Out of His League. Cathryn Parry

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СКАЧАТЬ If you wanted to win—at baseball and at life—then it was necessary to take everything as it came, with an even temper.

      He knew what he had to do. He felt calmer now. The windows were getting clearer.

      His stomach growled. He should have taken the pizza when he had the chance. Pride be damned, he was starving. Still, it wasn’t wise to go back up to Lizzy’s apartment to have her psychoanalyze him again, even if—in her defense—she was probably terrified over having him and Brandon inside her normally ordered, doctor world, and was making up theories in order to push him away.

      He was not drawn to helpless women. He never had been, and everyone knew it.

      He dug his phone from his pocket and scrolled the contact list to call up the number for Brooke. He would stay cool. His plan of action was clear: get your baseball life back on track.

      “Patch me through to Max,” Jon said to Brooke when she answered the phone. “I want a three-way call with all of us on board.”

      “What’s going on?” Max asked, his voice faint. “You’ve left me a few messages this evening.”

      “Yes, I have.” Jon’s SUV windows were clear now, so he pulled the Expedition out of the lot. “I need my contract signed for next season, and I need to get going on that as soon as possible.”

      “That’s...good. Brooke is sitting with me.” Max did sound weak. Why was that? “She was just about to send you a text message. Are you listening to radio sports talk?”

      “Ah...no. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”

      “Jon...turn on the radio...and listen...”

      “Now,” Brooke said insistently. Jon could hear the radio playing in the background. “Turn it to SPK FM.”

      “Call us back in a few minutes.” Max disconnected the call.

      This was not good. But Max had never steered him wrong. Jon eased up on the accelerator and slowed for a traffic light.

      While the light was red, Jon took a swig of water from the bottle in his cup holder and then fumbled with the radio dial to find SPK. He would subject himself to the negativity for just one minute, and then he’d turn it off.

      “...he’s a local guy. What are you ragging on the local guy for, the only pitcher who won his last two games?”

      Jon almost spit out his water. That was Francis! His brother had called into the radio show. On top of everything else, this had to happen?

      Jon turned the volume louder.

      “...come on,” the radio host was saying. “Local or not, you can’t argue with his numbers. They’re terrible.”

      Great, Jon thought. The host’s gravelly voice made him sound like a tough guy, but Jon had met him in person. He was short, overweight and wore thick glasses. In high school gym class, he likely would have been picked last, every time. Maybe Lizzy would know if there was psychology that drew guys like him to working on these sports-team criticism shows.

      “Farell just did not have a good season,” the second sports host said. “I’m sorry, but you can’t spin the numbers. Overall, he was a disappointment to Boston fans this year.”

      That particular host had played in the big leagues. Jon actually respected his opinion, and that comment hurt.

      “But he won his last two games! You guys aren’t even considering that. It shows you don’t know anything. You don’t know what’s happening in that clubhouse,” Francis said again, spouting off, and Jon knew he had to do something, because this would not end well.

      When the light turned green, he hooked a left turn and drove the mile out of his way through thickly settled neighborhoods to his father’s house—Jon’s boyhood home—where Francis still lived in a bottom-floor apartment. Jon had even helped build and convert it for him. And when Jon got there, he would physically hang up the phone on his well-meaning but hotheaded younger brother, before he could do any real damage to Jon’s name.

      Fortunately, the show cut Francis off. Fuel added to their fire, the two hosts segued to a discussion about how they would like to dump the entire Captains starting-pitching rotation, front to back, and start over with new recruiting, because they thought that the existing attitudes were poisonous to the rest of the clubhouse.

      Jon switched off the radio. Talk like this could spark a revolution. The cries and calls from fans and press—especially in a big-market team like Boston—did affect management’s personnel strategy, as much as everyone liked to think it didn’t.

      This was worse for him than his evening’s troubles with Lizzy. He fumbled with his phone and dialed Francis’s number. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said when Francis picked up.

      “I hate those jerks,” Francis sputtered.

      “Then why do you listen to them?”

      “How can you not listen to them?” Francis shouted.

      “Because it helps nobody,” Jon answered calmly. “Don’t you get it? They’re looking to cast blame. These guys live and die by their ratings, and they’ll be happy for any kind of outrage they can stir up to explain our lousy September—how we blew such a huge lead in the standings and lost so many games that we missed making the playoffs. If I were a fan, I’d be interested, too.”

      “Why did you lose so many games?”

      If Frankie was questioning him, then he was really in trouble.

      “In reality, Frankie, sometimes stuff like this just happens. For no reason. Okay? And then we deal with it and we move on.”

      “How are you dealing with it, Jon?”

      “By planning for the future. My agent and I have a plan.” Okay...not yet, but they would. “What I’m getting at is that I have to be irresistible to the team for next year so they’ll sign me again. And if people are bringing up my name in public in a bad way, then that can only hurt me. Do you understand, Frankie?”

      It was the bluntest speech he’d ever given Francis. There was silence on the other end of the phone. Hopefully, his brother was digesting the message.

      “Yeah, man,” Francis said, but in a smaller voice.

      “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, man,” he said. “I appreciate you caring about me.”

      “I’m...sorry,” Francis said. He paused—it sounded like he was conducting a muffled conversation on the side. Jon couldn’t be sure, but he’d guess it was with a woman.

      A woman? With Francis? Since when?

      Jon glanced at a passing street sign. Just a few more blocks to go. “Don’t leave, okay?” Jon said, stepping harder on the accelerator. “I’m almost at the house. We’ll have a beer together in Dad’s kitchen when I get there.”

      “I’m, ah, not at home,” Francis said.

      How could he not be at home? His life was at home. Him and their dad, home together every night after СКАЧАТЬ