Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance Page 9

  Years of therapy had taught him this was no way to survive a relationship. If he hadn’t been having weekly counseling sessions, he doubted he could have opened up to her as much as he had. Yet, she remained a closed book.

  He pounded a heavy fist on the bed. Dammit. Marcia had taken without asking. Forced her agenda on him again. What was it Jeanine had said? That women approaching thirty worried about the expiration dates on their eggs. What the heck? Marcia was only twenty-four.

  But Marcia wanted children, and Marcia wanted him to father them. Stud service. Marcia also had Conrad in her back pocket. A man who’d shown he’d wait for her. One with the financial means to support her brood. One who had a loving family, a father who owned a baseball team, and a mother who baked apple pie and treated all the ballplayers like a large extended family of nephews.

  He wished there was another shower on the boat. At the rate she was going, she’d use up the hot water and he was going to be late for practice.

  With nothing else to do, Brock checked the text messages on his “dumb” phone. His heart rate spiked at the first message.

  It was from Jeanine. Where’s Marcia? Bianca had an emergency. Don’t panic. She’s at the ER.

  Shit. Shit. Super shit. Don’t panic?

  Brock jumped from the bed and pounded on the bathroom door.

  “Okay!” Marcia shouted. “I saved you some hot water.”

  “It’s not that. Don’t panic, but something’s happened to Bianca.”

  The shower door slammed. Marcia slid the bathroom door into the pocket and bumped into him, naked and dripping wet.

  “What happened? Where is she?” Her eyes were wide and she gasped and coughed, as he held her still.

  “ER. Jeanine says not to panic. It’s probably nothing serious.”

  “Nothing serious? How can you say that?” Marcia grabbed his cell phone and punched numbers onto the keypad.

  Hers was, unfortunately, at home due to the surprise he’d pulled on her of dragging her on this trip.

  Brock rushed into the shower and cleaned himself, knowing Marcia would want to get off the boat as quickly as possible.

  Sure enough, she was pounding on the door. “Why are you showering? Don’t you care? Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Okay, okay.” He wrapped a towel around his hips and scrambled to get his clothing on.

  Minutes later, Brock pushed the throttle to full speed on the houseboat and raced toward the marina. Beside him, Marcia sat huddled in a blanket, her face in her hands, taking deep breathes.

  Bianca had spiked a high fever overnight and woke up delirious. The doctors suspected meningitis and had asked Marcia’s authorization for a spinal tap.

  He rubbed the back of her neck through the thick blanket, aiming to comfort her. “Bianca was fine when we had pizza the other night. A little cough, but she seemed okay.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone on this trip,” Marcia moaned. “She was coming down with a cold yesterday, but not running a fever. I should have stayed home with her.”

  “She has her father.” Brock patted her, surprised when she twisted from his side and slammed her forearm into his with a karate block.

  “You obviously don’t care.”

  Brock jerked his gaze from the marina to Marcia’s face, streaked with anger and tears. “What’s that supposed to mean? I had no idea she was ill and neither did you.”

  “But you don’t care about her the way I do. You’re over there taking a freaking shower, la, di, da.”

  “I can’t go to the hospital in a stench.” he grumbled, knowing immediately he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Are you saying what we did stinks?” She flung the blanket at him. “Am I just this floozy? The one from Phoenix? The one you wine and dine and fuck. Wait. Wait. I didn’t even get wine last night. We had sandwiches and granola.”

  “If you’re trying to start a fight it won’t work.” Brock chilled his voice and refused to engage, keeping his gaze straight ahead as he steered the houseboat into its slip. “Let’s get our stuff off the boat and drive back to Phoenix like civilized people.”

  She huffed and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding my one question—the one about the last woman you made love to besides me.”

  “This isn’t the time, okay?” He adjusted the throttle while the attendant grabbed the mooring rope, then cut the ignition and raised the motor from the water.

  Marcia reached for his phone and called Jeanine while he lugged their things to the truck. She hung up after a few minutes and tucked his phone into the pocket of her hoodie. It was obvious she had no intention of filling him in on Bianca’s status.

  Brock’s stomach ground rocks. Why would she throw herself at him one moment, then turn around and reject him?

  He started the truck and she hopped in, pinning him with a hostile glare. What the fuck had he done?

  “You can’t expect me to care about Bianca as much as you,” he said. “I am concerned and I’ll get you there as soon as I can.”

  It was like he was speaking to a wall. She grunted but pointed her face toward the window.

  He should shut up. He should let her deal with her feelings. She was worried about her sister, but there was absolutely nothing she could have done differently, even if she were at the hospital. Anger burned at the way she treated him. Demanding sex one minute and pushing him far into the corner the next.

  “So you had your jollies and now you regret it?” He floored the accelerator once they were on the highway. “What about everything that happened last night and this morning?”

  Did you really mean it when you cried out that you loved me? Or were you carried away by your climax?

  “I can’t do this anymore, Brock. We got it out of our systems. We have to move on.” Her voice turned stone cold, driving ice through his veins and deep into his bone marrow.

  Anger and disappointment warred in his chest, scrambling his gut. Was she serious? After the marathon session, the love making, the kisses and caresses? He’d told her he loved her. Did she not feel a thing for him?

  “Is that what you want? Scratch an itch and move on?” The sloshing pulse in his head dreaded her response.

  “Yes, it’s the only way. Please understand. I can never have a life with you.” Her voice was eerily calm and emotionless.

  Time to man up. He wasn’t going to batter himself against her icy gates. A man had to have pride.

  “Did I ask you for a commitment? Did I try to trap you with words?” He couldn’t help the slicing tone of his voice. He wanted to hurt her as much as she hurt him. “I wasn’t the one trying to get us pregnant. Don’t think I didn’t notice what you were doing.”

  “I wasn’t doing a thing, and news flash, if anything happened, I’d be the last person to hit you up for paternity.” Her lips curled into a sneer.

  “Why? You don’t want me around your kid? Is that it?” He gripped her arm, gratified when she squealed with pain. “You don’t get to decide.”

  “You’re hurting me.” She pinched his hand with her right hand, her nails digging in. “Let go of me.”

  “Is that what you want?” He flung her away from him, and her body slammed against the passenger door.

  A deep, low horn bellowed. His pickup truck swerved across the center divider and fishtailed. It shook as a big rig whooshed past them on the other side, too close.

  Brock’s heart raced and sweat spilled over his scalp. Was he as bad as his dad? Would he never shake the demons?

  He overcorrected and the tires clattered over the rumble strips, slipping onto the shoulder. Regaining control, he pulled over and set the transmission to park.

  Brock couldn’t breathe. Bands of irons constricted his chest, and pain radiated from his heart. Hot tears flooded his eyes. He hid his face on the steering wheel.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry.” His tongue was heavy and numb. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. That was how his father had always been after an episode. Stricken with re
morse and begging for forgiveness.

  Marcia didn’t answer, so he swallowed deeply and glanced her direction.

  Her entire body tightened, and her face was pinched. She held her arms, her fists clenched, in a defensive position, leaning as far away from him as she could without falling out the door.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” His voice reached for her, desperately needing something, anything, a response to let him know she still cared, that he still had a chance.

  No response. She extracted his cell phone from her hoodie pocket and peeked at it, scrolling through the messages. “Bianca’s spinal tap came back negative. At least the preliminary results. Can you drive us safely to the hospital or do you want me to drive?”

  Seriously? He was having a fucking breakdown here and all she cared about was who the designated driver was? Yes, he fucked up. He hurt her, but she’d gouged him with her words, made him feel lower than low. Nailed his heart and ran over it a few times.

  His shoulders heaved and he breathed in and out, striving for control. “Is this why you don’t trust me around your sister?”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Of me?”

  “You know what they say about children who’ve been abused …”

  “Turning into abusers,” he finished for her.

  “It’s the largest risk factor—by far.” She reached for his hand and pressed his fingers. “But it doesn’t have to be this way.”

  Her unexpected kindness broke the dam of grief he’d successfully held at bay. “I never want to hurt anyone. I’ve been working so hard, going to therapy and talking positively to myself. I ask God every day to make me a better man, but maybe it’s all moot. Maybe it just runs in my family. Now you understand why I never wanted children? Even though I envy you and the way your parents were, I know I’d just ruin any family stupid enough to have me.”

  “Brock.” Marcia loosened her seatbelt and slid across the bench seat to his side. “I said some hurtful things and so did you. I was worried about Bianca, but that’s no excuse to lash out at you.”

  That wasn’t the problem. Brock’s heart lay like a ton of rocks in his belly. Whether she’d lashed out or not, he was the one who hurt her physically. He’d been gratified when she yelped in pain.

  “You were right to keep me away from Bianca. I should stay away from you, too.”

  He started the truck and put it in gear, hoping and praying she’d say something. To argue or rebuke, or tell him he was wrong—that she still trusted him and wanted him around her family.

  She slid toward the passenger door and affixed her seatbelt.

  Her silence sealed his fate.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marcia couldn’t stop hugging Bianca. By the time she and Brock arrived at the hospital, Bianca had been stabilized and was lying in a bed with an IV drip. Her father and Jeanine were already in the hospital room keeping the little girl company.

  After greeting them, Brock had left after giving Marcia a quick kiss on her cheek. How well they had masqueraded their problems in front of her father—just like the public face of many couples suffering from domestic violence.

  Bianca’s eyelids fluttered and she squirmed. She went straight for the tube in her arm, but Marcia caught her hand and held it.

  “Mama, I want Brock to build me a tree house.” Her eyes swam in her face, bleary and unfocused.

  Marcia didn’t bother correcting her calling her Mama instead of Mar-Mar. There was no point. Brock would never be back to visit them. He had issues to deal with, and she wasn’t going to be the stupid woman who stood by him, no matter how repentant he was.

  The doctor entered the room and greeted her. “Miss Powers. We had quite a scare, but we rechecked your daughter’s spinal tap results and it’s negative. She doesn’t have a bacterial infection, for now, but these are the things you should watch out for.”

  He went through a list of symptoms and cautioned her to bring Bianca in if her conditioned worsened.

  “What do you think caused her sudden spike and delirium?”

  “Possibly dehydration. Make sure she gets plenty of fluids.” The doctor patted Bianca’s shoulder. “Can you open your mouth for me and say ‘ah?’”

  Marcia glanced at Pappy. “I should never have gone fishing with Brock. You two would have had a better time together and maybe caught some fish.”

  “Stop feeling guilty,” Jeanine cut in. “No one could have known she’d wake up so sick.”

  The doctor turned and nodded. “Small children can spike a fever real quick. Her throat looks good. A little red, but no sign of bacterial infection. Keep her out of preschool until her fever subsides, and she should be as good as new.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Marcia shook hands with the physician. “When can we take her home?”

  “Your daughter may be a little groggy from the medication, but she can be discharged as soon as the nurses remove her IV.” The doctor turned toward the doorway and stepped past Conrad.

  Every molecule in Marcia’s body went cold. How long had he been standing there?

  Pappy was the first to recover. He shook Conrad’s hand. “You’re late to the party. Binky’s going to be just fine.”

  “I was so concerned when I heard.” Conrad’s dark brown eyes bore into Marcia.

  “Wait, who told you?” Marcia looked at the people in the room.

  Conrad zeroed in on Jeanine, who shrunk visibly, avoiding Marcia’s gaze.

  “I have to be going.” Jeanine tapped her watch. “Someone’s got to supervise delivery at the bar.”

  “Not so fast.” Marcia snagged her best friend. “You told Conrad? Bianca gets sick and you couldn’t wait to tell him? What for?”

  “I’ll explain later. Really, it’s no big deal.” Jeanine strode out the room, her heels clip-clopping on the hard hospital floor.

  “Marsh.” Pappy hooked his arm around Marcia’s shoulder. “Bianca’s calling you. I think the nurse is done with her IV.”

  “Mama, I got a butterfly bandage,” Bianca said. “Where did Brock go? Donatello misses Michelangelo.”

  Conrad approached the bedside. “Raphael’s here.”

  “No, you’re Shredder.” She crossed her newly freed arms and pouted. “I want Brock to play Michelangelo.”

  Marcia’s gut clenched. Why all the sudden demands for Brock? Had Bianca and Brock really had that much time together? What was Pappy not telling her?

  “We can play later.” Marcia swung her daughter into her arms and kissed her. “Let’s go home.”

  “Brock’s making me a treehouse,” Bianca mumbled.

  “No treehouse until after you get well.” Marcia carried the little girl, and Pappy draped a blanket over her.

  “I want a treehouse.” Bianca stiffened in Marcia’s arms. Her face reddened and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Secret treehouse for turtles only. Pappy say Brock’s making me one on the big tree.”

  This was exactly why Marcia had wanted to keep the two of them apart. Brock would only hurt Bianca if he were to get close to her and then reject her. It would get worse the older Bianca got. She glared at Pappy who scratched the back of his neck, looking guilty as all get-out. Instead of saying anything, he excused himself to go to the restroom.

  As soon as Pappy stepped from the room, Conrad ruffled Bianca’s hair. “Go home with your mama, and you’ll find a big treehouse.”

  “My mama’s dead.” Bianca scowled. “She’s in heaven.”

  A sly grin greased Conrad’s face. He raised one eyebrow at Marcia and gave her a knowing look. “Dinner, tonight. My place. Queen to C5, check.”

  “I can’t, sorry. Bianca needs me.”

  “She has her father.” Conrad’s eyebrows raised and lowered.

  “Her father needs rest, too.” Marcia smoothed Bianca’s hair from her forehead and kissed her.

  “I’m sure he does,” Conrad said. “Tough weekend, eh?”

  So Conrad knew. So what? She was past the point of
caring. She had no future with Brock, and he would keep his distance. Despite everything, he would want what was best for Bianca, even if he were to find out she was his biological daughter. Brock was that kind of guy. Not a selfish bone in his body.

  “I’ll walk you guys out,” Conrad said. He picked up Bianca’s turtle shell backpack and pressed his cold fish hand possessively on the small of her back.

  # # #

  Brock belted the pitches, pounded ball after ball into the outfield. Behind the L-screen, the pitcher, Timmy Li, scowled. He shoved the screen and shouted, “I can’t pitch with this thing blocking me. Can’t see the plate.”

  “No excuses, Li.” The coach obliged and removed the screen. “Remember to call the correct pitch.”

  Timmy spat and glared at Brock before throwing the next pitch, calling it wrong again.

  But it didn’t matter to Brock. He tuned the pitcher’s snarly voice out and was in his own zone. Every crack of his bat hearkened back to a slap from his father, a punch in the head, a kick to the ribs.

  His dad jeering at him. It’s all your fault. You know why your mom and I argue so much? About you. If you hadn’t come around, we would have been happy. You’re the one who destroyed everything. Everything.

  “Enough, enough.” The batting coach clapped his beefy hands. He turned to the pitching coach. “Get another guy out here. You man hasn’t struck Brock out yet.”

  The pitching coach approached the mound and hooked his thumb. “Hudson, take over for Li.”

  Timmy threw his glove and stomped off the field.

  Ryan stopped in front of Brock, slapping the ball in his mitt. “Remember, you’re my buddy.”

  “Whatever.” Brock shook his shoulder muscles and rolled his neck. He didn’t give a shit whether he stayed with the Rattlers or not. In fact, given his awesome stats, he should ask for free agent status and be let go of his contract. Phoenix held nothing for him but painful memories.

  The first pitch came, hanging fat and happy. Brock slapped it over the fence. Ryan made a face and spit. The second pitch, a changeup. Swing and a miss.