Cutter Mountain Rendezvous (28 page)

“Whatever helped you write again, I’m glad. It’s a good song.”

“That actually sounded sincere. Thank you.”

“Come to Chicago, please.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to come to the game but you’ve cornered me. Or is it corralled me?”

“How about I make it up with a limo pick-up instead of a posse? You can stay at the house here with my mom.”

“See. You’re exactly like Trey.”

“I’m nothing like Trey. It’s easier on game day. It will ease my mind to know you are taken care of without a hassle.”

“Not necessary. I’ll rent a car. They give out free maps.”

“Then stay at my house with my mom. I’d like time with you and Lindsay.”

“If you want Lindsay at the game, it will be on my terms. I’ll rent a car and get my own room. We’ll come to the game, find our seats—”

“Skybox.”

“Skybox and go home.”

“Mason and my mom will be in the Skybox. We’ll meet afterward for dinner. But I’m firm on the limo. Chicago’s not an easy city to get around. There will be a limo driver waiting for you in baggage with Lindsay’s first name on a card. He’ll be available to you all day. Call me when you see him.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Kate...this could fun if you’d set your pride aside.”

Of course it would be fun. Then she would have enough hurt to write another song. “This is best.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because that’s how
I
handle an asshole.”

Colton’s words of advice on handling Trey popped up out of nowhere. The result being she was more rattled than before their call.

She would go to the game for Lindsay’s sake, but then she needed to find a way to forget Colton. Forget he sounded sincere and genuinely sorry for the way they parted. He parted.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Losing You was Everything” didn’t climb the charts. The song catapulted to the top and stayed there.

Trace Patton’s firm footing as one of the day’s top country artists didn’t hurt either. While his ex-girlfriend pop singer sang of a new love, Trace’s faithful women fans mended his jilted heart with off-the-charts record sales.

One afternoon as Kate tuned her guitar from a couch in Trace’s home studio, she eyed Blake Gerard, the band’s bassist. Not your typical crazy-boy-with-the-band type, she wondered what made him stay out of the rumor mill.

Trace was with them and fiddled with one of the amps the band used onstage.

Blake caught her gaze. “How come you don’t write for a living? There’s a hundred hungry singers out there looking for a break with a good song. You’ve got the goods. Make the time to deliver.”

“I deliver café mochas.” She gave the duo a fake grin.

Trace cut in. “Maybe you’ll listen to Blake. You won’t heed my advice. Do yourself a favor and let someone else grind the coffee beans. You’re a born songwriter. I know you don’t want to sing, but at least write full time. Make that your living like Blake says.”

Kate tilted her head Trace’s way. “And the cock crows three times.”

“What?”

She set her guitar aside and crossed her legs to inspect the calluses on her fingertips. “When I came back to Bear Creek, Cousin Jeff said something similar. Then Dad. Now you and Blake. Three times, if I lump you two together as one.”

“Everyone knows you’re a God-fearing woman, Kate. Guess you’d better heed the call, when that kind of thought hits you between the eyes.”

“I’ll give Starbucks two weeks notice.” She tapped her foot in time to a new tune he was fingering on a keyboard. “You ever think about settling down? Or is the celebrity life of easy money and easy women too alluring?”

Trace’s cell phone jangled. He gave Kate a bright smile. “Excuse me. That’s my easy lady on the line.” He walked outside. “Hey, pretty lady.”

She raised an eyebrow at Blake. “I guess post-Haley isn’t so painful after all.”

Blake chuckled. “You coming to Trace’s pool party this weekend?”

“No. I’ll be in Chicago.”

“You and that Colton Gray an item?”

“God no.” Kate picked up her guitar and plucked a string to tune. It provided a good place to keep her gaze and flaming cheeks. “He made friends with Lindsay. He sent her the game tickets. I’m her chaperone. Nothing more.”

“So you’re over him?”

“I was never
in
to him.”

“The song seems to say different.”

“The fire motivated me to write Trace that song.”

Blake set aside his bass guitar and put a foot on a wooden chair near her. He leaned his elbow on his knee. “You want to grab a bite for dinner when you get back from Chicago? Talk.”

Kate’s mouth dropped open. Her gaze met his. Blake was the only guy in the band that held any interest. Short and quiet, his head of dark curly hair and deep blue eyes made him attractive. She knew he was divorced but didn’t know his story. “Sure,” she found herself saying.

“Cool.”

****

Fireworks shot from the scoreboard at Olympia Stadium where the Chicago Bullets hosted the Lexington Racers. The Racers’ first baseman hit a high fly out of the ballpark to tie the game with two outs at the bottom of the sixth inning.

Bullets 5—Racers 5.

Colton’s jaw tightened. He struck out the last batter and retired the side without further damage.

Seventh inning stretch music blared over the field while he cursed under his breath. Five innings of respectable pitching had been blown in the sixth.

Coach Sawyer stepped out of the dugout to greet his players as they streamed off the field. Colton skirted around him. The ploy didn’t work well when Coach Sawyer found him in the crowd. “How’s the arm?”

“Great.”

“Great? You just fucked up a two run lead. You got enough left to finish?”

“Definitely.” Colton gave him a hard stare.

“You sure about that?”

“Most definitely.”

Coach Sawyer flicked a hand in the air and walked off. “You all lie through your teeth. Finish what you started.”

The seventh inning stretch over and the Bullets at bat, Denton Hayes walked to the plate. His two base hit set up a shot for home when the Bullets shortstop hit a high fly into right field that bounced off the wall. Denton headed home as the Racers’ right fielder dug the ball out of the grass and threw it hard to the second baseman who rocketed the ball for home.

Safe!

Bullets 6—Racers 5.

The eighth inning was a standoff. Top of the ninth didn’t see any action as the Racers’ pitcher struck out three Bullets batters in a row. A chant rose above the stadium as the Bullets headed out to the field at the bottom of the ninth.

COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN.

Racers batters were quick to make hits and the crowd went quiet. The plates filled. Colton could see Coach Sawyer outside the dugout, looking at the scoreboard. Bottom of the ninth. Two on base. One out. Bullets had a one run lead. Rubber-meet-the-road time.

Colton locked gazes with the pitching coach walking from the dugout for a “meeting at the mound.” He rolled the ball in his glove and yelled, “I know. I just gave up two fuckin’ pitches for two fuckin’ runners so head the fuck back into the dugout and tell Sawyer to chill. I know what the fuck I’m doing.” He kicked a toe at the mound.

“We know you know what you’re doing, son. I just wanted to buy you time to think about renegotiating your contract when the season ends.”

When the pitching coach trotted off the field and didn’t pull the crowd’s favorite pitcher, they fired up.

COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN.

The crowd roared throughout the warm-up pitches. Denton flipped up his catcher’s mask and stood, stepping away from the plate. The Racers’ batter edged up to the plate. Denton stepped back behind the plate, twisted his feet, and settled into a low squat. Colton indicated he was ready and Denton readied his catcher’s mitt.

Colton’s arm burned like hell but he felt loose and confident. He struck out the batter with three fast balls. The speeds flashed across the screen in cartoon graphics: 92, 90, 94.

Next batter up was a league leader in hits and a peacock. Willy Boy Boynton loved being the spoiler and had the goods to back up his antics. Willy strutted to the plate and blazed a glare across the field at Colton. Using his bat to tap dust off his cleats, he pointed to right field and the wall he intended to send his hit over.

Adrenaline rushed through Colton’s veins. Here was where poise and training met skill and luck. He stared down the batter. The plan was three fast balls, two on the inside of the plate, one outside—another out. A win and a season closer to tide over the fans and Bullets management until next year, when he would have to negotiate a new contract. Like coach so wittingly reminded him.

Two runners on base flicked in and out of Colton’s peripheral vision. He toed the mound. The electricity in the ballpark infused him with determination. The fans were holding their breaths. The hush was audible. He glanced up at the Skybox before setting his sights on the batter and backed off the mound. The crowd murmured. The organist played a riff.

Colton lifted his gloved arm and pointed to his wrist. Willy Boy Boynton wasn’t the only peacock on the field. The camera’s zoomed in on what the media dubbed Colton’s Lucky Bandz. The jumbo screen flashed with his wrist.

The announcers found plenty of chatter to put meaning to the bands and the little girl who had given them to him at LAX. TV cameras zoomed into the Skybox where she could be seen jumping up and down.

Colton raised his cap and wiped sweat from his brow onto his sleeve. Last batter. Bottom of the ninth. Two on base. The scenario ran through his mind. A crescendo in the crowed seemed to buoy him back to the mound to settle the ball and glove against his chest. The pitch left his hand. The batter swung and caught air—93 mph flashed across the digital screens. The batter spit and edged back to the base.

Two more, he told himself, and stepped to the mound to stare down the surly batter. Give him your best, he told himself. His arm was hot but loose. The four-seam fastball left the mound with deadly speed. Pain ripped through his shoulder. He glanced at the digital screen when the crowd roared. The 104 mph pitch was a career high. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He stuck out his glove and pulled in the throw from Denton.

One more pitch was all that was left in his arm.

Willy Boy was digging in at the plate. Swinging and spitting. He knew the exchange between Denton and the batter was anything but how’s-the-little-woman talk.

Colton hugged the ball to his chest. He couldn’t throw another fastball. He hadn’t thrown his famous knuckleball since returning to the mound because the once-stable pitch had become erratic. The exact reason few pitchers in the league used the knuckleball. His fame was consistency with a notoriously inconsistent pitch. He had no choice. The pitch was slower and easier on the arm. The knees took the punishment for the pitch not the arm.

He signaled the knuckleball to Denton.
Here goes.
Instinct kicked in and predicted a perfect pitch when a familiar calm settled over him. His pitch. His namesake. It was time to trust the pitch that put him on magazine covers, cereal boxes and billboards.

Denton dug in and readied his catcher’s mitt.

Wind up. The pitch.

STRIKE!

The crowd erupted.

COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN.

The batter slammed his bat to the ground and stalked off the field.

The knuckleball floated across the jumbo screen in the form of a drunken butterfly. The announcers were on their feet. Colton Gray’s knuckleball was back and better than ever.

COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN. COL-TRAIN.

The fans went wild. The pitch didn’t put them in the playoffs but it meant Colton Gray was back. Their hero would take them to the playoffs next year.

Colton waved his gloved hand overhead. His wrist of multi-colored rubber bands again flashed across the jumbo screen. He saw Lindsay jumping up and down like a Jack-in-the-Box on the TV screens, knowing the knuckleball had finished what the fastball started.

He also saw Denton smash his catcher’s mask to the ground and dig a path straight for him with teammates and press a short distance behind.

“Great pitch,” Denton shouted midway to the plate, “You’re lucky I didn’t drop it. I was fishing the damned thing out of my ass.”

“Shut up and pull my glove off before the press gets out here.”

The catcher glanced at his limp arm. “You fuckin’ asshole. Blew the shoulder on that last fast ball, didn’t you? That’s why you threw the knuckleball.”

“The shoulder’s fine.”

“Like fuck it is. This sure wasn’t the game worth blowing your arm for a win.”

“It was to me.”

Surrounded by a rush of reporters and teammates, their dickering was lost in the jostle of bodies. Allison Brant stuck her Wham Sports microphone at his face. “How does it feel to break your own fastball record?”