Perfect Pitch (14 page)

He glared at the celebration behind home plate, the runners trotting in and high-fiving each other, one by one. Shit. At least Sam would look at him with pity, instead of the tight rage that sparked around Pop like an aura.
 

He didn’t want Sam’s pity, though. Any more than he wanted his father’s disgust. Jesus, he’d better pull it together. And fast.

The next batter dug into the box, taking his time to plant his feet after shooting a stream of tobacco juice over his shoulder. Ormond tossed a ball out to DJ, then settled into his crouch, flashing a single sign.
Curveball, dammit
.

Okay, the
dammit
was invisible. But DJ knew Ormond was saying it. Saying
dammit
and a lot more things, all of which would scorch the ears of the fans who were growing increasingly restless in the stands.

DJ cupped the ball in his left hand and shook out his arm. Fifty-four pitches. So much for going deep in this game. His arm ached, as if he’d already gone nine full innings. He’d iced it after his last start, of course, and sought out treatments every day. But the bone-deep fatigue hadn’t faded, despite four days of near-complete rest.

Mac had cornered him in the locker room that afternoon. The pitching coach had asked him point blank if he was feeling any pain.
 

“No, sir,” DJ had answered smartly.

It
wasn’t
pain. Not exactly. It just felt like his arm was going to fall off, like his shoulder was going to come apart at the joint. Besides, what the hell else was he supposed to say? Every ballplayer lied about how he felt.

Just usually not this early in the season.

Ormond was repeating his signs.
Curveball
. Fine. He’d throw the goddamn curveball.

It arched high over the catcher’s head, bouncing off the backstop and rolling halfway back to the mound.

DJ wasn’t surprised to see Mac lug himself up the stairs from the dugout. The pitching coach looked like he was fifty-percent walrus, with his sloping belly and his long mustache. But the man was one hundred percent pissed off when he got to the mound.

Mac wagged a finger in DJ’s face. “I don’t know where your mind is son, but you get it back in this ballpark right now.”

DJ knew better than to respond. Any excuse would just prolong the old coach’s tirade.
 

He couldn’t help glancing at the stands, though. At the owner’s box, where Dan Thomas looked like a statue of god, surveying his private domain. The cameras must be having a field day, capturing Pop’s every annoyed reaction. It didn’t matter that DJ was the league leader in complete games, didn’t matter that he was having the season of his life, this game excepted. Dan Thomas could never forgive weakness.

“Are you listening to me, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” DJ responded to Mac, feeling like he was five years old.

“Then get your head out of your ass and throw some strikes!”

Mac crossed his arms over his chest and waddled back to the dugout. DJ turned his attention back to the plate. There! A fastball, knee-high, just catching the outside corner.

He winced as his arm completed its motion. Only then did he realize that the ump behind home plate was calling the pitch a ball. The batter stepped out of the box with a satisfied expression on his face as DJ shouted from the mound, “Are you blind, Ump?”

Even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. A batter could get away with muttering his disagreement about balls and strikes, if he stared at the plate and never looked over his shoulder at the presiding official. Coaches could dispute calls about whether a player was safe on a bag, so long as they didn’t use specific words, question the umpires’ parentage or their preferences in bed.

But a pitcher, shouting directly from the mound? DJ saw the ump fold his hand into a fist, extending his thumb as if he were going to hitch-hike all the way to New York City. The motion tugged at something inside DJ’s chest, breaking open a keg of frustration. He shouted, “A one-eyed barncat could see that was a strike! That’s the fifth call you’ve missed!”

The ump jerked his thumb toward his shoulder, shouting, “You’re out o’ here!”

DJ heard the crowd roar its outrage, but he couldn’t tell if they were furious with the official or with him. The sound seemed to come from an impossible distance, as if DJ’s head was stuffed with cotton or if he were deep beneath the surface of the sea.
 

Epithets started pouring out of his mouth—a defense of his pitching, an attack on every call made in the worst three innings of his life. He didn’t think about the words, just pulled them out of his twisting gut. His arm throbbed, hot and heavy, the pain-that-wasn’t-pain fueling his tirade.

Ormond was pushing against his chest with both hands, trying to talk him down. Mac shook his head from the top step of the dugout, mustache still drooping like it had just heard the saddest story in the world. Coach had scrambled out of the dugout to argue with the ump, but the manager was obviously only going through the motions, keeping his hands at his side, not pushing too hard. Jimmy Conway wasn’t going to get himself thrown out of the game, even if it
was
a lost cause, down seven zip in the third.

DJ finally heard the words Ormond was repeating. “Get out of here. Hit the showers. It isn’t worth it, DJ. Just go to the locker room.”

The catcher intended to be calming. Like he was talking to a horse, trying to guide it out of a burning barn. DJ bit off his last insult for the umpire and tugged off his glove. As he stalked across the plate, he told himself not to look up, not to glance toward the owner’s box, not to find his father in the crowd.

But he couldn’t help himself. And the icy glare from Dan Thomas cut all the way across the stadium. The icy glare, and the set of his shoulders as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned away. DJ felt like a deflated balloon as he cut through the dead silence of the dugout on his way to the locker room.

* * *

Sam stared at the video screen above the concourse in the ballpark, unable to believe the scene before her. The Rockets’ manager was trying to explain away the embarrassing loss, spouting drivel so clichéd even Sam knew it was meaningless. Even as he spoke, Dan Thomas sat beside him. The Hall of Fame pitcher’s face grew darker with every phrase, glowering as if DJ’s loss had been a personal attack on his father’s reputation.

“Sometimes you just have to tip your hat,” Conway said. “It is what it is. Some nights, you just don’t have it out there, and this was one of those nights. DJ, well, he tried to do too much.”

Dan Thomas’ throat clearing sounded like a volcano erupting. “Cut the crap!” he growled into the microphone that he wrestled from Conway’s hand. “DJ blew the game, and there’s no pussy-footing around it.”

The reporters started baying like hounds, suddenly awakened from their routine post-game interview. One voice was sharp enough to cut through all the others: “What do
you
think went wrong, Dan?”

The Hall of Famer clearly understood his audience. He looked directly into the camera, pausing just long enough to make sure every single person in the room was hanging on his words. “Baseball is a tough game. Sure, pitching a perfect game is a big deal, and DJ managed that in his first start of the season. He’s strung together some good innings, a handful of good games. But real quality pitchers don’t just spring out of nowhere. There are no real, lasting surprises in this game. DJ’s reverting to his old self—good enough to pitch in relief, but that’s it. Nothing special. Nothing more.”

The criticism knifed through Sam as if the words were directed at her. How could anyone sit there and say DJ’s season was lost, because he’d had one bad start? And more to the point, what kind of father talked about his son that way? On television, no less, with every reporter in the Research Triangle listening in?
 

The press recognized blood in the water. The questions came faster, and Dan pontificated with even more authority. Sam wasn’t listening to the words any longer. She didn’t need to.

All she needed to do was get to DJ’s side. To remind him that it had been one game—an important one, sure. But he’d have another twenty starts before the season was over. He’d make it up to the team. To himself.

The park had emptied of its dejected fans remarkably quickly. Truth be told, most had left before the game ended, trickling out in the sixth or seventh inning, when a loss became inevitable. That was fine. It would be easier for her to make her way to the players’ parking lot.

She knew the way. She’d met DJ there after the last two games. The first time, she’d lingered at the front of the stadium until he was through in the locker room, until he could get away from the crush of players and the last-minute instruction from coaches. After that, she’d known the proper gate. DJ had met her there, folding her into his arms, seasoning his kiss with the jagged energy of a great baseball win.

In the past two weeks, they’d become experts at stealing private moments. They couldn’t be seen at games, not if she hoped to keep her crown. And they couldn’t retreat to DJ’s home the way they had the first night they spent together—not with Daniel and Isabel around.

But DJ could swing by her house in the mornings, before he had to report to the park. And twice, they’d sneaked into a luxury hotel, downtown. DJ had checked in under his full, nearly anonymous name—Daniel Thomas, Junior—and he’d texted her the room number so she never needed to speak to anyone at the front desk.

Tonight was different. Tonight she’d risk being seen with DJ. Besides, the reporters were still feeding off his father.

She nearly didn’t recognize DJ as he walked out of the building. His shoulders were hunched. He seemed weighed down by the athletic bag he carried. He studied his shoes while he walked, as if he were intent on not stepping on a crack, not breaking anyone’s back.

“Hey,” she said, when he had almost walked past her.

He reached for her like a starving man falling on a feast. His lips were hot on hers, desperate. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, as if he could occupy her entire body with his.

This was a new DJ. Every time they’d been together, he’d been playful, attentive to her every need. Now, he was driven, drowning. He found the sensitive place beneath her earlobe and attacked it with his tongue. She moaned and tried to move—away from a touch that was too intense, closer to a sensation she could not live without. His teeth grazed her, and she laughed in surprise. He eased the sharp sensation with his lips, soothing, sucking hard enough to raise a bruise.
 

She folded her fingers around his waist, pulling him closer. She understood from all their conversations how much this game had meant to him, how much he must have longed to impress his father. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, certain he would take no comfort in more elaborate words, in empty reassurances that he’d have other games, other seasons.

And those two words were somehow the perfect thing to say.
 

His arms folded around her, and he backed her up against his car. She could feel his arousal through the thin cotton of her skirt, hot and urgent. Laughing deep in her throat, she leaned back against the metal, shifting her feet until she found some semblance of balance. He groaned and slipped his right hand beneath her skirt.
 

She’d purposely worn the slightest of panties, little more than a thong. She’d meant to watch his eyes grow wide when he saw them. She’d intended to hear his approving growl as he tongued the tiny strap that danced across her belly. She’d imagined he would slip them over her hips, guide them past her thighs, her knees, her ankles.

She never thought he would rip them off her body, tear them free completely as he slipped three fingers into her molten core.

“And there, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason that some men will never make it into Cooperstown!”

Sam froze, as if she’d just been shoved under an icy waterfall. DJ moved automatically, withdrawing his hand, sliding in front of her, offering her the faintest semblance of privacy between his broad back and the car.

Cameras flashed. Microphones appeared out of nowhere. A dozen reporters surged into the parking lot, shouting questions, demanding responses from DJ, from Sam. From Dan Thomas, who was obviously still holding court, still reigning supreme over the media. The Hall of Famer had a cigar clenched between his teeth.

“Let it go, Pop,” DJ said, his voice edged with a dangerous threat.

Dan’s laugh boomed across the asphalt. “Caught with your pants down, son?”

Not exactly. DJ’s jeans might be stretched tight across his crotch, but his zipper was still intact. He
had
been caught with Sam’s panties, though, with the scrap of fabric dangling from his fist. He shoved the tell-tale wisp of silk into his pocket before he turned to the press. “Go on,” he growled at the scavengers. “There isn’t anything for you to report here.”

The excited buzz of the reporters indicated otherwise. A few broke free from the pack, moving to their left or right. Sam flinched at the flashes from their cameras, turning her head to one side. Her response only ignited the journalists; they took more pictures, shouting out questions for her.

DJ silenced them all by taking one step forward. “One more picture, and I’ll smash your fucking cameras into pieces.”

His fingers were folded into a fist. His right hand, of course. He automatically protected his left side, his pitching arm. But there was no doubt he was serious about the threat, no question that he would smash a lens or two. And maybe shove a microphone down someone’s throat.

Dan Thomas took his cigar from his lips, using it like a pointer to punctuate his sentence. “If you’d shown a bit of fire like that on the mound tonight, maybe you wouldn’t have been shelled!”

DJ whirled toward his father. “There are 162 games in a season, Pop.”

“I thought I trained
my
son to fight for every one of them.” Dan’s voice dripped with disgust. “Wasn’t that what all those years were about? Little League? Double-A ball? You were supposed to learn how to play in the big league, boy.”