Crushing It: A Love Between the Bases Novella Read online

  Either he was still hungover or that made no sense. Or both. He brushed grass off his pants and tucked in his shirt. “My name’s Crush.”

  “Mine’s Teri. With an I.” She cocked her head. “What kinda name is Crush?”

  “A baseball name.”

  She nodded in acceptance. So she’d never heard of him. Apparently election to the Baseball Hall of Fame didn’t grant universal fame.

  “Ah, listen, Teri. Do you have your driver’s license?”

  “Of course. I told you I’m twenty-one.”

  He dug in his pocket and found his car keys. “I’m pretty sure my car’s somewhere around here, and I could really use a cup of coffee but my head is pounding like a moth—” He caught himself. “Motherboard. A motherboard being attacked by rabid hammer-wielding trolls. If you know what I mean.”

  She just blinked at him. “Not really.”

  “I wonder if you would be so kind as to drive me to an establishment that serves caffeine. You may also have some, my treat.”

  “I don’t drink caffeine.”

  “No alcohol, no caffeine. What are you, Mormon?”

  She squinted into the distance as if not sure how to answer. “I don’t think so.”

  Crush shook his head to clear it, which was a big mistake. A snare drum began a backbeat behind his eyeballs. “Hot chocolate, then. Whatever you want. Hell, you can have eggs and bacon as long as I don’t have to look at it. So what do you say?” He tossed the keys to her. She caught them in her glove.

  “Good golly,” she said, her eyes widening as she looked at the keys. “Is your car a Porsche? You’re going to let me drive your Porsche? Seriously? Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah!”

  He cringed, shielding his ears with both hands. “Only if you stop making sounds right this minute.”

  She snapped her mouth shut.

  * * *

  Crush directed Teri to a coffee shop called All Jacked Up, which served the greasiest hash browns known to man and coffee one shade away from burnt. Both of those items hit the spot. Teri got hot chocolate adorned with half a can of Reddi-Wip and a double order of cinnamon French toast. She was flying from her experience driving Crush’s silver Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet.

  “I don’t care if you are homeless, that car definitely makes up for it.”

  “Not homeless.”

  “Yeah, but if you were—”

  “Despite appearances, I’m not a drunk either. So do you think we can move on to another topic?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like where you learned to pitch, like what a nice Mormon girl like you is doing in Kilby, what your plans are for the next six weeks.” An idea had been forming in his mind, but he had to make sure it wasn’t just the alcohol talking.

  “I learned to pitch from my cousin. He actually pitches in a Mexican League, can you believe it?”

  “Wow,” Crush said drily.

  “Yeah, he’s awesome, and every time he comes home, he teaches me a new pitch. He says I’m the best girl pitcher he’s seen.” She gave Crush a testing look over her mountain of whipped cream, as if curious to see his reaction to that statement.

  “No arguments here. I see lots of natural talent, but your form needs some work.”

  She scowled at him. “How would you know, Homeless?”

  “Trust me. I know. That’s all right. Form can be taught. Talent can’t. Okay, so next question. Why are you in Kilby?”

  “You just insulted my pitching. Why should I even answer any of your questions?”

  “Because of my third question. ‘What are you doing for the next six weeks?’ Know what happens in six weeks?”

  She lifted one shoulder, clearly irritated by this interrogation. “In six weeks I’ll be back in Brownsville working at the Red Robin.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be trying out for the Kilby Catfish?”

  “What are the Kilby Catfish? Some kind of girls’ softball team?” She didn’t look very excited by that idea, and he couldn’t blame her. Aside from the women’s Olympic team, he couldn’t imagine that many female players would give her much of a challenge.

  Crush finished chewing another mouthful of hash browns. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself here. He needed to find out more about this girl before he got his gears spinning too much. “Let’s back up to question number two. What brought you to Kilby?”

  “I’m here to see someone.” She grabbed the end of her ponytail and twirled it between her fingers. It was the most girlish gesture he’d seen her make so far. This topic definitely got her nervous.

  “Who? I know a lot of people here in Kilby. I can probably help you find them.”

  Her eyes darted around the coffee shop. “I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t say. She doesn’t know I’m trying to find her.”

  “Okay.” More and more mysterious. “Why are you trying to find her, whoever she is?”

  “That, I definitely can’t say. Not until I talk to her.”

  “Sure. Well, suit yourself.” He signaled for the check. “I’m fine to drive now, but I can drop you off somewhere. You can continue your mystery quest on your own. Take this. Cell phone number, only for use in case of big trouble.” He passed her one of his business cards and drained the last of his coffee. It was better this way. His silly half-formed idea about how he could prove the annoying Wendy Trent wrong could go back to its alcohol-spawned source. Teri could go back to Brownsville and learn new tricks from her cousin. All would return to normal.

  “Okay, okay,” Teri said hurriedly. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you who I’m looking for. Her name is Wendy Trent.”

  Coffee came spurting from Crush’s mouth, and maybe even his nose. “Mother—”

  “Hey!” Teri protested as she dodged the stream of liquid. “No swearing.”

  “You’re looking for Wendy Trent? The mayor of Kilby?”

  “Well, yes, but not because she’s the mayor. It’s for another reason. Do you know her?”

  “As a matter of fact, kid, I know her quite well. I know where she lives, I know where she works. I can take you to see her. In fact, I will take you to see her. It’s the least I can do.”

  The owner arrived with the check and one of Crush’s trading cards. “Would you mind, Crush? It’s for my second cousin down in Mexico, man. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No problem.” Crush’s jaw worked as he signed the card from his final season. He must have signed twenty cards for this guy by now, and something told him they were all ending up on eBay. He handed the card to the owner and caught him grinning over his dirty apron.

  “I told my cuz this is as good as gold. Hall of Fame, yo. All over the news. Big gratz, Crush.”

  “Thanks.” As a way of ended the conversation, he turned back to Teri and found her staring at him with a wide-open mouth.

  “Crush Taylor? The pitcher? You’re him? I didn’t know you were still alive!”

  “Yeah, well, that part’s iffy right about now. Come on.” Since the owner showed no signs of leaving, Crush put some money on the table and rose to his feet. “Let’s go find Wendy.”

  Teri was still jabbering excitedly as he hurried her out to his Porsche. “Seriously. Crush Taylor. I’ve heard of you! And now you’re going to be in the Hall of Fame? I can’t believe it! I’d be so excited if it was me! Well, not that it would be ever me, because…wait, what did you mean about trying out? What are the Kilby Catfish? Is that a real team? It doesn’t exactly sound real, if you know what I mean.”

  Crush clicked the unlock button on his Porsche and loped to the driver’s side. “Teri, if we’re going to work together, the first thing you need to know is when to shut the F up.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I just ask one thing first? Before I start shutting up, I mean? What do you mean by ‘work together’? Can you just answer that first?”

  Crush sank into the buttery leather seat of his car. Was this some elaborate punishment for falling off the wagon?

  “Look kid,” he said
to Teri when she slipped into the passenger seat. “We’re about to see the woman you came here to find. Shouldn’t you be thinking about what to say to Wendy?”

  Amazingly, that worked. Her face shut down and she didn’t say another word during the entire trip across town.

  Chapter Three

  When Wendy Trent was growing up, her idea of high-end architecture had been the local White Castle hamburger stand. In rural Missouri, that was as fancy as it got. For a while, during her brief and horrendous marriage, she’d lived in an Army tent and then an abandoned school bus. So the fact that she actually owned—all by herself—a two-story house with landscaping and fake colonial columns never failed to amaze her.

  It was hers. All hers. No one could come in unless she invited them. Her security system was extensive. She justified the expense because she was the mayor of Kilby, but the real reason was intensely personal. She wanted—needed—to feel safe. The security system helped, and so did the Remington shotgun she kept stashed in the hall closet. As mayor of a small town in Texas, it would be considered strange if she didn’t have her own weapon.

  She rarely invited anyone to her home. When she threw her annual Christmas party, she packed away everything personal and hired caterers and decorators to transform it into a place she barely recognized. Then she hired the same decorators to turn it back into her own familiar safe haven. Even though she played the beauty queen schmoozer as part of her job, her staff knew she guarded her privacy fiercely.

  So when a knock came on her door before eight in the morning, she was so shocked she nearly dropped the towel she was using on her hair. She could hear the pounding all the way in her upstairs master bathroom.

  She sorted through options. Ignore it? Shoot the intruder? Tell them to find her at Kilby City Hall during “Ask the Mayor” hours?

  After pulling on a fuzzy blue robe, she trotted down the curving, carpeted stairway to the cathedral-ceilinged foyer. Just in case, she grabbed her rifle from the closet. It wasn’t loaded, but the sight of it would likely do the trick. When she peered through the peephole and saw Crush Taylor’s bloodshot eyes in the fisheye lens, she almost reconsidered. Maybe she should put some shells in her 12-gauge. Crush had a way of making all normal thoughts and behavior scatter to the winds.

  She unlocked her deadbolt and flung the door open, completely forgetting that she still wore a robe and not a single speck of makeup. The only person she usually allowed to see her like this was her facialist. She even wore full makeup when she got her hair done. She was the mayor and she had an image to maintain.

  Considering that Crush looked like a playboy with a hangover, she had no need to worry. He looked like he needed a long hot bath and a week’s sleep.

  “What in sweet Sesame Street is going on? Why are you pounding on my door?”

  Crush seemed spellbound for a moment as he took in her appearance. “I gotta say, I’ve wondered many times what you look like in a bathrobe, but not once did I picture the shotgun. That’s even hotter.”

  Wendy shoved her firearm back in the hall closet.

  “Crush Taylor, this is completely rude and unacceptable behavior, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I guess manners don’t come with that Hall of Fame award, do they?”

  Crush’s hazel eyes gleamed with amusement. One thing about Crush, he was always good for a verbal duel. She appreciated that in a man. She appreciated many other things about him, truth to tell. His lean, rangy build. His raw male charisma. His caustic sense of humor. The lines of experience scrawled across his face. The heat that simmered between them was tempting—so tempting. But he was too well-known and too wild. She had no interest in being the latest in his parade of Victoria’s Secret model girlfriends.

  “I’m here as a Good Samaritan,” he said virtuously. He stepped to the side and tugged someone into her view. “I happened to meet this fine, upstanding young lady at one of our parks. Her name is Teri and she’s looking for you.”

  Wendy turned her attention to the girl, noting her height, athletic build, dark curly hair and upturned nose. The other thing she noticed right away was the way the girl—Teri—was looking at her. Her expression was somewhere between terrified and fascinated.

  She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe Teri was one of the many girls she’d mentored as part of her effort to promote women’s rights.

  “Hi, Teri. Have we met before?”

  “Well, sort of. A long time ago.” She shot a panicked look at Crush, who looked just as confused as Wendy felt. “But you probably don’t remember. Actually, that’s ridiculous, of course you remember. But I don’t remember, because I was very young. Very, very, very young.”

  She spoke with a soft South Texas twang that sent shivers up Wendy’s spine. “Where did we meet? Maybe that will bring it back.”

  “Brownsville.”

  Brownsville. A sick sensation built in her stomach. She hated Brownsville. At the age of twenty-two, she’d come close to losing her life there, and had lost pretty much everything else. Nothing good could come to her from Brownsville. She wanted to turn tail and run. Barricade the door and flee to her upstairs bedroom. Maybe hide under the bed.

  But Crush was looking at her with penetrating hazel eyes and dammit, she had too much pride to turn and run. She was forty-three years old and she’d clawed her way to success beyond anything she’d ever dreamed. Brownsville was history. The terror of that time couldn’t touch her anymore.

  “Well, that must have been a very long time ago.” She gave a trill of laughter that sounded false even to her ears. “I haven’t so much as passed through Brownsville in—”

  She broke off suddenly. A thought had just struck her. A horrifying, amazing, stunning thought. “You said you were looking for me?”

  “Yes.” Again Teri gave Crush a pleading look, as if he were some kind of savior. Wendy found it beyond irritating. What did Crush have to do with this whole situation anyway?

  Crush squeezed Teri’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid, Wendy won’t bite. I keep trying to get her to, but no go. Whatever you have to say, go ahead, spit it out.”

  Wendy closed her hands into fists, her nails digging into the heels of her palms. She drew on every bit of “steel magnolia” strength she’d developed in her political career. Whatever Teri had to say, she’d handle it. She always did.

  “Okay.” Teri drew herself up to her full height, which was a head taller than Wendy. “I was born in a hospital in Brownsville twenty-one years ago, on August 22. Does that date ring any bells?”

  Wendy couldn’t speak. Could it be? Really?

  Of course it could. Her tan skin, those unruly curls. That whip-strong athleticism.

  Teri continued. “I was given up for adoption by my birth mother, who never told the hospital her real name. My parents said that my birth mother was seriously injured when she came in. And she was really, really scared. My birth father never showed up. Everyone at the hospital said if he did, he would’ve been arrested. I know all this because my mom—my adoptive mom—is the obstetrics nurse who helped deliver me.”

  Wendy felt as if bolts of lightning were striking her with each sentence Teri spoke. It was so out of the blue, so shocking; one minute she’d been showering, the next, this. Her.

  Her…daughter.

  “I’m not here to cause any trouble, and my mama warned me you might not want to see me. That’s okay if you don’t. I can leave if you want. I really just wanted to meet you, that’s all. Do you want me to go?”

  “No.” Wendy realized she was clenching the doorframe so tightly that her hand had cramped. She reached out and touched Teri’s wrist.

  Teri smiled, and now Wendy finally saw a resemblance between herself and her daughter. When they smiled, their eyes tilted up at the corners and their noses wrinkled. Oh, and there was that firm jawline, too. The squarish shape of her face. That wild and curly hair came from Manuel, as well as the stormy darkness of her eyes. She didn’t have Wendy’s classic blond Texas looks, bu
t there was definitely a resemblance once you looked for it.

  Crush must have thought the same thing. He kept looking back and forth between the two of them. He whistled softly. “Goddamn,” he said in a marveling tone. “Is there a chance I’m so hungover I’m hallucinating this?”

  Reality came crashing back. Crush Taylor was witnessing this entire scene. Crush, of all people. She finally found her voice and snapped at him. “Crush, you shouldn’t be here. This is between me and Teri. It isn’t your business. Go. Get out.” She gave his shoulder a shove, which had absolutely no effect. The man was still an athlete, after all.

  “The hell—”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. She pulled Teri into her house and leaned on the door to keep Crush on the other side. She slid the deadbolt across, then caught Teri’s anxious glance.

  “Uh…” Teri twisted her hands together. In her spandex shorts and hoodie, she looked ill at ease in Wendy’s impeccably decorated foyer. “He’s been really nice to me. And he’s a famous pitcher.”

  “I know who he is, and believe me, if he’s been nice it’s because he’s up to something.”

  “Oh.” Her crestfallen expression almost made Wendy regret her harsh words. But she reminded herself that this was Crush, and wariness was essential. He’d already managed to get through her walls more than he knew.

  She stared at the tall, vibrant young woman in her foyer. In her most optimistic fantasies, she’d imagined her baby growing up happy and healthy. But the reality—it was overwhelming. “You…you’re my daughter.”

  “I think so. I mean, I always knew I was adopted, but I didn’t know the whole story until I turned twenty-one. Then my mom and dad told me about how the ambulance brought you in. And everything that happened after that. But they didn’t know your name because you had no ID on you. But my mom kept your things so I could have them when I was old enough. I found this.” She dug in her little backpack and pulled out a Mead notebook with a red cover. “I found some clues in here. Or at least I think they’re clues.”