Read Online Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) by Sally Bradley - Free Book Online
Authors: Sally Bradley
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played in the major leagues?”
“Watch,” he growled.
Dana’s body turned rigid, but at least she was silent.
Ben covered his mouth with a fist, watching himself—eleven years younger and thirty pounds lighter—nod at Reddick’s pitch choice. What had it been, a fastball?
The Oakland batter swung late.
Yep, fastball.
His best pitch. On rare days, almost a hundred miles an hour.
The picture changed to Reddick signaling slider.
That call still made no sense. Ben’s slider had been unreliable that last month. The whole pitching staff knew it, Reddick included.
Shake him off.
Instead Ben watched himself check the runners on first and third. He started his windup, the runner on first going a moment before the ball left Ben’s hand for home plate.
“Miss,” he hissed into his fist.
But the Oakland batter connected with Ben’s pitch, the ball zipping by the first baseman. The runner on third trotted home.
Tie game.
Dana sucked in a breath.
The third base coach waved the oncoming runner home. The camera flipped to the right fielder scooping up the ball.
The television picture faded, and Ben watched the play from where he’d backed up Reddick behind home plate. He saw umpire Edwin Byrd move into position, felt the cool air swirling around him, followed the ball sailing in from the outfield as the thunder grew from the Oakland crowd, all standing, all watching the ball in flight. And then the ball disappeared into Reddick’s glove. The slide, the tag, the dust—all at once. So close—
Byrd’s arms stretched horizontally, and Reddick, already on his knees, fell backward, glove over his face. Oakland players streamed from the dugout, and in the corner of the TV, behind the mad pile of men celebrating their success, Ben watched himself, the losing pitcher, lunge at Byrd.
“Oh, Ben—”
He slammed his fist against the armrest. He should have shook Reddick off. The idiot couldn’t call a decent game. And Byrd?
Ben shot out of the chair and down the hall, ignoring Dana’s voice. He kept going until the hallway ended, then, at a loss, veered into his office and slammed the door behind him. An autographed Greg Maddux photo fell to the carpet, but tonight he didn’t care. He dropped into his desk chair and stared at the blackness of his computer screen.
This was where he’d ended up, eleven years later. A has-been.
No, a never-was. One of those pitchers that drove a team’s fans mad.
He turned on his computer, forcing open his clenched fist. What now?
Margo.
Ben rolled his eyes. Not again. He yanked open a file drawer and pulled out the green binder. He spread it open on the desk, but tonight the contents did not console him. Instead the longer he sat there, his failure consuming him, the more appealing calling Margo seemed. Forget the risk.
Maybe Margo could help him forget his last pitch in the majors.
Chapter Thirteen
Mike’s words disturbed Meg’s sleep.
I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.
Do you wonder if we were too quick?
I’ve spent years wishing—
She kicked the comforter to the foot of her bed. Her clock read 1:30, and she glared at it. “He’s too late,” she told it. “Years too late.”
Why couldn’t he have said those things when they mattered?
Like after that eleven-day road trip?
Meg flopped onto her back and tried to sleep, but her eyes refused to close. She stared at the ceiling, reliving those lonely days after Mike dropped the Brooke bomb and left to play baseball.
On the night he was to return, Meg had gone to bed early, knowing that when she woke sometime in the day’s first hours Mike would be there, back from Kansas City. She needed to be rested and alert in case he was ready to talk.
They could overcome whatever had gone wrong in their marriage, even Mike’s betrayal. She had adjusted the pillow beneath her, pulled the covers over her shoulders, and forced her eyes shut. Everything would be better, in time.
When she woke, sunlight poked around the
“Watch,” he growled.
Dana’s body turned rigid, but at least she was silent.
Ben covered his mouth with a fist, watching himself—eleven years younger and thirty pounds lighter—nod at Reddick’s pitch choice. What had it been, a fastball?
The Oakland batter swung late.
Yep, fastball.
His best pitch. On rare days, almost a hundred miles an hour.
The picture changed to Reddick signaling slider.
That call still made no sense. Ben’s slider had been unreliable that last month. The whole pitching staff knew it, Reddick included.
Shake him off.
Instead Ben watched himself check the runners on first and third. He started his windup, the runner on first going a moment before the ball left Ben’s hand for home plate.
“Miss,” he hissed into his fist.
But the Oakland batter connected with Ben’s pitch, the ball zipping by the first baseman. The runner on third trotted home.
Tie game.
Dana sucked in a breath.
The third base coach waved the oncoming runner home. The camera flipped to the right fielder scooping up the ball.
The television picture faded, and Ben watched the play from where he’d backed up Reddick behind home plate. He saw umpire Edwin Byrd move into position, felt the cool air swirling around him, followed the ball sailing in from the outfield as the thunder grew from the Oakland crowd, all standing, all watching the ball in flight. And then the ball disappeared into Reddick’s glove. The slide, the tag, the dust—all at once. So close—
Byrd’s arms stretched horizontally, and Reddick, already on his knees, fell backward, glove over his face. Oakland players streamed from the dugout, and in the corner of the TV, behind the mad pile of men celebrating their success, Ben watched himself, the losing pitcher, lunge at Byrd.
“Oh, Ben—”
He slammed his fist against the armrest. He should have shook Reddick off. The idiot couldn’t call a decent game. And Byrd?
Ben shot out of the chair and down the hall, ignoring Dana’s voice. He kept going until the hallway ended, then, at a loss, veered into his office and slammed the door behind him. An autographed Greg Maddux photo fell to the carpet, but tonight he didn’t care. He dropped into his desk chair and stared at the blackness of his computer screen.
This was where he’d ended up, eleven years later. A has-been.
No, a never-was. One of those pitchers that drove a team’s fans mad.
He turned on his computer, forcing open his clenched fist. What now?
Margo.
Ben rolled his eyes. Not again. He yanked open a file drawer and pulled out the green binder. He spread it open on the desk, but tonight the contents did not console him. Instead the longer he sat there, his failure consuming him, the more appealing calling Margo seemed. Forget the risk.
Maybe Margo could help him forget his last pitch in the majors.
Chapter Thirteen
Mike’s words disturbed Meg’s sleep.
I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.
Do you wonder if we were too quick?
I’ve spent years wishing—
She kicked the comforter to the foot of her bed. Her clock read 1:30, and she glared at it. “He’s too late,” she told it. “Years too late.”
Why couldn’t he have said those things when they mattered?
Like after that eleven-day road trip?
Meg flopped onto her back and tried to sleep, but her eyes refused to close. She stared at the ceiling, reliving those lonely days after Mike dropped the Brooke bomb and left to play baseball.
On the night he was to return, Meg had gone to bed early, knowing that when she woke sometime in the day’s first hours Mike would be there, back from Kansas City. She needed to be rested and alert in case he was ready to talk.
They could overcome whatever had gone wrong in their marriage, even Mike’s betrayal. She had adjusted the pillow beneath her, pulled the covers over her shoulders, and forced her eyes shut. Everything would be better, in time.
When she woke, sunlight poked around the
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