Warning Track (Callahan Family #1) - Carrie Aarons Page 0,27

fucking head right, focus on the game, and then the future of my career.

Clark asked if I wanted to hang out today, and since we just finished up a road trip with three back-to-back series with three separate teams, I don’t have anything better to do. We have a two-day break, and I was going to hang around my house not doing much of anything today, so I might as well be social for an hour.

“A little league field?” I question as I walk up to where Clark is unpacking a gym bag.

He tosses me a baseball, which I catch in my gloveless hand. “I like to come out here every once in a while. Brings me back to my roots.”

The logic is rational, though I don’t know how much this little practice will help. “If you say so. I didn’t bring a glove.”

“I have an extra.” He reaches into the bag.

“Wearing another man’s glove? That’s against baseball law in some circles.” My eyebrow quirks up.

Clark rolls his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone on ya, big man. Let’s have a round of catch, just like the old days.”

The nostalgia his request sparks in me can’t be ignored. It’s been a long time since I came out on a little league field, choosing instead to stick to the state-of-the-art facilities that were offered to me now. There is something about the red clay under your sneakers, the uneven mow of the grass surrounding the diamond, the chain-link fence and one metal bench meant to be used as a dugout.

“You’re a private guy, aren’t you?” Clark muses as we leisurely throw back and forth.

I shrug. “Not much to tell, really.”

“There is always something to tell. I’ve just never heard much on you. You’ve been in the league, what, ten years?” The ball smacks into his glove, and he palms it, tossing it high back toward me.

My arms stretch over my head, eyes glinting against the sun, as I track the ball where it falls into my hands. “Yep. This is my eleventh season.”

“And in all that time, there really haven’t been too many exposés on you. Shit, I’ve had more than my fair share of paparazzi photos, girls recounting their nights with me on Reddit, and then there was that dick pic I accidentally sent to a reporter …”

A snort makes its way up my throat. “I forgot about that. You’re a dumbass, you know that?”

“Yeah, but my dick looked pretty good in that picture. At least I had that going for me.”

“Bet that fine from the league was a punch in the balls, though, huh?” I joke.

Clark’s indecent snap was all the talk a year or two ago, and I heard he had to pay upward of fifty grand to the league for his mistake.

“But you, man, you’re like a ghost. A fucking baseball legend, but a ghost. You need to give seminars or some shit.” He ignores my taunt and instead refocuses the conversation on me.

We’re tossing back and forth, and the hot summer breeze has sweat dripping down my back, but it feels good. Easy. There is a relaxed monotony about hanging out on this public patch of dirt that I haven’t gleaned from baseball in a long time. When you play a game professionally, a part of that love you have for a sport is translated into the need to be the best. The need to make money. The need to excel in every play, every at bat. Some of the pure passion is diminished simply because you’re being paid to win.

“I decided a long time ago, with the help of a very wise person in my life, that if I was going to come into this league, it was to play the game of baseball. They could have me as a player, but they would not have access to me as a person. There is a lot that this world and the public expect to be invited to in our lives, but I signed up to entertain them when I’m on that field. Not when I’m with friends, or family … if I had any. I don’t have a lot of close people in my life, but those who are there deserve their privacy.”

Clark nods, as if he respects this. “And the whole … wife thing. Is it true?”

I sigh, because this rumor is so played out that I wish it was tangible so I could put it in a chokehold. I’m not sure when or how