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“Yes.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“No.”
“Well, at least you’re honest.” Patti chuckles. Then, her amusement fades, and she levels her serious, no-nonsense gaze on me. “Is working with him going to be a problem?”
Yes.
“No.” I bite my lip. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Good. Because this team needs Corey Johnson.”
Her tone gives me pause. “What do you mean?”
Patti looks over her shoulder. Confirming we’re alone, she says, “You didn’t hear this from me, but Lawrence Turner has officially decided to retire.”
My jaw drops. “But I thought he was going to give us one more year.”
“So did we, but when he heard about Corey, he decided it was a good time to go. Leave before he’s overshadowed, and all that.”
“Wow.” I understand Lawrence’s reason, but it will be sad to see him go. He’s one of the rare players who played his entire career on the same team. Whenever you think of the Lonestars, you think of Lawrence. The fans are going to miss him.
Patti nods. “That’s why it’s important for this trade to work. We need Corey as a pitcher. But Charles has made it clear he won’t offer Corey a new contract when his expires next year if he hasn’t made a good impression on our fans and players. And I doubt anyone else in the league would be willing to take a chance on Corey if he doesn’t turn his image around.”
My stomach clenches. “But he’s so talented. Surely someone will pick him up.”
“From what I’ve heard, Corey Johnson will be lucky to play on a farm team after the accusation the Loons leveled on him this morning.”
I blink. “What accusation?”
“You haven’t heard?”
I shake my head. Dread curls in my stomach. I can tell by Patti’s expression that I’m not going to like what she’s about to say.
“The Loons are saying Corey threw the final game of the World Series,” she reveals. “They’re saying he intentionally lost the game out of spite.”
6
COREY
I standbeside the midnight black Range Rover I purchased last week, staring at the only true home I’ve ever known, working up the nerve to go inside.
I barely remember living with my mom, and I sure as hell don’t view my dad’s double-wide as a safe place. No, it’s the Jones’s two-story, red-brick house built into the grassy hill on their two-acre property that I consider my home. Whenever I wanted to avoid my father’s drunken abuse, I’d come here. It didn’t matter the time or day of the week, Mr. and Mrs. Jones welcomed me. No questions asked.
They tried to report my father for neglect at least once. No one else in this town would’ve cared enough to make that kind of report.
I was ten years old when the sheriff pulled up on our unpaved drive. He sat me down and questioned my living situation. Even at that age, I knew to keep my mouth shut. Not because I wanted to protect my deadbeat dad, but because I knew what would happen to me if he lost custody.
I didn’t have any other family to take me in. If the cops took me from my dad, I would end up in a foster home, and there was no guarantee it would be in Rose Hill.
At ten, I just joined my first all-star baseball team. Back then, I’d thought I won a sponsorship from a local business, enabling me to play on the expensive team. Two years later, my coach let it slip that the Joneses were paying my team fees.
Not wanting to disrupt my life when it just started feeling like I had something to live for, I refused to tell the sheriff about my father’s negligence. I didn’t tell him how often I went hungry because my dad was too drunk to remember to go grocery shopping, and I didn’t show him the bruises on my back from where my dad had thrown a mason jar at me when I refused to get him a beer from the mini-fridge three nights before.
Bile crawls up my throat, threatening to choke me.
Ihatethinking about my childhood. So, I don’t. I shove the memories down and force my feet forward. It’s the motto I’ve used to live my life.Just move forward.
