Stealing Home by Tara Wyatt

One

Present Day

Dylan traced his habitual pattern with the knob of his bat in the dirt just outside the batter’s box before stepping up to the plate. It was a good luck ritual he’d started ten years ago, and even though the woman who’d inspired it was long in the past, he’d kept it up all the same. Maybe he was superstitious, or maybe he was just nostalgic for a time when everything wasn’t so damn hard. Either way, he traced those same four letters each and every time, and every time he did, he thought of her, just for a second.

He adjusted his gloves and helmet and then stepped inside the batter’s box, tapping his bat against the plate. The crowd buzzed around him, the scents of popcorn and freshly cut grass hanging in the air. His walk-on music faded, and Dylan took a deep breath.

“How’s your 0-for-April going, McCormick?” chirped Jake Landon, the veteran catcher for the Cincinnati Reds. Landon was known for his cocky attitude and smart mouth, but Dylan ignored him, not giving him the satisfaction of reacting. After five years in the big leagues playing for the San Diego Padres, he had enough experience to tune out the noise. He flexed his fingers around the end of the bat, focusing on the pitcher on the mound sixty feet away. An off-speed sinker sailed across the plate and into Landon’s glove.

“Stee-rike!” called the umpire.

“Bit low,” muttered Dylan, retaking his stance, swinging the bat a few times. The umpire ignored him.

The next pitch came, a fastball right over the plate. Dylan swung and missed, his timing the slightest bit off.

Goddamn it.

A year ago, he would’ve crushed that ball, sending it soaring into the stands and giving some lucky fan a souvenir. Now, he couldn’t hit anything but air. Frustration churned through him, and he rolled his neck, knowing if he got in his own head, he’d only make things worse. Once he was settled back into position, bat cocked over his shoulder, a curveball barreled down on him. It was going to be inside. It was curving too much. Dylan didn’t swing, scooting his hips back from the plate to avoid getting hit.

“Stee-rike!” the umpire shouted as he punched the air, officially striking Dylan out. Anger and irritation got the better of him, and he tossed his bat down, wheeling on the ump.

“Oh, come on. That was inside. I barely had time to get out of the way.” He planted his hands on his hips, his blood buzzing through his veins.

“Take a walk, McCormick,” warned the umpire in a low tone. Dylan let out a low growl of frustration and picked up his bat as he strode back to the dugout.

Then he broke it over his knee.

All the anger drained out of him and he handed the two splintered pieces to the batboy, then sat down heavily on the bench. He’d had cold streaks before, where he’d struggled to hit, but he’d never started a season striking out eighteen times in a row. After missing most of last season with a busted knee, he’d been so eager to get back on the field. But striking out night after night was eating at him.

“McCormick, why don’t you take it easy tonight?” Al Johnson, the San Diego Padres’ manager asked without really asking. “We’re gonna sub the kid in, let him get some playing time.”

Dylan just nodded. He had no defense and wasn’t in a position to plead for his spot in the lineup. He slumped back against the dugout wall, staring down at his cleats. Not that long ago, he’d been the kid. Now he was dangerously close to being the second-string has-been with a bad knee.

He grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds and settled back to watch the game, feeling useless. Ever since coming back from his knee injury, he’d been struggling, and he needed to figure out a way to get back on track. Baseball was his life. He was only twenty-eight. He wasn’t ready to be done.

“Hey, can we put some work in tomorrow morning?” he asked Tony, the team’s hitting coach. Tony shrugged.

“Sure, man,” he said, not meeting Dylan’s eyes. Okay, that was weird. How was Tony not more interested in helping him? He glanced around the dugout and noticed that everyone seemed to be keeping their distance. Great. Nothing like a little clubhouse drama to liven things up. He watched the next six innings alone, trying not to feel sorry for himself and failing.

“McCormick,” said the bench coach, holding the dugout phone away from his ear. “Head inside. Stokes wants to talk to you.”

Dylan pushed up off the bench with a sinking sensation he knew exactly why the team’s general manager wanted to talk to him right this very second. He paused for a moment, looking around, taking it all in. If his gut feeling was right, this would be the last time he’d ever be in this dugout.

Inside the clubhouse, Gary Stokes was waiting for him. His graying hair curled down over his ears and grazed the collar of his shirt, his oversized glasses pinching the bridge of his nose. He wore his trademark Padres suspenders and matching tie, rocking back and forth on his heels as he watched Dylan approach. “Dylan,” he said, motioning for him to sit down on one of the leather couches grouped in the center of the clubhouse. “You’ve been traded.”

It was what he’d been expecting. He nodded, letting it sink in. “Where?” he asked after a moment.

“Dallas.”

Dylan couldn’t hold back the grimace from spreading across his face. Not only were the Longhorns one of the worst teams in the league, but he had no interest in going back to Dallas. Ever. Too many memories. Too many reminders of what he’d lost. Too many reminders of her.

Stokes frowned, a puzzled look on his face at Dylan’s reaction. “Thought you’d be happy. Aren’t you from Dallas?”

Dylan snorted. “Yep. From being the key word. So, what was the trade? Hope you got someone good.” He couldn’t hide the note of sarcasm that had crept into his voice.

Stokes hesitated, just a bit. “Cash considerations.”

Jesus. They hadn’t even gotten another player for him. Just a pile of money from the Longhorns. They were offloading him. Selling him like a used car past its prime.

“Great,” he muttered and then pushed up off the couch. Might as well start clearing out his shit. He grabbed his duffel bag and started stuffing the personal items—T-shirts, shorts, his shaving bag, spare cleats—from his locker into it.

“You had a good run here in San Diego,” said Stokes, clearly feeling awkward. “We wish you all the best.” He held out his hand, and Dylan forced himself to shake it. Stokes paused, looking like he wanted to say more, but then shook his head and left, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind him. A roar erupted through the stadium—Dylan could feel the rumble of it through the floor. He glanced up at the flat screen TV mounted to one of the walls, tuned to Fox Sports San Diego. The kid had just hit a home run.

Alone in the clubhouse, he sank down onto the bench in front of his locker and dropped his head into his hands. He felt like everything was crumbling, falling apart around him. It had all started with that knee injury last year. If only he hadn’t tried to steal second. He’d slid into the base feet first, and his cleat had caught the leg of the defending second baseman. His knee had bent in a way knees aren’t supposed to bend; he’d felt a pop, and that was it. Season over. But the bad luck had continued. He’d had a rough rehab, and healing had taken longer than expected. He’d struggled through spring training, and now the Padres were done with him. Not only that, but he was being sent to Dallas, the one city he’d give his left nut to avoid. Plus, the Longhorns sucked, so he could kiss any postseason hopes goodbye.

“Fuck.” He spit the word out and then finished clearing out his locker. As much as he didn’t want to go to Dallas, he didn’t have a choice. All that mattered was getting his career back on track. If this was what he needed to do, so be it. He could be a big boy and suck it up.

He knew he’d be expected in Dallas by tomorrow, so he decided to grab a quick shower before heading to the airport. He’d have to arrange for his stuff to be sent once he had a place to actually send it. Slowly, he unbuttoned the front of his Padres jersey, taking it off for the last time.

* * *

The patio of Hazelwood’s Bar and Grill was crowded, filled with tourists and locals alike enjoying the warm April sunshine. Umbrellas flapped gently in the breeze, upbeat country music playing through the speakers. It was a Friday afternoon, just after four, and it felt as if the entire population of Dallas had decided it was happy hour.

“So I look over, and the boy is snoring. Fell dead asleep during the movie.” Aubrey Norris rolled her eyes and laughed.

“That has got to be the worst first date in the history of bad first dates,” said Maggie, taking a sip of her margarita.

Aubrey scoffed and took a sip of her own drink. “Girl, you should talk. What about that guy who took off all of his clothes when you went to go get your purse—before you’d gone out?”

Maggie wrinkled her nose, remembering. “Oh, yeah. Brent. He was gross.”

“And what about that guy who Naired his balls before your date, giving you an allergic reaction when you got busy?” asked Jess Cunningham.

“In my defense, that was not a first date, thankyouverymuch, and Steven didn’t know I was allergic to Nair.”

“Please, we can’t forget the guy who brought his mom, dad, and sister to dinner,” chimed in Laurel Whitby.

“Jason. Yeah. That was pretty bad,” Maggie admitted. “But still. Aubrey’s dude fell asleep during the movie.”

“Because he’s a doctor who’d spent the past seventy-two hours on-call,” Aubrey said, arching one meticulously groomed eyebrow.

Maggie threw her hands up in defeat. “Fine. You win. I have the most bad first dates.”

“I think you have the most first dates period,” said Jess.

“Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with being picky.” Maggie snagged a tortilla chip and dragged it through the guacamole in the center of their table. She felt her cheeks heat a little and held her hand in front of her mouth as she chewed. Thankfully, Aubrey changed the subject to work, something they talked about often. Aubrey was a color commentator for NBC Sports Dallas, and covered all the Longhorns games. Jess and Laurel both worked for the Longhorns, along with Maggie, which was how the four of them had met and become friends. Jess was the social media guru, managing the team’s online presence and connecting with fans, while Laurel was the team’s marketing coordinator. Maggie was the manager of media relations, dealing with all things PR-related, as well as making sure the relationship between the team and the media stayed positive. Given that the Longhorns’ star player, Hunter Blake, was also the MLB’s resident bad boy and son of beloved Hall of Famer Garrison Blake, she often had her hands full.

But hard work was something Maggie was very used to. Not just used to—she thrived on it. She’d busted her ass as a teenager to save enough money for community college and had worked tirelessly in every job she’d had since. She’d earned every promotion, every accolade, every pay bump. It hadn’t come easy, but things worth having rarely do, she’d learned.

“I meant to ask you, are you coming to the gala tomorrow night?” Jess asked Aubrey.

Aubrey shook her head, her short, dark brown hair catching the sunlight. “No, I’ll be working, but have a glass of champagne for me. Are you bringing your new girlfriend?”

“Sure am. I’m excited for y’all to meet Aly.”

“I will be so glad when this gala is over,” said Laurel, adjusting her sunglasses. As the marketing coordinator, she’d had a lot on her plate getting the team’s annual charity gala organized. Promotional materials, making sure the players would be there, monitoring ticket sales, and coordinating everything from catering to table arrangements. It was no wonder Laurel was ready to be done with the event. “Are you bringing anyone?” she asked Maggie.

She shook her head. “Nah. I mean, it’s a work thing, so I’d rather just focus on that.” And that was true, but there was more to it than that. Lately, she’d been struggling to muster up the enthusiasm to date at all, and she wasn’t even sure why. At twenty-eight, her friends were all settling down, getting married, talking about babies. And she wanted that too, but every guy she met just…just wasn’t the one. She didn’t know how else to explain it.

“You better be careful, or you’ll never knock the cobwebs loose,” said Laurel.

Maggie frowned. “Cobwebs?”

“The ones covering the entrance to your vajayjay,” said Aubrey.

“Oh, ha ha. Very funny.” Maggie stuck her tongue out, but she knew they were at least a little bit right. It had been a while since she’d last had sex. Mentally she counted back, grimacing when she realized it had been nearly six months. “There might be a few cute little dust bunnies, but definitely no cobwebs.”

“Only because your vibrator shakes them loose,” said Jess with a wink, and they all laughed. That was also true, given that the only action she’d seen recently was of the battery-powered kind.

“So, what are you wearing tomorrow night?” asked Jess.

Maggie whipped out her phone, once again grateful for the shift in topic. “I have a picture, hang on a sec.” She scrolled and found the image she’d saved of the dress she’d picked out. It was navy blue with an intricate pink and red floral pattern across the fabric. The bodice was slim-fitted, with an open back, while the skirt was full.

“Oooh, that’s so pretty!” said Laurel. “Where did you buy it?”

“I didn’t. I rented it.” The dress retailed for $600, but she’d been able to rent it for the weekend for $90. Even though money wasn’t as tight as it had been growing up, her mama’s frugality had been ingrained in her. It was just part of who she was.

Maggie smiled and moved to slip her phone back in her purse when it vibrated in her hand. Because of the nature of her job, she was never really off duty, so she glanced at the screen. It was an organization-wide email with the subject heading “trade alert.” She opened it and everything inside her went very, very still as she read. The words all blurred together with only two standing out, branding themselves into her brain.

Dylan McCormick.

“Maggie? You okay?” asked Aubrey. She laid a hand on Maggie’s arm, and she jumped, her phone clattering onto the table.

“Oh, um…” She picked up her phone and noticed that her hand was trembling.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” asked Laurel.

Their phones buzzed, one after the other, as the same email came through. A silence fell over the table momentarily as they read.

“Oh, shit,” whispered Jess. She looked up, meeting Maggie’s eyes.

One night after a little too much wine, she’d told them all the story about her and Dylan. About how she’d fallen hard and fast for Ivy Hills’ golden boy, about how she’d given him her heart and her virginity, and how he’d left her in the dust, heartbroken. How his family had never accepted her, and he’d gone off to Vanderbilt and a life without her as if she’d meant nothing to him. How she’d felt like a complete fool. They’d all listened sympathetically, cursing his name along with her.

“That fucker,” said Aubrey, shaking her head, still looking down at her phone.

“I’m going to make sure he looks awful in all his promo spots,” said Laurel with a definitive nod.

“And I won’t delete any of the troll comments from posts about him,” said Jess.

Maggie took a breath and smoothed her hands over her skirt. “Y’all are sweet, but really, I’m okay,” she lied. She wasn’t okay. Not even a little. But here and now wasn’t the time to unpack everything. “It was a long time ago.”

“Boy, it’s a good thing you never wanted to be an actress,” said Aubrey, smiling sympathetically. “You wanna talk about it?”

Maggie shook her head. “No. Really, I’m okay. It was just a shock to see his name. I’m over it. Totally, completely over it.” She took a big swig of her margarita. In the back of her mind, she’d always known there was the tiniest possibility of this exact thing happening. Despite the way he’d broken her heart, she’d followed his career and had been aware of where he was and what he was doing. Given her job, it would’ve been impossible not to.

But being aware of him and working with him in person—they were two very different things, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to handle it. What would seeing him again be like? She shivered. She was both terrified and a tiny bit excited to find out.

She took another sip of her margarita, trying to drown that excitement. She forced herself to remember that rainy night when he’d broken her heart. The last words she’d ever said to him echoed through her brain.

Fuck you, Dylan McCormick. I hope I never see you again.

Looked like her wish wasn’t being granted.