She scuffed the toe of her tennis shoe in the dirt, confessed on a sigh, “I need time to heal.”
Heal? Was the tomboy sick? He hadn't seen any medication in the medicine cabinet. She looked healthy.
A dozen questions came to mind, but Dayne ended their conversation by jumping into the ditch and retrieving her crumpled white basket. Once reattached to her bike, the wicker rode low, rubbing the front tire. She assessed the damage, concluded, “You owe me a new chain.”
“Sweet mother.” He snatched the bike, threw open the back door of his Hummer, and fitted it inside. “I'll have it fixed and drop it off at the warehouse.”
“Can you afford it?”
Her concern surprised him. She believed him unemployed and poor. He shrugged. “Shouldn't cost too much.”
“Maybe we should go halves.” She didn't want to stick him with the entire bill. “I'll take care of it,” he insisted. “When do you get off work?”
“Around four.”
He nodded toward his vehicle. “Get in.”
Breath in; breath out; move on. She repeated the mantra six times as she climbed into the Hummer. The remaining miles were completed in silence.
Total pain in the ass, Kason thought as he dropped Dayne off at Frank's Food Warehouse. The tomboy was more trouble than she was worth.
A call to the sheriff's office would evict her from his trailer. Yet a small part of him hated to go to the law. He knew what it was like to survive on little money. Outside of her bulk food items, Dayne didn't have much going for her.
Well, maybe one thing, he quickly recanted. He backtracked twenty minutes. Her body had left an imprint on his own, a very memorable one.
They'd stood on the dirt road, tempers high, and his only choice to avoid a power struggle had been to pull her close.
Her body had fit his, tight, compact, and sun-warmed sweet. Her temper could've set fires. Tomboy was mercurial.
Kason shook his head. He didn't have the time or inclination to figure her out. She was too damn complicated. He located a bike repair shop on his way to James River Stadium. He debated buying Dayne a brand-new ten-speed, but the expense would blow his cover. Besides, he doubted she'd accept it. She had too much pride.
He requested a new chain, two fresh tires, and a shot of spray paint. The rust had eaten away much of the blue. The remaining letters of Schwinn now spelled Sin.
A short time later, he took the turnoff onto Rogues Parkway. He parked in the stadium lot, then entered through the players' entrance.
The walls of the spacious locker room had heard men joke, rejoice, cry, and swear in living color. The lockers were large and constructed to give the players breathing room.
Dead silence greeted Kason as the professional ballplayers in various stages of undress stared at his shaved head. Total surprise crossed the men's faces.
Bald wasn't new to the game of baseball.
Bald was, however, new on Kason.
Until today, he'd worn his hair longer than most.
“Hare Krishna.” A smile tipped one corner of third baseman Romeo Bellisaro's mouth.
Romeo belonged to the Bat Pack, made up of the three hottest batters in Major League Baseball. Psycho McMillan and Chase Tallan rounded out the group of friends. The men bonded like brothers.
Center fielder and team captain Risk Kincaid cut a glance over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Criminal, dude.” Risk was a decent man. He played hard, gave time and money back to the community.
Psycho McMillan, radical right fielder and known nudist, had major testies. “Shaved head—are you manscaping? Waxed chest? Trimmed hedge around your lawn ornament?”
Psycho baited and waited.
Kason never gave Psycho the satisfaction of a response.
The two men had butted heads from the moment they'd met. From grand slams to snagging fly balls out of thin air, they had daily pissing contests. They were rivals on the same team.
Kason had yet to fit into the organization. Within the fraternity of sportsmen, he was considered antisocial. He kept to himself, preferred it that way.
The more Psycho razzed him, the stronger Kason's game. His palms itched to slam the first home run of the season into the upper deck. Let Psycho match his batting stats.
Crossing to his locker, he caught Rhaden Dunn's double take. The first baseman's locker flanked Kason's. Dunn was one of few players Kason tolerated.
“Damn, bro, you lose a bet?” Dunn asked as he stepped into his sliding shorts.
“More a win-win.” Kason methodically prepared for the morning workout.
In twelve minutes flat, he'd changed clothes, grabbed his glove, and hit the field. He was the first man out. The stillness settled his nerves. No breeze. No fans in the stands. No grounds or maintenance crew. No general manager or coaches.
He leaned against the dugout, looked out toward left field, where he made his living. The grass had been mowed, a checkerboard of light and dark squares. The warning track was smooth. The outfield walls were heavily padded.
He scanned the advertising billboards on the outer walls and inwardly grinned. The left field sign promoted a major insurance company. An international tennis shoe line stretched across center. A hemorrhoid cream backed right.
The sign couldn't have been more appropriate. Psycho McMillan was an asshole.
Rolling his shoulders, Kason inhaled the new season.
The playing field was level on Opening Day.
All teams had the same goal: to win the World Series.
He would contribute all he had to the Rogues.
Born under an athletic star, he'd known at an early age, winning was everything. Losers weren't celebrated.
By age eight, Kason had played with heart.
At ten, he'd grown thick skinned and kicked ass.
Turning twelve, he'd known baseball was his future.
He didn't, however, always play well with others.
He did solitary best.
Solitary. The word drew his thoughts to Dayne. His time with the tomboy had come to an end. After practice, he'd see her off.
Kason stretched, then worked the outfield for ninety minutes. He caught every ball batted into left, as well as stole a couple pop-ups meant for Risk Kincaid.
“Damn, Rhodes, play down,” Kincaid shouted at him. “It's not October.”
Kason preferred to play flat out from day one.
He spent another hour in the batting cages, until his shoulder felt fluid and a little tired. Next the players divided up, each choosing a dugout for their three-inning scrimmage.