Angels Walking (10 page)

If they knew he was hurt, they were probably shaking their heads over some shared lunch, reminiscing over the fact that their son had made the wrong choice. And how that single wrong choice had ultimately led to this: a blown-out shoulder and an existence lived out between doses of pain pills.

Tyler wrote down their names and number. He wouldn’t call them anytime soon. Maybe after he had his surgery and he was back on the mound. But he wanted the option, at least. He captured Jep Black’s number and the numbers of a few of his teammates. His old coach from Jackson High and a few buddies he’d gone to school with. He didn’t have a number for Marcus—hadn’t had one in years.

Finally, he turned off the phone and threw it in a bag. His things fit in six boxes. The first time he was actually glad for his sparse belongings. Loading the boxes into the back of his Charger with one arm wasn’t easy, but it all fit. He had to clear out before dark. The new guy would be here in the morning.

The pitcher.

When his car was packed, Tyler took the cold Chick-fil-A sandwich from the bag, peeled back the foil wrapper, and ate it. He stood at the window, the same one where he’d dreamed about his future and longed for last Saturday’s game. He had worked so hard to reach that point. A place in his career where everyone was watching.

He finished the sandwich in five bites and checked the bag. One more left. He would eat it later. Mrs. Cook had left the vacuum outside his door. Never mind his damaged right arm. She must’ve figured he could clean with his left arm just as well. The effort hurt, but he got the job done. When he was finished, he took one last look around his room and left without saying good-bye.

Mrs. Cook wouldn’t miss him.

She’d have the Blue Wahoos’ newest pitcher in the morning.

VERIZON GAVE HIM
only eighty-five bucks for his phone. They had it wiped clean before he left the store. Further proof that Tyler Ames, star pitcher, no longer existed. In no time the number would be assigned to someone else. Someone with a job and a way to pay bills.

He drove slowly along the strip, the ocean on his left side, a row of businesses on his right. Maybe Chick-fil-A was hiring. That way he could at least get free food. With an air of determination he parked his Dodge in the lot and headed inside. The manager knew him.

“Tyler!” The man was at the counter. His face lit up but fell just as quickly as he spotted Tyler’s brace. “Heard about the shoulder. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” This was one more thing Tyler hated about his new life. Everywhere he went someone was apologizing to him. He wasn’t Tyler Ames. He was “poor Tyler Ames.” Broken, battered. Washed up. The manager’s eyes said all of that even if his words did not. “How can I help you?”

Tyler forced a smile. At this point he couldn’t afford to be seen as a victim. “I’m looking to make a little extra money while I’m rehabbing.” He chuckled. “I’m here all the time anyway. Figured I’d see if you were hiring.”

The man shrugged. His cheeks darkened. “You’re a great guy, Tyler. I’m one of your biggest fans, you know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I’m all full.” He paused. “A few months from now I’ll be needing a night manager. Come back then.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Tyler wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Thank you.”

“Just a minute.” He filled a bag with six sandwiches and handed it to Tyler. “A little get-well gift.”

He would’ve loved to tell the manager he didn’t need a handout. But the truth was he needed all the help he could get. He had mailed off his car insurance before the injury. The check cleared this morning, taking half his remaining money. He needed gas in his car and he was almost out of pain pills—another forty dollars. He’d be out of money in a few weeks.

He took the bag of chicken and thanked the man.

Back in his car, Tyler slammed the steering wheel with his
good hand and instantly regretted the decision. The last thing he needed was another injury.

Night manager? In a few months? The possibility made him sick to his stomach. By then he would’ve had his surgery and be on his way back to pitching. Making the Blue Wahoos regret the day they released him. But if Chick-fil-A wouldn’t take him, Tyler wasn’t sure who would.

He couldn’t be picky, not now.

The strip mall next door had a Target and a Panera. A cupcake shop and a Coldstone. Someone had to be hiring. But two hours later he had a fistful of applications and a long list of no’s. Managers were either not hiring or not interested as long as his arm was in a sling.

Tyler realized something as he made the rounds: he hadn’t worked a real job in all his life. He was paid to pitch. Along the way, every now and then, Tyler made money coaching young pitchers, cleaning ball fields, and umping Little League games. He needed both arms for any of that. Outside of baseball he’d never made a dime.

The medication was keeping him going. Funny how just a few days ago he was worried about driving under the influence of Oxycodone. But now . . . well, now he could only hope for the best. There was no functioning without the pills.

Two more strip malls and still, no job offer. Tyler drove to the beach, to his favorite spot just west of Bayfront Stadium. He parked his Charger, killed the engine, and opened the windows.

He could hear the announcer’s voice echo across the pavement. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the Blue Wahoos’ last home game of the season. After tonight your team
will be in the playoffs. Let’s give a warm welcome to the Blue Wahoos!”

The familiar music played and Tyler slid down in his seat. He grabbed his Jackson High baseball cap from the dashboard and pushed it low over his eyes. What was wrong with him, parking his car this close? Where he could hear the soundtrack of his former life playing out like a bad dream?

And what about the club paramedic who’d reached him first after that terrible pitch? The guy had said this wasn’t the end. It was a beginning. Strangest thing ever. Tyler thought about calling the county and reporting the man. How dare he talk about beginnings in a moment like that! What was his name? Tyler thought back, trying to remember. Then it came to him.

Beck, right?

Yes, that was it. Beck the paramedic. Whatever the guy had meant, his words were nothing but a cruel joke now.

Tyler narrowed his eyes and stared out at the ocean. He needed this place, this moment. Needed it for inspiration. He would be back one day. Not pitching for the Blue Wahoos, but for one of their opponents. Wherever he wound up next, he’d travel here someday and pitch against the Wahoos like the star he used to be. Everyone from the top management at the Reds to the meek Jep Black would regret ever letting him go.

The sounds of the game blended together. His shoulder was killing him. Tyler pulled the pain pills from his glove box, grabbed a chicken sandwich from the bag, and ripped off the wrapper. A few bites and he was ready for the meds. He couldn’t remember when he took his last dose, but it didn’t matter. He needed them now. He stepped out of his car,
grabbed two water bottles from the case on the backseat, and took his place behind the wheel again. One more dose of pills and he’d be out. The prescription still had a couple refills. Tyler couldn’t see beyond that.

He slid the seat back and stretched out his legs. The sun was setting, casting oranges and pinks across the deep blue of the gulf. This wouldn’t be bad, sleeping in his car. His shoulder felt better when he slept sitting up. He grabbed the wheel with his good hand and thought about where it all went bad.

His senior year, of course. The first time he and his father had disagreed about baseball. Even then Tyler always thought they’d come to terms, that eventually they’d see eye-to-eye. Or maybe that was just the way he felt because of Sami Dawson. Every sunrise and sunset carried her name on it back then. If there had been storm clouds on the horizon, for the most part Tyler had missed them.

He had just a few photographs of Sami now, the ones he carried with him in a box of things that had nothing to do with baseball. The trophies and plaques and team photos took up half the trunk. His clothes and shoes and baseball gear fit in the others. But one box—the one on the back seat next to the case of water—held the rest of his life.

Birthday cards from his parents and artwork he’d done in grade school. His high school yearbook and his graduation tassel and there at the top, a miniature photo album. The gift Sami had given him the last time they saw each other. Right before he took the bus to Billings.

He turned his body, ignoring the pain that shot through his arm and neck. He reached for the photo book and brought it up front with him. He no longer had a phone, so he didn’t
have a flashlight app. He flicked on the overhead light. He couldn’t look for long without starting his engine. The last thing he could afford was a new car battery.

The book was covered in Jackson green, a dense corduroy Sami had found in a bargain bin back in the day. Across the front she’d embroidered his name and number in yellow.
Tyler Ames, No. 16
. Beneath that she had sewed on a red felt heart and near the bottom, also in yellow, she had stitched her own name:
Sami Dawson
. He smiled as he read the words.

She hadn’t always been Sami.

With the sounds of the game playing in the background, Tyler ran his fingers over the worn fabric.
No one cared about me like you did, Sami. Why didn’t I try harder to keep you?

He looked out at the ocean. The colors had faded, the way they had faded from his life. He could feel the pain pills taking effect, feel the edges blurring. He might have to spend the night in his car, but he would let his mind take him somewhere else.

Back to a time when he was still sure of life and his future and his dreams of being a major leaguer. Back when his name was synonymous with success and little boys still asked for his autograph. A place where he and his parents were still close and his dad still believed he would win the Cy Young Award.

Back to the day when he first met Samantha Dawson.

9

G
IRLS HAD NEVER BEEN
part of the formula for Tyler. His parents had seen to that. It wasn’t like they sat him down and told him he couldn’t date. They never outlawed a student dance or a party on a Friday night. They simply kept him too busy. There were pitching clinics and tournaments and travel teams. Practice and team meetings and visits to college games.

But all that changed the summer before his senior year.

It was a tournament that took Tyler to Sami. For the first time in Tyler’s life, his parents weren’t able to attend the competition that summer week. His dad had been hired to build a fence around a pasture a hundred acres wide. Biggest job of the year.

“You’ll stay with a host family,” his dad told him before the tournament. “Your mother and I will try to make it up for a game or two.”

But the tournament was in Northern California—a flight
for the team. In the end his parents were too busy with the job to make the trip at all. Which left Tyler completely in the care of his host family.

The Dawsons.

A breeze off the bay swirled through his car, taking him back. The pain pills were doing their job, the blurry feeling ushering in the most wonderful of yesterdays. Tyler closed his eyes and he was there again, his coach dropping him off at a mansion in the nicest neighborhood Tyler had ever seen. And he was lugging his gear up the sidewalk to the grand front door of his host family.

Summer was thick in the air, the sky bluer than it had ever been. Tyler rang the doorbell and held his breath. Who were these people? How could they afford to live like this? He took a step back and peered up at the roofline. As he did, the door opened and there she stood. His breath caught and he felt his cheeks grow red.

“Hi.” She grinned, and just as quickly she looked back over her shoulder. As if by smiling at him she was breaking some rule. “You’re our player?”

He looked down at his gear and back at her. “That’s me.” He held out his hand. “Tyler Ames.”

“Samantha Dawson.” She took his fingers, the contact between them fleeting. “Come meet my grandparents.”