hide my face, I grin back and nod toward the next batter walking to the plate.

  Two more outs to go, and then it’s our team’s turn at bat.

  Aaron throws the ball back to me. I catch it with ease and then step off the mound, kicking up the dust around my feet. I remember the first time I ever stepped up to the pitching mound. I was seven years old. The way my heart beat in my chest with anticipation and excitement. I knew I was meant to be there, I just had to show my coach and make him believe in me the way my mom did. From the first moment I picked up a ball, I knew I wanted to pitch. I told her every day. She went above and beyond to make sure that my dreams came true—something that I will always remember.

  When I first signed with Phoenix, I had just graduated college the year before and was drafted straight out of college into the minor league, Class A. I pitched two games there before moving up to Class AA three weeks later in Gwinnett, Georgia, before I moved up to the Class AAA minor league, where I met Aaron. He had just been signed from the sweet town of Tuscaloosa, Alabama. We spent that first year in the minor leagues doing everything together. He became the brother I never had.

  My adoptive mother raised me all on her own. There is nothing in this world stronger than a single mother. She gave up a lot for me when I was growing up, a lot that I didn’t even realize until I got older and looked back on things, which is why when I was signed to Phoenix three years ago, I made sure she was taken care of. They gave me five million per year for the first three years. By sheer luck, Aaron was signed with me. I don’t know if they saw the bond we had and the way we
worked together or if it was something else, but I’ll be forever thankful that he is here with me.

  Last week, I re-signed my contract. Four years this time—sixty million dollars. I’ll never be able spend that amount of money in one lifetime. Even after taxes, I’ll still bring home over forty million. It’s absurd.

  My pitch flies high and the batter swings, catching it with the tip of the bat. I need to get my head back in the game and quit reminiscing about the past before I give up a run. Aaron catches the foul and the umpire calls our third out. I pull my glove from my hand and run into the dugout with the rest of the team.

  “Good job, man. You’re on fire today. Did you get laid last night or something?” Aaron says, tapping me on the shoulder with his catcher’s mitt.

  “Ha-ha, screw you.”

  “Aw, I’m just playing, sunshine. We all know you’re exercising your right to be celibate.”

  “Just because I don’t wanna bang everything with a pulse doesn’t mean I’m celibate, ass-wipe. I’m picky. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. Fine with me. I get all the girls you pass up.”

  “Be careful, or you’ll end up bringing home more than a good time,” I say, scratching at my crotch.

  “Gross. If a bitch is itching, she better keep on looking. I don’t need no critters around my junk.”

  I laugh with the other guys around us while Coach Masterson, our head coach, calls the batting order. Aaron is up fifth, batting right after my designated hitter. As one of the starting pitchers for the team, I’m not required to hit . . . ever. I have a designated hitter, or DH as we call them, who does nothing but hit. Shane Bellows is my DH, and he is one hell of a hitter. His batting average is .316, meaning that for every ten times he is at bat, he gets a base hit at least three times. That’s spectacular. He’s batting fourth today.

  Fourth on the batting lineup is usually reserved for homerun hitters, or if we are lucky, grand slams—when all the bases are loaded and he hits a ball out of the park. Those are much rarer, but so, so sweet.

  I lean back against the block wall and place the ice pack on my shoulder, letting the coldness seep in and work its magic while our team takes over the field. My mind wanders once again to my mom, and I make a mental note to call her soon and check in.

  The game ends at the bottom of the ninth with a score of 4 to 1. The closer came in at the bottom of the eighth inning to relieve me. After pitching 120 pitches, I am happy for the break, even if I would have loved to end the game on my own. Part of the game is knowing when to step down and let another member of my team step in. My arm hurts like hell, but I am proud of the amount of runs I gave up tonight. It’s been a good day. I wish they could all be this good.

  “Ready, man?” Aaron asks, stepping out of the locker room dressed to the nines in a suit and tie. It’s part of our league’s policy when we’re on the road. If we’re not on the field, or headed to or from the game, we wear a suit and tie. We look like gentle, well-bred and home-grown men of America. Or in my case, Canada, since that’s where I was born and raised.

  “Yeah, where are we meeting Casey at?” Casey is the catcher for the Rangers, the team we just finished playing. We met him a couple of years ago when we were still playing in the Class AAA minor league, and all three of us became quick friends. It sucks the way this sport separates you from the people you know and care for, but at least we are given the chance to hang out and catch up when on the road for a series like this week in Texas.

  “He said to just swing by his place. I guess he’s having a big party there for his twenty-fifth birthday or something. I don’t care as long as there is booze and ladies present.”

  “Sounds good to me. You driving, or am I?”

  “I’ll just follow you in case I decide to wander off later,” he says, meaning in case he finds a woman who catches his eye. I just shake my head and walk over to my rental. I got a nice ass 2016 black Mustang this time, and I love the way the engine rumbles through my seat when I turn the key.

  It’s been three years, and I’m still getting used to the benefits of being in the major league. On the road, we get a spending allowance for food and snacks that we may want, our room is paid for, and our rental, if we need one, is covered. Hell, I can’t think of anything not covered by the league or one of the sponsors. All of my uniforms are free, my shoes come straight from Nike or Under Armor, my glove straight from Rawlings, and hell, even my underwear are paid for. The only thing I have actually had to go out and buy in the last three years is toothpaste, and it probably won’t be long before someone is knocking on the door wanting to shoot a commercial for that too.

  When we pull in the drive of Casey’s sprawling estate, the first thing I notice is the noise. Music is blaring from the open windows and patio doors. Half-naked women dance drunkenly across the yard, and a few of them are even hopping around in the fountain in the front of the yard. I climb from the car and wait for Aaron to park.

  “Woohoo, come on, man, let loose and have some fun. You only live once,” Aaron yells, running toward the house. In a way, I resent that statement. I have fun all the time, just a different type of fun. I don’t see the point in sleeping my way across America. I want to do something more fulfilling with my life. I just don’t know what that is yet.

  It takes me forty-five minutes to find Casey, and when I do, I almost wish I hadn’t. He’s wedged between two equally naked women on the sofa in the basement, watching porn on the big screen in front of them. One of the women has pulled his pants down and is busy going to town on the friendly member between his legs. I debate turning around and walking back out, but then the last forty-five minutes would have been wasted.

  “Hey, man. Happy birthday,” I say, walking in the room. He glances over the back of the couch and then beckons me forward.

  “Hey, bro. Thanks. You want in on this? I got plenty to go around,” he offers, gesturing to the numerous women lying around.

  “Nah, man, it’s your birthday. You enjoy. I just wanted to find you before I head out.”

  “Oh, you leaving?”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna get a head start back to Phoenix tonight.” I shrug my shoulders. “What can I say? I miss my bed.”

  “Ha-ha, I bet that’s not all you’re missing back home, is it?”

  I don’t bother answering his assumption. The truth is, there is no one back home, and there hasn’t been in over five years, but I don’t need him knowing that. That’s my personal life, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  “I’ll see you later, man.”

  “Stay safe, bro.”

  Walking back up the stairs, I keep my eye out for Aaron so I can let him know my plan, but I don’t see him anywhere. I text him and let him know I’m heading out rather than search for him. He’ll get it eventually. More than likely, I’ll already be back in Phoenix before then, but hey, at least I let him know.

  Climbing back in the Mustang, I tap the clutch and double shift to second, spinning the gravel up behind me. It feels good to be on the road and alone. It gives me time to think and not worry about putting on a happy facade for those around me. I plug my iPhone into the stereo adapter and select my rock playlist. Avenge Sevenfold fills the speakers around me. I crank up the volume and roll the windows down, letting the warm Texas air flow through the interior of the car. Pushing the pedal to the floor, I leave everything behind.

  For the next three hours, I’m not a starting left-handed pitcher for the Phoenix Ravens.

  I’m not the only child to a single, middle aged, French-Canadian woman.

  I’m not divorced and fatherless.

  I’m just me.

  Lucas Bouchard, a twenty-six-year-old male riding the streets at night, enjoying the raging guitar and heartfelt lyrics of one of his favorite bands.

  When I finally make it into town, I can barely keep my eyes peeled open. I leave my luggage in the trunk and leave the car parked in the driveway of the single-story ranch-style house. Aaron and I purcha
sed this place together when we first got signed three years ago. I found it on the foreclosure list, and we were able to get it for a fourth of what it’s actually worth.

  Looking up at the front porch now, I can honestly say I’m proud of our investment. Six bedrooms, two of which are master suites, five full baths, three half-baths, a living room, and the den, which we converted into the game room for the Playstation4 and Xbox one. It even has an in-ground pool in the back yard.

  I toss my keys on the table by the front door in the entryway and kick off my shoes before heading down the hall to my room. Unbuttoning my shirt, I let it slip from my shoulders to the floor and then let my pants fall in a heap next to it. I’m not worried about them. I’ll pick them up in the morning before Clarisa comes by and yells at me for missing the laundry basket again.

  Clarisa is our house cleaner who comes once a week when we are away and three times a week when we are home to maintain our perfect home. She also does most of the grocery shopping for us too, but don’t get me wrong, she’s a hard ass. Just because we pay her to clean doesn’t mean she lets us walk all over her. She will be the first to chase me down the hall with a broom if I leave an unnecessary mess for her. In a lot of ways, she reminds me of my own mom.

  Pulling back my comforter, I climb in between the silky softness of my 5000-count sheets. It feels so good to be back home and back in my own bed. Turning on my side, I reach my hand out, searching for my favorite pillow to rest beneath my head, but my hand gets tangled in something stringy, and then I’m being attacked from everywhere and nowhere.

  “Get your filthy hands off me. RAPE,” a woman shrieks into the pitch-black room. I roll, trying to get away from her abusive swings and find a light to turn on, but instead, I manage to knock the lamp on the ground. It shatters, causing tiny glass fragments to splinter across the wooden floor.