The Comeback of Roy Walker

“You know it can’t be me,” she said tightly. She clasped her hands together. Didn’t look at him. “I’m married.”

And there it was. So obvious, so bald it almost made him gasp. She’d said the words like a death knell. Like she was trapped in a cage with no escape. It was his mission to save her.

“Get unmarried.”

She jerked then, as if he’d hit her. When she looked at him, the tears in her eyes almost broke his heart.

“I can’t. I can’t fail. Duff wouldn’t—”

“Duff would understand. He loves you. He would support you no matter what.”

“You don’t get it.” She shook her head, her hair brushed her cheek. A cheek he so badly wanted to touch because it couldn’t be as soft as he imagined. Nothing could, right?

“Then tell me.”

“When Duff lost Mom he made us all promise we would try harder. That if we married, we wouldn’t make the same mistakes he made. That we would find a way to be happy. Danny and I...we can be happy. Again. I have to believe that. I have to.”

Roy pushed away from the door and advanced on her. He watched her, waiting to see what she would do, but she didn’t move. Until he was close, so close their thighs were nearly touching.

“What if there is something else? Someone else.”

She put her hand on his chest. She wasn’t pushing him away, but it was her signal to stop. So he waited and just breathed her in.

“I can’t...”

“I can.” Without another word his head dropped and his mouth was on hers. And it was like no kiss he’d ever felt before. Not even his first. This was the thing he wanted. For so long and he hadn’t even realized it. Now she was here, and he was kissing her and—

“No!” She backed up, almost stumbling to get away from him. “This is not who I am.”

“Lanie, I know that.” God, how he knew that. Her loyalty was unquestionable. But she had to see that with Danny, it was undeserved.

If she gave it to Roy, if he could have it, he would revere it and never betray it.

“Don’t call me Lanie,” she said. “You can’t call me Lanie and you can’t... I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake.”

“Lane, I’m sorry.” Roy ran a hand through his hair. This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out. He was supposed to be saving her. Not taking her. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I know you would never do that to him. But you have to know though this wasn’t some half-assed pass. Tell me you know that. At least give me that.”

She stared at him and he hid nothing from her. She might as well see it. Might as well know what she meant to him. What all those conversations and outings together had meant to him.

Everything.

“I need to leave.” She grabbed her coat and he didn’t stop her. After all, wasn’t this what he wanted. Her storming out before Danny got here?

Only it was too late.

She opened the door and on the other side was her husband. Who had a woman with long blond hair, wearing a halter dress and stiletto heels, pressed against the wall. His hand was on her breast, his tongue was in her mouth and he was grinding against her.

He stopped kissing the woman. “Dude, we’re going to need your room for an hour.”

Then Danny turned his head, saw his wife and the expletive that fell from his mouth was totally accurate.

“Lane, what the hell? Dude,” Danny shouted at Roy, “you said no wives!”

As this weird buzzing noise filled his head, Roy tried to think through what was happening. The crazy thing was he really hadn’t expected the plan to work so well. Here he was, this grown man, not some actor in a soap opera, who had devised a nefarious plot. It should have completely backfired.

Only nope. It had worked to absolute freaking perfection. Which, of course, meant that it really did backfire.

Lane faced Roy. Not her cheating husband. Roy. “You knew he was coming? You knew he was coming with someone?” Her voice had a raw, harsh quality he’d never heard from her before.

Since it was hard to form words while his head still buzzed, he simply nodded.

“You did this? To me? On purpose? I thought—I thought we were...friends.”

Friends. She thought they were friends. She cared about him at least that much.

He’d had that and now he’d lost it. He could see it in her face.

“You bastard.”

The word hit as if she’d stabbed him in the gut. Yes, he’d done this on purpose. He’d humiliated and inflicted pain upon the only woman he thought could ever really matter to him.

Roy held up his hands as if to remind her she knew what an ass he could be.

He could see her shake as she approached him and he kept his hands down, opened himself to whatever she would say next.

She slapped him. Hard, across his cheek. As punishment, it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

“I hate you for this. I hate you, Roy Walker.”

Then she walked past Danny and his flavor of the moment without so much as a word.

* * *

ROY LATER LEARNED that Lane moved out of her home that night. She and Danny were divorced six months later. The Founders’ season collapsed as the locker room never got over the pure hatred the star pitcher and shortstop felt for each other. And Lanie left her sports therapy business, putting the world of professional baseball behind her.

Roy heard she’d taken a job working at a veterans rehab facility. Helping soldiers with missing limbs adjust to their prosthetics. Sounded like something Lanie would choose to do.

At the start of his final game in baseball, Roy focused on doing what he’d promised himself he would. Go out on top.

And he did. Pitched a “no-no.” No hits. Only one walk. It wasn’t for the playoffs, or for the World Series win. Just the end of a lousy season, but a great career.

In his heart Roy knew he did it for her. The princess of baseball deserved such a tribute. Even though he doubted she watched.

After, he changed out of his uniform, got into his car and drove away from the stadium and the game that had been his life since he was six years old.

It was time to start a new life. Maybe in this new life he could forget Lanie Baker ever existed. The way she had so obviously done with him. He’d written her a letter to try to explain why he’d done it and, more importantly, that he was sorry.

He never heard from her.

Yes, it was definitely time to move on and forget his princess. After all, everyone knew the villain didn’t get the princess. Only the hero did. And Roy was never the hero.

CHAPTER TWO

A few months ago

“YOU’RE BROKE.”

Roy looked at his accountant and blinked. Frank’s face remained unchanged and entirely serious.

Roy knew the news would be bad. But not this bad. “That can’t be right.”

“You chose not to file for bankruptcy,” Frank reminded him. “I told you to.”

Stubbornly, Roy had refused. Bankruptcy had seemed like the coward’s way out. He’d taken the products from his vendors in good faith and he was a man who paid his debts. All of them. This meeting today was to discuss what was left.

Apparently not much.

“Look, you still have a few assets you can sell to get you a little more liquid until you get back on your feet. Your father’s house—”

“Not an option.”

Frank sighed. “Right. Your town house, then.”

“Great. I can sell that.”

“That will take some time. It’s November, not the greatest season to move real estate. What about your ex-fiancée’s thirty-thousand-dollar engagement ring?”

“Also not an option.”

Frank shook his head. “In today’s world it’s custom to give the ring back, regardless of who broke it off.”

Maybe, but Shannon hadn’t offered and Roy couldn’t ask for it. He’d met Shannon a few years into his new life and they had dated for nearly a year before deciding to get married. He’d tried, he really had, to make the long-term commitment work. But eventually he’d admitted to himself marriage wasn’t in the cards so he ended it.

Six weeks before the wedding.

What he’d done to her—led her on, let her plan a big, public wedding—was wrong and if she took some consolation from an expensive ring, she was welcome to it.

But that decision seemed to kick off his entire life coming down on him like a ton of bricks. After he ended the engagement, his developers told him the coding logic in Roy’s new high-tech gaming system, SportsNation, was faulty and would not be ready for their scheduled major launch. All the money they had poured into publicity, including print, radio and television, essentially gone as they had to push back the release date again and again.

By the time they got it working, there was another—better—product on the market. Eventually Roy’s company did launch the system, but it was too little too late. The company in which he’d invested every dime, every ounce of energy, for the past five years had failed.

Now he was broke.

He was thirty-seven, just beginning what was supposed to be the second half of his life. And it was over after five measly years.

Roy leaned back in his chair, looking at the stack of papers on the older man’s desk. Roy’s life had been reduced to overdue notices and collection letters. When all was said and done, there was nothing left but the loose change in his couch.

“What about advertising? You know, do a few commercials for some local auto dealer. They love that stuff. Or ESPN? You could become one of those baseball color commentators.”

Roy knew Frank was trying to help, just like he’d given him sound advice about the bankruptcy option. But Roy didn’t want to go back to any part of baseball. He sure as hell didn’t have the personality for television. And given his nonrelationship with about everyone associated with MLB, he was fairly sure no one would be standing in line to do him any favors. The type of job offers players got after they retired were based on the connections they made while they were still playing.

Roy hadn’t made any friends, let alone connections. He pitched. He pitched better than anyone. That’s what he did.

Even if he could find a way to work up the enthusiasm to sell some product, advertisers wanted someone relevant. Roy hadn’t been that in five years. Maybe after he was inducted into the Hall of Fame he would be, but not now.

“You could get a job. What kind of skills do you have?”

“I throw a mean sinking cutter.”

“Look, you’ve got some cash. Maybe it’s enough to get you through until you sell your house. If you’ve got some fancy watches or something...”

Roy shook his head. All of it, every last thing, had gone into the company. He drove a ten-year-old Jeep and his last investment in himself had been a five-dollar haircut. There was nothing to sell.

“What about some of your old baseball stuff? You hardly ever gave any of that away. I’ll bet that might fetch you some bucks to hold you over.”

Hold him over until what? The town house was in a nice area of Philadelphia, the city he’d chosen to establish his business, but it wouldn’t set him up for life. It might provide some seed money to invest in a new company, but what kind of lenders would take a chance on him again?

He’d seen it in the faces around him at the end. From the people who worked for him and the people to whom he owed money. Roy Walker was a great pitcher but he didn’t know much about building a successful company.

A vision of him selling used cars to men who shook his hand and said, “Hey, weren’t you that pitcher?” flashed in front of his eyes.

“So what about it? You got a few gloves or something?”

Yes. He had gloves and jerseys and his Cy Young Award trophies. Next year was his first year of eligibility for Hall-of-Fame contention. Many considered him a first ballot shoo-in. He could see the headlines now: Roy Walker, HOF Pitcher, Now Failed Businessman, Desperate for Money, Sells His Gloves.

He was pathetic.

“Of course...there is the alternative. I mean, you’re only thirty-seven. Who knows how many bullets you have left in that arm? You could go back to baseball, sign on with some team for a year, make a ridiculous amount of money and then start all over again.”

Start all over again. Back to baseball. Those two things shouldn’t be synonymous. There had to be other choices.

Because Roy was never going back to baseball.

Present day

ROY DROVE THROUGH the winding streets of the small town of Minotaur Falls, New York, with a sick feeling of dread in his stomach. The sick feeling had become fairly familiar to him. It had started when he’d learned he was broke and had pretty much continued ever since. All through November, when Frank had been proven right about the real-estate market being dead. All through December, when Roy had actually put together a résumé and started applying for jobs.

He’d been on three interviews. Two had been just baseball fans who wanted to the meet the legendary Roy Walker. Of course, since he didn’t have any actual skills, he wasn’t a fit for the company, but it sure was great to meet him. The third had been a nice older woman who knew nothing about baseball, but also told him that without a college degree or any real work experience he wasn’t qualified for the position. Again.

Roy had tried to explain to her that he’d once been famous and a multimillionaire.

That hadn’t swayed her.

He had considered going back to school. The money he could make from the sale of his town house would cover his tuition. But the idea of being a freshman at thirty-seven was even worse than the idea of baseball.

Which was what everything kept coming back to. Roy would look at his left arm and think if he could get back into shape, if he could get his velocity to where it had been, all he might need was one season. One contract.

“Is there anything left in you?” he would ask his arm.

Is there anything left in you? he imagined it asking him back.

Finally, he’d done the unthinkable and called his former agent. Charlie Lynn had taken his call immediately, which made Roy feel marginally better. Charlie loved the idea of a Roy Walker comeback.

Hell, Nolan Ryan pitched until he was forty-six. Mariano Rivera pitched until he was forty-three. It wasn’t unthinkable. There was only one catch.

Can you still throw?

Of course Charlie had to ask the question. Roy told him the truth. He didn’t know. He hadn’t put his arm through any kind of workout since leaving baseball. Which meant Roy was going to have to find some minor-league team who might take him on to see if he still had the goods.

Charlie started talking about bonus options if he made the team and incentive clauses for a multiple-year option.

All the familiar phrases and terms came back to Roy like he hadn’t been away for five years. Over the course of his professional life he’d earned eighty million dollars with Charlie as his agent.

Eighty million dollars gone. Because he’d put his faith in some programmers who ultimately couldn’t deliver on what they promised and he’d been too stupid and stubborn to realize that until it was too late.

Charlie told Roy to find someone he could trust. A place he could go with baseball people who would give him a workout but who wouldn’t be squawking to the sports reporters about what Roy was doing. They needed to establish if his arm still had the juice and what role he might play on a team. Maybe he couldn’t be a starter, Charlie mused, but with Roy’s sinking cutter, he might have closer potential. In baseball the only person who had the potential to make as much money as a starting pitcher was a lights-out closer.

One or two years playing, maybe an eight-million-dollar contract, and Roy could start over again.

Only this time he would do everything differently.

Roy shook his head. No, he couldn’t see that far ahead. He’d already failed once, so he couldn’t imagine having the confidence to try some other new business venture. Which meant he should stick to what he knew he could do. What he’d always done.

Throw a ball.

A ridiculous gift, really, that might set him up for life. Again.

Roy pulled up to the Minotaur Falls stadium, home of the Triple-A minor-league team for the New England Rebels. Minotaur Falls was also the home of the legendary Duff Baker.

Duff Baker, the only person in baseball Roy thought he might be able to trust. Duff had won four World Series titles as the manager of three different teams. Two of them with Roy. It was a remarkable accomplishment because it meant he could reach the top with different groups of players. That was because Duff had a better eye for talent than anyone in the game.

He had walked away from managing professional teams about eight years ago, but he hadn’t been able to leave the game entirely. Some might call being manager of a minor-league team a step down, but Duff just called it retirement.

Roy had phoned his former manager and asked if he could meet with him and if they could keep it private. Roy hadn’t given him a reason or any information, really.

That the old man hadn’t hesitated to say yes humbled Roy in so many ways.

Duff had been Roy’s first manager when he’d made it to The Show. Roy had been as cocky then as he had been through the rest of his career. In hindsight he could see what a handful he must have been to his manager. He used to shrug off bunting advice from the old man like what he was selling was old news. Duff had had every right to punch the upstart Roy had been, but he never did. Instead Duff just kept proving how his way worked until eventually Roy figured it out.

He’d been sad when Duff left the team. It was the first time Roy had ever felt any emotions for one of his coaches.

Excluding his first, of course. His dad.

Roy got out of the Jeep, grabbed his equipment bag, which still smelled like his basement, and hiked it over his shoulder. He hesitated before taking that first step, though.

It wasn’t the physical element of the game that bothered him. Either his arm could still do what it used to do or it couldn’t. There wouldn’t be much getting around that.

It was everything else.

Every failure out on full display, when he would have to tell Duff why he was here.

Well, not every failure. Roy didn’t plan to discuss the time he humiliated and hurt Duff’s daughter. That, Roy figured, he could keep in his pocket.

Lane Baker.

Hell, there would probably be a picture of her on Duff’s desk. Roy would have to brace for that. Maybe even a new wedding photo. Five years since the divorce, it almost seemed likely she would have moved on with her life.

Damn, that was going to hurt.

Don’t think about it. There was no backing down. He’d turned his life into this heaping pile of dung on purpose and now it was time to face the music.

Roy made his way through the stadium entrance to the second level, where the team’s offices were. Nothing fancy about minor-league security, so he was able to go wherever he wanted. He found a door labeled Private and Manager and knocked.

“Come in!”

It was a female voice who made the offer. For a second, Roy paused again. No, Lane couldn’t be here. She was in Virginia Beach last he heard. Helping wounded soldiers. Doing everything right, while he’d been doing everything wrong.

Roy put his internal pity party on hold and opened the door.

The woman standing in the office did remind him of Lane. Long hair tied into a ponytail, face devoid of makeup, wearing a heavy plaid shirt that might have belonged to a man at one point.

She stared at him for a good second. “You’re Roy Walker.”

“Yep.”

“My sister hates you.”

Not that he needed further confirmation of who the woman was, but her statement gave her away. Scout was Lanie’s younger sister. They also had an older sister, Samantha, who was known as one of the most cutthroat agents in the game, but everyone knew she and Duff weren’t close.

Scout was the opposite of Samantha. Where Duff was, Scout was.

“Yep,” Roy said again.

“You’re here to see Duff?”

The Baker girls called their father Duff. It was something Lane had told him about once while working on his shoulder with her voodoo physical therapy. Their mother had claimed that, because he was gone for so much of the year, they couldn’t legitimately call him a father. So they were to call him Duff.

Not hard to see why that marriage hadn’t worked out.

Which was part of why Lane had been so devastated when hers had ended.

Do not go there. Back to baseball, okay. But not back to Lane Baker.

“I have an appointment,” he said.

Scout tilted her head and eyed him as if he was a suspect in a criminal case. “He didn’t tell me. He tells me everything.”

“I asked him to keep this private.”

She assessed him and he had a hard time trying not to think about Lane. Lane was prettier than Scout. Softer around the edges where Scout was all sharp lines. Cheeks and chin. Still, it was easy to see they were sisters. They both had the same honey-wheat-colored hair with green eyes. A similar shrewdness in those eyes.

And honesty, with no thought of pretense.

“You’re here to see your first major-league manager. The man who led you to your first epic World Series win. You’re carrying an equipment bag that smells a little moldy and you look like you’re going to vomit if you breathe in that smell too deeply, which makes me think you’re nervous.”

“Hey, Sherlock, give it a rest. I need to talk to Duff.”

“Damn, I’m good. Roy Walker is here for a tryout.”

“It’s not really a tryout,” he mumbled. “More like an assessment. And I would appreciate it, if you didn’t tell anyone—”

Scout held her hand up. “Please. My father wants it private, it stays private. But you have to let me tell Lane. She’s going to die.”

Please, please don’t tell Lane. Don’t let her know what a complete and total failure I turned out to be. In...everything.

“I doubt she would care,” he said trying for nonchalance. “Like you said, she hates me.”

“Yes, that’s what she always said. All the time. ‘Roy Walker, Roy Walker, how I hate Roy Walker.’ Funny she never mentioned anyone she liked as much as she talked about hating you.”

Roy really didn’t know what to do with that.

“Let me go wake him up. He pretends he’s watching scouting footage after lunch but he actually just puts a headset on and takes a nap.”

Roy waited while Scout went into the inner office to wake her father. After a few minutes she came back wearing a grim expression but giving a solid nod. “He’s ready for you.”

“Thanks. Hey, you mean it, right? You won’t tell anyone I’m here.”

“I mean it.”

Roy nodded. He didn’t question her word.

“I won’t even tell Lane. That is, if don’t want me to. Do you want me to?”

He struggled to get the words out because he knew they would reveal too much about how he felt about Lane. But the consequences of Lane knowing how hard he had fallen were worse in his mind.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

After all, what if he failed at this, too?

“Sure.”

He summoned a smile and walked past her. Duff was slow getting to his feet and Roy’s first thought was wow, Duff had aged. Thinner, his face drawn, his hair a bit wild around his head, probably from his afternoon nap.

“Duff, you’re looking good.”

The old man coughed up a laugh. “Ha. Liar. I look like shit. Which is appropriate because I feel like shit. That’s what happens when you get to seventy-five. You only hope you feel as shitty as me when you get to my age.”

Slowly Duff walked around the desk and Roy jumped to meet him halfway and shook his hand.

“Gotta tell you, you don’t look so great yourself, Walker. You look...defeated, and that sure as hell is a look I never thought I would see on you.”