PROLOGUE
“What the hell were you thinking?” Guy Powers, owner of the Richmond Rogues, was addressing the Bat Pack, the top power hitters in Major League Baseball. His gaze shifted among the players seated on the other side of his desk. Right fielder Cody “Psycho” McMillan, third baseman Jesse “Romeo” Bellisaro, and catcher Chase “Chaser” Tallan, all slouched in tan club chairs, arrogance and pride personified. Not one of the men showed an ounce of remorse.
Powers slammed the Virginia Banner atop a growing stack of newspapers. Headlines glared back at him. Big and bold and block-lettered.
PSYCHO WASTES NO TIME GETTING IN SWING OF THINGS.
RICHMOND BRAWLERS TAKE TO THE FIELD.
Powers shoved himself forward in his brown leather chair. He rested his elbows on a massive claw-footed oak desk. Pursed his lips. His tone conveyed pure disgust. “Media Day. Photographers, journalists, television, and radio. A chance to hype the season ahead, and instead you fought, showed your asses.”
He shuffled the newspapers, snagged one from the bottom. Ruffled the pages. Read, “Sportswriter Emerson Kent’s column, Press Box, claims player egos have grown larger than the national pastime.” He creased the newspaper, returning it to the stack. “I tend to agree with her.”
“Kent’s column is a joke,” Psycho snorted. “She should return to the society section. The lady writes as much about the players’ haircuts, tight butts, and the restaurants we frequent as she does about runs batted in and who stole second.”
Powers’s nostrils flared. “Emerson draws women readers. Women who fill one-third of the seats at James River Stadium.”
“Emerson went out of her way to make us look like jerks,” Psycho complained.
“She didn’t have to go far today.” Powers’s gaze was now as hard as his reputation in the National League East. “You screwed up.”
All around Powers, the room bristled with hostility. Standing in an arc behind his desk, publicist Catherine Ambrose, team manager Tim Rhodes, pitching coach Danny Young, and team captain Risk Kincaid all glared at Psycho as if he’d committed the crime of the century.
In Powers’s eyes, Psycho had. An hour into interviews and photo ops, the right fielder had taken batting practice, showing off for the press. Powers’s latest acquisition to bolster the bullpen had been on the mound. Left-hander Chris Collier had thrown some major heat.
Heat that gunned down Psycho. The fastball clocked at one hundred miles per hour caught the right fielder on the hip. Spun him around and drove him to his knees.
The press and the executives had cringed.
Trash talk erupted between the two men. Loud and profane. Collier had claimed it was a wild pitch. An accident. Psycho swore the pitcher had thrown to maim him.
Animosity shot between home plate and the mound, soon spreading among the other team members as well. The ballplayers spat and glared. Clenched their fists. The atmosphere darkened as the men primed themselves for a fight.
The head trainer ordered Psycho off the field, instructing him to ice his hip. Psycho had blown him off. His ego on the line, he’d taken a stiff practice swing, once again facing down Collier.
The press stood on the sidelines, wide-eyed and taking notes as quickly as each could write or relay play for television or radio broadcast.
Collier was smoking, pleasing the crowd with his changeups. Then came a slider.
Psycho whiffed. Couldn’t buy a hit. Dark determination glazed the power hitter’s eyes as he dug in, edging home plate.
Collier fired a sinker. The ball spun, dropping suddenly as it reached the plate. Psycho couldn’t jump back fast enough. A guttural hiss escaped him as the ball slammed into his instep.
Media sympathy surrounded him until Psycho threw down his bat, tore off his batting helmet, and charged the pitcher’s mound, bent on retaliation.
Chris Collier dropped his mitt, and stood his ground. Psycho threw the first punch, and then all hell broke loose. Romeo and Chaser jumped off the bench and the bullpen emptied. Players took sides, and fists flew.
A fight captured by the media. A publicist’s nightmare. Catherine Ambrose would be hounded by the press the entire season. Powers made a mental note to send her a bottle of Tylenol. Extrastrength.
Catherine did an exceptional job in public relations. No one thought faster on her feet or spoke with more authority, continually bending over backward to downplay the team’s behind-the-scene disputes and nasty divorces. She stood between the players and the press to keep the Rogues’s name as polished as their World Series Trophy.
Unfortunately for all concerned, today’s onfield fiasco could not be buried with the obituaries.
Powers ran his hands down his face, focused fully on Psycho. “You broke Chris Collier’s nose. His vision’s distorted. He won’t start the season opener.”
“Start Cooper Smith or Roan Ginachio. Both have more talent than Wimbledon,” Psycho stated as he crossed his ankle over his knee and rubbed his bandaged and deeply bruised instep. Had the ball caught him an inch higher, it would have shattered his ankle.
Wimbledon…Powers shook his head. His latest acquisition had taken a whole lot of ribbing since his arrival. Collier’s sharp features, whiteblond hair, light hazel eyes, and lean frame made him look more like a tennis pro than a baseball player. Psycho had tagged him Wimbledon, just to be annoying.
For some reason, Psycho and Collier had hated each other from the onset of spring training. The fight today was the culmination of weeks of taunting, aggression, and bad blood.
Powers listened as pitching coach Danny Young ripped Psycho a new one. “Media Day targets trades and new acquisitions. Collier was to throw a series of pitches, show his heat.”
“His heat struck me twice,” Psycho reminded Young.
“It was an accident. Collier was about to apologize when you stormed the mound.”
“Apologize, my ass. The man has a rifle arm and precision timing. One wild pitch, I might believe. Two”—Pyscho shook his head—“the man threw to take me out of the game.”
“You crowded the plate,” Young openly accused.
“Like hell I did.”
“You did.” Team captain Risk Kincaid backed up Young. “Roger Clemens in his prime would have nailed you.”
“Clemens I would have excused,” Psycho snarled. “Wimbledon deserved what he got.”