Payoff Pitch (Philadelphia Patriots)

Copyright © 2014 V.K. Sykes

Cover art by Patricia Schmitt (Pickyme)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Noah Cade braced himself for what was going to hit him as soon as the door swung open. Anybody crossing this particular threshold had to be prepared to be knocked flat on his ass, but he knew the worst was always reserved for him. And there was no point in ringing the doorbell, since Roz would never hear it over the din.

The full-throated barking had started before Noah had even turned off his ignition. By the time he’d climbed the three stone steps to his aunt’s front door, it had built to a frenzied crescendo of pure hysteria. Double hysteria, actually, since Sadie had of course joined Toby in his desperate campaign to ward off some deadly threat to his home and his mommy. Noah doubted that any sane intruder would stick around long enough to find out exactly what was behind that windowless lavender door.

He swiped his damp brow with the back of his forearm. Though he’d been out in the blazing West Texas sun for less than a minute, he was already sweating like he’d thrown a thirty-pitch inning. He’d been away from his old hometown of Midland long enough that he’d almost forgotten what June was like. Normally he’d be in shorts and sandals in this heat, but today he’d worn jeans and Nikes. The last thing he needed was a pair of insane dogs raking their raptor-claw nails over his bare legs and feet. Again.

“No, you darn fools, it’s not a burglar. It’s your favorite person come to see you.” His aunt’s voice barely carried over the flurry of canine commotion as the dogs took turns throwing themselves against the door. “Sit.”

Noah knew she was wasting her breath, but she always made the token effort.

As the door slowly swung back, Toby squeezed between it and the jamb and flung himself up at his prey. The force rocked Noah back as he absorbed about sixty pounds of black Standard Poodle hammering into him. Having been through the drill at least a dozen times, Noah snapped the goofy mutt up in a bear hug while Toby did his best to lick every inch of his face. Sadie, the normal dog, relatively speaking, contented herself with trying to trip him as he lugged her squirming littermate over the threshold.

“I’m sorry, Noah,” Aunt Roz said as he unceremoniously dumped Toby in the carpeted foyer and closed the door behind him. “But you know how much they love you. They just can’t help themselves.”

Noah laughed as he leaned down to kiss his petite aunt’s cheek. “I must be crazy, but I love them right back.”

He did, weirdly enough, and gave each of the dogs a vigorous rub on the muzzle. Toby shook his head, sending his floppy ears flying, and made a sound something between a sneeze and a snort. Noah always called it a
snurfle
, and it usually involved a fair degree of drool landing somewhere on his pants.

Aunt Roz smiled, though it was not quite the same smile he’d known over the years. The tremors and the pain were more evident every time he saw her, despite the Parkinson’s drugs she was taking. “They’re good dogs,” she said. “The sweetest dogs I’ve ever had.”

Noah had to agree with the latter assertion, if not necessarily the former. Though Aunt Roz had never been able to properly train either of them, especially Toby, Noah had never encountered dogs with a gentler, more loving nature. And they were smart as hell, too. Well, at least Toby was. Sadie, maybe not so much.

“Looks like they could use a visit to the groomer,” he said. The dogs’ coats shone with good health but had grown out to the point where their eyes were all but hidden under masses of curls. “I’ll take them this afternoon if I can get an appointment.”

“That would be lovely, dear.” Roz shooed the dogs away from him by tossing a couple of dog cookies down the hall, careful to ensure Toby didn’t snag them both before Sadie figured out where they were. “It’s hot out there, isn’t it? I expect you could use a nice cold beer.”

Noah peered down at her with a frown. At five-four, she was exactly one foot shorter than him. “It’s not even noon yet.”

His aunt shrugged her thin shoulders under the lightweight cardigan that hung loosely on her slight frame. “So, when did you start checking your watch, mister? Besides, it’d be a nice change not to have to drink alone.”

Noah put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him. With a heavy sigh, she snuggled her head against his chest. Rosalind Barnes was only sixty-seven, but lately she’d told him she felt like ninety, both physically and mentally. The Parkinson’s diagnosis five years ago was only the latest in a long roll of tragedies that had plagued his sweet aunt’s life. She’d suffered the loss of the love of her life, Maria Garza, to cancer in the mid-seventies and, less than two years later, her parents—Noah’s maternal grandparents—were killed in a plane crash.

Five years after that, Abby Cade, Roz’s only sibling, had died after being thrown from her horse at the family ranch outside Dallas. Noah had been barely two at the time and had only the vaguest memories of his birth mother.

It was why he did his best to get down to Midland to visit his favorite aunt at least three or four times a year. He’d spent a few days with her before leaving for spring training in Florida in early February and had planned to come down again during the All-Star break in July. But she’d called and said she needed to see him before that, practically pleading with him to visit. The pleading wasn’t necessary because he’d do anything for her. And the timing had worked well, anyway. He wasn’t due to pitch his first game of the season until next week, so his manager was fine with him taking a couple of days off for family reasons.

“A beer it is, then,” he murmured into her thin, graying hair before she gently pushed him away and headed into the kitchen.

Noah followed her, with Toby and Sadie weaving in and out between them, their tails wagging full force in the hope of more treats or, better yet, a full meal. His aunt reached into the fridge and handed him a bottle of Saint Arnold, leaving him to get the cap off—something she used to do with practiced ease. It was now a nearly impossible task.

“I know how anxious you are to pitch in the majors again,” she said, her eyes full of concern. “But you shouldn’t let your pride make you rush back too soon.” She poured two fingers of her favorite bourbon into a cloudy glass and added a few ice cubes.

Noah was the one who should be asking about
her
health, not the other way around. He’d had a major, career-threatening injury, but he was good as new, or close enough. Aunt Roz, on the other hand, was battling an incurable brain disorder.

He shook his head as he smiled at his aunt, who knew ten times as much about baseball as anybody else in their family. She’d been his biggest supporter since the day he started playing T-ball in Midland. When he talked to her about coming down, he’d told her that the Patriots’ front office and manager had decided on a tentative date for his first start since his injury. But everything would depend on how he fared during his rehab assignment at Triple A.

“Don’t worry, everybody’s given me the green light to pitch in actual game conditions—my surgeon, the rehab people, the GM, the manager.” He flexed his pitching arm. “Tommy John surgery used to have longer recovery periods, but the procedures are getting better all the time and so are the rehab programs. I’ve been throwing off the mound since late February and haven’t had any problems.”

That assertion wasn’t a hundred per cent accurate because his mechanics were still a little messed up and his velocity was down. But Noah didn’t need to trouble Aunt Roz with the ups and downs of his painfully long comeback process. He’d never been one to baby his arm, but the doctors and trainers had told him that this time he had no choice. He either followed their orders to the letter or his career would be over. Ironically, he’d found himself
wanting
to hold something back when he threw. And though he’d been fighting that feeling all spring, telling himself to throw like it was the seventh game of the World Series, he honestly could not say he was winning.

This last, painful year had forced him to think about what life would be like without baseball. It sucked, was the answer, but he’d fought the thoughts of such a bleak future like a cornered Grizzly because retirement wasn’t an option. Even after the tear to his ulnar collateral ligament last July, he refused to entertain even the slightest doubt that he could make a comeback. At thirty-three, he still had good years ahead before age or another arm injury put him out to pasture.

At least he sure as hell hoped so.

Roz gave him a skeptical glance but didn’t pursue the topic, instead making her way through a narrow passage into the old-fashioned dining room and then into the even more old-fashioned living room with its afghan-covered furniture and expensive collection of Lladro figurines. Toby and Sadie jauntily followed on her heels with Noah bringing up the rear. His aunt eased down into her customary leather recliner while the dogs immediately camped out on the sofa, one on each end, leaving just enough room in the middle for Noah. While he could have opted to sit in the armchair to his aunt’s right, he plunked himself down between the dogs. If he hadn’t, Toby would have jumped into the chair on top of him, not having yet figured out that he was too frigging big to be a lap dog.

Noah tried to study Roz without looking like he was actually doing it. He didn’t like to press her about her health, since she’d always told him she had no intention of inflicting her misery on anyone else. But, today, as soon as he asked how she’d been doing since her latest change in medication, she smiled sadly and said, “I’m afraid that’s why I need to talk to you, Noah, dear.”

Noah was suddenly robbed of breath, and his fingers involuntarily dug into Toby’s thick coat. Unable to think of anything coherent to say, he merely nodded.

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to kick off tomorrow,” she said with the wry little chuckle that Noah loved so much. “But I’m not getting any better, as you can see.” She looked down at her lap, where both hands were trembling. “I’m not going to be able to stay in this house—not even with help. And I can’t keep imposing on my neighbors.” She had a housekeeper come in once a week, and a kind widower across the street took care of her yard work.

“I guess that makes sense,” Noah said, forcing the words past tight vocal cords. Aunt Roz had lived in this little single-story, three bedroom brick home since Noah was a toddler. Despite the estrangement between his aunt and his father, Noah had always been allowed to visit Roz’s home on a regular basis.

Roz paused to take a sip of bourbon before continuing. “I’m afraid it’s time for me to get myself into an assisted living facility,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve already put my name on the waiting list for the one I want. As soon as an apartment comes open, I’m out of here.”