He needed a shower, then he’d call Frankie and see what she wanted to do for dinner. He let himself into the house and tossed his keys on the entry table. He was only a few steps into the house when someone knocked. He smiled, thinking Frankie had saved him a phone call.
“Hey—” Ryan swallowed the rest of his words when he saw Cameron standing on his doorstep. His expensive leather jacket seemed at odds with his disheveled hair and scruffy jaw. For a man who made it obvious how much appearance mattered to him, this came as a surprise. But to comment on it, on the tired look in Cameron’s eyes, would mean that Ryan cared why the guy looked so run down. And he didn’t.
“Ryan.” Cameron looked down.
Ryan crossed his arms over his chest, his own jacket still on. He heard the hardness in his voice when he asked, “What do you want, Cam?”
Cameron’s eyes came back to Ryan’s and narrowed at the nickname. His features tightened, his jaw clenched. “I wanted to tell you something. You’re probably not going to listen, but I’m trying to make up for being a prick.”
“That could take a while.”
Ryan leaned against the door jam and watched Cameron swallow his anger and paint on his politician’s face. His fingers dug into his palms.
“I spoke with Leslie. It seems that…Frankie is a good candidate for being a foster parent. However, there’re some concerns.”
“Why are you telling me this and not Frankie and why would Leslie tell you before Frankie? Why would she tell you at all?”
Cam shoved his hands in the pocket of his jacket, sighing. The deep exhale seemed to knock the phony expression off of his face.
“Frankie wouldn’t open the door when I knocked. Maybe she’s busy but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to talk to me,” Cam said, holding up a hand when Ryan began to respond. “I don’t blame her. I was a jerk. Fine. I admit it. But it doesn’t mean I’m not sorry. I phoned Leslie to see if there was anything I could do to vouch for Frankie. She said that the social worker who came to interview you found your past troubling.”
Ryan stood straighter, the back of his neck warm. He clenched his hands into his arms, but kept his face neutral. “My past as one of the highest-earning hitters in baseball? My past as being linked to a number of charities, including a foundation that’s in the process of being established for low-income families that want to get their kids into sports?” Ryan’s teeth were clenched like his hands. Cameron had the grace to look bothered by the news he was delivering but Ryan wasn’t feeling graceful.
“Look Ryan, I’m just giving you a heads-up. From what Leslie said, your past might be the reason Frankie doesn’t get the boys. They need a stable environment and you don’t have a history of stability,” he said.
Ryan stepped onto the porch, pleased that Cameron stepped back. “What the hell do you know about me? Nothing.”
“For God’s sake, Ryan. The whole world knows about you. Your divorce was plastered all over magazines. Your best friend’s face was everywhere after you beat it black and blue. Hell, now your name is back in the news for being cleared. But there’ll always be something. You think that shit isn’t going to impact this? I don’t care what you do. But if you care, if you want Frankie to have what she wants, I’m telling you, her relationship with you is going to get in the way. Do what you will with that information. You’re used to having anything you want, used to people falling all over themselves to make you happy, so maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but I thought Frankie did.” Cam’s eyes flashed with temper and before Ryan could say a word in response, he turned and stomped down the porch steps.
It took every calming trick he knew not to punch a hole in the wall of his entryway. He settled for slamming the door hard enough to jostle the pictures on the walls. Yanking off his jacket, he tossed it on the back of a chair and stalked through his house. He didn’t sit, he just paced, his fingers itching to smash something. Knowing that if he stayed in the house, he’d break whatever he found first, he went outside and stepped off the massive back patio and onto the gravel walkway that lined the manicured yard.
Picking up a handful of that gravel, he chucked rocks, one by one, as far as he could. A few bounced off the empty outbuilding he hadn’t found a use for yet. Others sailed to nowhere, giving him the satisfaction of knowing he could make them disappear. He could do two things: he could throw and he could hit. Other than that, he’d fucked up most of the things in his life that mattered. Now he aimed for the small shed, needing to hear the steady smack of the rocks against it.
His breath came out choppy as he continued to throw. It occurred to him that he had always turned to baseball. His dad was a dickhead: grab a bat. His mom put up with abuse: swing the bat. He hated high school and couldn’t wait to get out: become the best hitter possible. Married a two-timing diva who only wanted his money and his name: spend every waking minute absorbed in baseball. Best friend doing his wife: bury his head in the game. Even when he’d left it, baseball had never left him. It was as much a part of him as his skin—it covered him, protected him, and held him together. But right now, as he threw until his arm ached, he knew that it wasn’t baseball he wanted to turn to, bury himself in. It was Frankie.
She was the first thing in his life that mattered enough to make him see who he was without baseball. She was the first person to make him realize that with or without a baseball career, he had a lot to look forward to. He’d never thought of a life without baseball. The thought sickened him, twisted his stomach in knots so tight they ached. Somehow, Frankie had come to matter more to him than he’d ever imagined. The idea of moving forward without her was even worse than a life without the game he loved. He’d survived when his career had crumbled. He didn’t know if he could survive without Frankie.