The Game (Carolina Connections Book 4) Read online

  The Game

  A Carolina Connections Novel - Book 4

  Sylvie Stewart

  Rolling Hearts Press

  Copyright

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than brief quotations for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by the author who can be contacted at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition: 2017

  Copyright © 2018 by Sylvie Stewart

  Edited by Heather Mann

  ISBN: 978-0-9989260-9-4

  Contents

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  1. Patience Is a Virtue

  2. Hello, Monday

  3. The Joyride and the Giant Pistachio

  4. Sugar

  5. Welcome to Miller Town

  6. Feeling the Buzz

  7. The Best Ever

  8. Call the Police!

  9. Nope

  10. Play Ball

  11. Wow

  12. The Perfect Kiss and the Clorox Shower

  13. Even Traitors Sing Karaoke

  14. Leave Your Dignity at the Door and Come on In

  15. Oh, Barry Manilow, Say It Ain’t So

  16. Slugger

  17. Reasons You Should Date Me

  18. Mind Officially Blown

  19. Dear Ex-Boyfriends: Please Take a Note

  20. Don’t Diss the Woobie

  21. Cocktail Therapy

  22. Scrabble with Jennifer Beals

  23. Cutting Loose with Junior

  24. Me and Tom Cruise

  25. Expectations and Fundamental Truths

  26. Miley Cyrus Ruins Everything

  27. Jerks Are the Worst

  28. Adulting with a Hacker and the Pope

  29. Sometimes Brownies Are the Best Medicine

  30. Team Gavin

  31. There’s Never a Priest Around When You Need One

  32. Peanuts and Cracker Jack

  33. Sandwiches

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  Excerpt from The Lucky One

  Excerpt from The Spark

  Excerpt from The Fix

  Sylvie Says

  Bonus Scene

  Also by Sylvie Stewart

  -------------

  The Fix - Carolina Connections Book 1

  The Spark - Carolina Connections Book 2

  The Lucky One - Carolina Connections Book 3

  Taunted (Appearing in Tales After Midnight: A Halloween Anthology)

  Then Again (The Juniper Court Series)

  Each book can be read as a standalone novel.

  for the dreamers

  Chapter One

  Patience Is a Virtue

  GAVIN

  I knew it was over before my shoulder even kissed the ground—before the crunch of metal and the burn of gravel registered in my brain and flesh. I heard nothing but the crack and pop of my bones, these sounds somehow isolated among what must have been an awful cacophony of scraping metal, squealing tires, and voices raised in alarm. It was over before it even began, and I had no one to blame but myself.

  Hours later, when I awoke in the hospital, the well-meaning doctor informed me I was lucky to be alive. I begged to differ but kept my mouth shut, forcing both the physical pain and the self-loathing down as deeply as I could. My mother’s tear-stained face, slack with relief, was no balm. Nor was the barrage of questions posed to the doctor by my father as he paced around the hospital room. Nobody had to tell me, but they did anyway.

  In a steady, matter-of-fact tone, the doctor described the extensive surgery I’d undergo to repair the damage to my right arm and shoulder. Pins would be inserted and the healing process would begin. It would be long and arduous, not to mention painful, but I’d regain almost complete use of my arm with any luck.

  They could cut the damn thing off for all I cared, because I had just thrown away the only thing I’d ever wanted or cared about—the thing I’d busted my ass the last ten years to achieve.

  And all because I’d told myself nothing bad could ever happen on my birthday. There’d been a hot girl, cold beer, and a cool-as-shit motorcycle. One ride couldn’t hurt. I was fucking Gavin Monroe, star pitcher, golden boy, and ripe to make my mark on the world, and hopefully that hot girl too. Instead, the only mark I left was on an isolated stretch of North Carolina country highway. That, and a deep scar on my future that could never be healed.

  If I couldn’t be a somebody, that meant I’d be a nobody. And I couldn’t live with that. I was well and truly fucked. And not in the good way.

  But life has a way of surprising us.

  - Four and a half years later -

  “Hey, Junior! Where do you think you’re going?” Mark yelled across the lot.

  I let the douchey nickname roll off my back, something I’d gotten pretty good at over the last couple years. It wasn’t my fault that I had boyish charm and youthful good looks. But, as is always the case with guys, you’ve got to pay your dues and put up with some hazing if you’re ever going to earn the respect of those above you. Mark, while definitely holding a position of authority as my foreman, was also a friend, so I considered it my right and duty to put him in his place as well. Flipping him off seemed the most appropriate response in the moment.

  “You wish!” was his reply, but I kept walking toward my Jeep, leaving the partially-constructed shell of the newest apartment building behind. I pulled off my hard hat and ran my other hand through my sweaty mass of hair, loosening the strands from the damp, tangled helmet they’d formed.

  Mark knew good and well where I was going, he just couldn’t resist giving me shit on the days I cut out before everyone else on the job site. But that was the whole point of working part-time. I admit, there may have been a time or two when I’d rubbed it in a few guys’ faces that I’d be taking off after lunch while they slaved away under the hot Carolina sun. But, like I said, it’s a guy thing.

  I couldn’t resist shouting back at him, “I’ll tell Fiona you said hi!” That earned me a look that might make a lesser man shit his pants. Mark was built like a linebacker and was more than a little protective of his girlfriend. He made it too damn easy to rile him.

  “You’ll be doing it without teeth!” he growled. See, like I said—too easy.

  I hopped in my Jeep and tore out of the lot, not bothering to secure my seatbelt until I was on the main road. The New Pornographers blared from my speakers, testing their limits, and possibly those of the passengers in the car to my left. I turned down the volume a smidge, probably prolonging the lifespan of my eardrums in the process. What can I say? I was in a good mood.

  The workweek at my construction job was over and I’d be spending this afternoon and the remainder of the weekend on my second job—the one I was beginning to discover I was meant to do. I’d been working for the Baseball Academy for about a year and a half now, and despite my initial reservations, I was loving it. I got to spend my time playing ball and coaching elite players, some of whom had a real shot at what I once saw as my future.

  Fate and poor judgement had gotten in the way of my dreams, but I could still
be a part of it all by helping to coach these high-level players. I’m not saying it didn’t still sting when I thought of what could have been, but it was getting easier as time went on. And I was learning a ton on the job. It’s one thing to be a player and another to be a coach. I was starting to see a future I’d never allowed myself to envision before.

  Before the Academy hired me, I’d been a bit of an embarrassment. Even I can admit it. I’d been crashing in my parents’ basement since dropping out of college halfway through, and most nights were spent feeling sorry for myself and getting drunk with my best friend, Brett. How I managed to keep that shit up for over two years is beyond me. But I finally pulled my head out of my ass with the help of Brett and my sister, Laney.

  She was way better at adulting than me. She’d had to be. Laney got knocked up her freshman year of college and still managed to finish her associate’s degree, get a decent-paying job, and raise her son. I’m not ashamed to admit Rocco probably rivals Brett as my best friend, even though he’s only six. We’ve got an awesome relationship—one Laney claims is so strong because of our similar levels of maturity. Whatever. He’s a cool kid. I like to think I had something to do with that.

  I was even teaching Rocco how to play ball, although at this point our goal was getting him to focus long enough to avoid getting hit in the head. One step at a time. Laney is…how can I put this? Hell, there’s no good way—she’s fucking hopeless when it comes to sports. Or anything requiring basic coordination. I can’t even be in the car when she’s driving. It was becoming clear that Rocco’s future as an athlete rested solely on my coaching abilities and anything his stepdad, Nate, could impart.

  I pulled my Jeep into the staff lot of the Academy and spotted Gerry, one of the senior coaches, coming out the side door. As usual, his rotund belly preceded the rest of him through the doorway. I raised my hand in greeting as I parked and got out.

  “Just the guy I wanted to see!” Gerry greeted me with his gravelly voice.

  I grabbed my bag out of the back and threw him a chin lift. “Oh yeah?”

  “Buzz and I need you to check out a pitcher this weekend. Sophomore at North—name’s Miller. Two o’clock. Home game.”

  I wracked my brain trying to come up with a face, but the name didn’t ring any bells. I prided myself on keeping track of the local high school talent. It was our bread and butter. I shot Gerry a questioning look and he nodded.

  “Don’t worry. You haven’t been slacking. He’s new in town.” Gerry handed me a sticky note with just two words written on it. Jay Miller. Far be it from him to consider entering the digital age and shoot me a text or e-mail.

  “And they let him on the team mid-season? Must be good.” I raised an eyebrow.

  “You tell me. I’m running out but I’ll catch you later,” he said, brushing past me. “And have a talk with Jameson—kid’s getting too big for his britches!”

  I groaned inwardly. Brad Jameson was an asshole, plain and simple. Spoiled kid with too much money and not enough talent. We’d tried several times over the last couple years to let him down gently and prepare him for a future that did not involve baseball—unless coaching little league counted. But the kid refused to listen, and his parents kept sending the payments to continue his training. Things were going to come to a head at some point and I, for one, was not looking forward to it.

  If anyone could smooth it over in the end, though, it was Gerry. He’s exactly what you’d picture when you think of an old-school baseball coach—shaggy graying hair, ever-present cap, toothpick permanently clenched between his teeth, a gruff exterior, and not a man to waste words. He knew his shit inside and out, and I was lucky to have him as a mentor.

  I waved him off and headed toward the staff locker room. I needed to shower the grime and sweat from the job site off before I changed into my uniform and started training. Just as I passed by the open door of the players’ locker room, an object flew in front of my face, missing me by inches as it sailed by and landed unceremoniously on the floor to my right. A jock strap. You have got to be shitting me.

  One glance into the room told me what I already knew. I stepped inside and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Maybe once they drop you’ll be able to get some poor chick to suck you off.” Brad Jameson stood with his back to me, guffawing at his own lame-ass joke and facing one of the younger guys whose jock strap Brad had obviously just tossed into the hallway. This was a quintessential Brad move. Who in God’s name touches another guy’s nut bucket? You just don’t do that—it’s an unwritten rule—unwritten because anyone with a dick knows that’s the last place you want your hand. Except Brad, for some inexplicable reason. It’s like the kid was trying to take douchebag to a whole new level. He was succeeding spectacularly.

  Chris, the younger player, stood with a towel wrapped around his skinny waist, his face a deep crimson, further highlighting his unfortunate case of acne. He stiffened as he caught sight of me, but I shook my head in a silent cue to leave my presence a secret for the moment.

  “Doubtful,” came another comment from someone hidden behind a row of lockers. Ah, Brad’s lackey, Dell. The kid couldn’t come up with an original thought to save his life. A couple players to my right occupied themselves by tying their cleats and pretending not to hear the exchange.

  “True…he’d have to get it up first. Have you ever even had a boner, Christian?” Brad taunted and bent closer as the kid squirmed.

  What an asshole.

  “Well, ladies,” I finally made my presence known. “Glad to see you’ve got extra time on your hands to gossip.”

  Brad stood straight and whirled around, clearly surprised at being caught. He quickly schooled his features, however, and assumed his usual “my shit don’t stink” countenance, crossing his arms over his bare chest and shrugging.

  I looked at my watch. “Fifteen minutes till batting practice. Should give you girls plenty of time to do shuttle runs. You’ve got sixty seconds to get dressed and get your asses out there.” I knew if I didn’t include Chris, it would just make things worse for him, so I made sure to address everyone in the room. I understood why kids didn’t stand up for one another—it didn’t mean I had to like it, but I understood it. The teenage hierarchy is a complex and fragile structure, and one you don’t mess with lightly. I had to trust that the Chrises of the world would win out in the end, and it was my job to offer encouragement and a listening ear when the spotlight was off. It looked like I’d be having more than one conversation off the field tonight.

  “Yo!” I hollered as I walked in the front door to my townhouse. “Are we going to Jake’s tonight or—” I stopped dead in my tracks and quickly spun back around to face the door. The briefest glance at the couch had revealed more than I’m sure the girl straddling Brett’s lap would prefer.

  “Shit!” Brett and I said simultaneously. I heard some rustling and whispering behind me.

  “Hey, sorry guys. But you do know you have a room upstairs, right, asshole?” I said into the door.

  Brett just grunted at me which made me grin. I had to say, the girl was pretty hot from what I’d seen.

  “Oh, God, this is so embarrassing,” I heard a female whisper just before the girl brushed past me and opened the door. Her shirt was still half off, but at least her bra was back on.

  “I’ll call you later, Ginger!” Brett yelled behind her. Something told me she may not be answering her phone for a few days.

  I finally turned back to the room just as a Men’s Health magazine whizzed by my face. What was it with people throwing things at me today?

  “I wasn’t expecting you home so soon,” Brett said, giving his chin a good scratch. He was growing a beard—or attempting to—and had recently gotten gauges in his ears as well. It seemed the chicks were digging this new look. I had to say, before, he looked about eighteen instead of twenty-four, so it was time for a change.

  “That’s pretty obvious,” I responded, smile firmly in place. “So,
I guess you’re free to go to Jake’s then?” He threw a shoe at me this time, but I caught it, no problem.

  “Why are you home so early? I thought you had training.” Brett got up and walked to the kitchen. I trailed behind. We’d moved into this townhouse in High Point last year, and while it wasn’t anything to write home about, we’d been pleased with the place so far. Living with your best friend always leads to some great times, and it was definitely a step toward overdue adulthood for me. I’d gone from my parents’ house to my sister’s before finally paying rent on my own place with Brett. Yeah, definitely overdue.

  “I wrapped things up early so I could have a chat with that Jameson kid, but the little prick skipped out on me.” I was still pissed off.

  Brett handed me a beer from the fridge and we both popped ours open. I tossed my cap over my shoulder and straight into the open trash can. Brett’s landed somewhere in a vicinity of the sink. I shook my head as if ashamed and, as usual, he completely ignored me.

  “Somebody needs to hand that kid his ass,” Brett said, shaking his head. He’d been my sounding board regarding the little shit on many occasions.