Kason looked down the home team's bench. Rhaden Dunn and starting pitcher Brek Stryker stood with him in the dugout.
He and Stryke had a history. Prior to signing with Richmond, Kason had played for the Louisville Colonels. During a game in Louisville the previous season, Kason had turned Brek's no-hitter into a one-hitter. Back in Richmond, Stryke had bare-handed one of Kason's hits for an out.
Brek had broken nearly every bone in his hand on that catch. Surgery and a six-week rehabilitation had followed. Afterward, respect connected the men, and now they played on the same team.
Presently, they were six players short for the scrimmage. The coaches grunted, sent several second stringers their way.
The Bat Pack leaned against the railing in the visitors' dugout, all cocked eyebrows and shit-eating grins. They believed the scrimmage an easy win.
“They're out for blood,” Rhaden predicted.
“Psycho's got that kick-ass look in his eye,” Stryke agreed. “Someone needs to remind him that we're all on the same team.”
Kason understood Psycho. At that moment, they were two very separate teams competing for the scrimmage title.
A growl rose from deep in his gut.
He grabbed his glove and jogged to left field.
Game on.
With the first pitch, the men became boys. They got down and back-lot dirty. The coaches allowed a few broken rules as adrenaline rushed and competitiveness charged the field.
An hour later, both dugouts emptied into the locker room. Psycho's practice uniform was grass stained and bloody.
Romeo's pants were ripped at both knees. Catcher Chase Tallan had cleat tracks up his shin. Kason's team had won, 2-1.
“Your bald head gave you superpowers.” Psycho's sarcasm hit Kason as both men snagged towels on their way to the showers. “You totally unleashed.”
Kason's need to win had proven strong. He'd fired a ball from left-center to put Psycho out at home plate. A showcase throw worthy of any pennant race.
Psycho had slid home headfirst. He'd scraped his forearm and jammed his little finger. Called out, Psycho had gone apeshit on the coach/umpire. His protests had fallen on deaf ears.
The wild man had leaped high to catch a ball meant for the lower deck. Psycho had slammed the wall with such force, he could've dislocated his shoulder.
“You robbed me of a home run,” Kason had said as a backhanded compliment. “You fired your jet packs.”
“Butt bruise.” Chase Tallan checked out his backside in a mirror over the sink. “Stryke nailed me with an eighty-mile-an-hour changeup.”
“You're lucky it wasn't his fastball,” said Psycho. “He'd have reamed you a second.”
Kason caught his own reflection in the mirror. He'd have a shiner by morning. As Kason was rounding third, Romeo had stuck out his elbow. The poke to Kason's eye had blurred his vision before he'd headed home.
He rolled his shoulder now, felt the soreness that came from compressing nine innings into three. Rivalry brought out his warrior, even in scrimmage. He'd ice his shoulder once he got home. He refused to show weakness in the locker room.
“Rematch,” Psycho called to Kason as the men left the showers.
Kason cut Psycho a look. “You must like losing.”
***
By two thirty, Kason realized he'd lost Dayne. He'd picked up her bike, which looked as close to new as it was going to get. Then he'd pulled into Frank's Food Warehouse and had her paged.
Instead of Dayne, he'd gotten the store manager. The man said business had been slow and she'd volunteered to punch out. After some quick shopping, she'd split.
The manager went on to add she'd faced a long and tiring walk with two big bags of groceries. Yet she'd insisted on leaving.
Kason shook his head. The last thing Dayne needed was more food.
He hopped back into his Hummer and drove home. He didn't see any dropped cans or a trail of bread crumbs along the road, so whatever she'd purchased had made it back to the trailer.
Cimarron's bark greeted his arrival. He caught a glimpse of the Dobie in the front window, right before the drapes were drawn.
Drapes? What the hell? He'd never had curtains.
Kason tore out of his vehicle and jogged to the front door.
Something felt off. Very off.
A cardboard box sat by the steps. Inside it, he found his duffel bag, the zipper open, his clothes thrown in. A replacement can of tomato soup topped a pair of brown boxers. Tomboy was trying to bounce him.
A twist of the door knob, and he realized she'd changed the locks. A marbled gray knob had replaced the worn brass.
Kason would bet his paycheck she'd set a dead bolt as well.
If the tomboy thought a change of hardware would discourage him, she was greatly mistaken. This was his mobile home. He was about to toss her ass.
Three
Dayne Sheridan pinched back the curtain and peered around the frame of the front window. She'd heard Kason approach, had pressed her ear to the door as he'd tried the knob. Then there'd been silence.
Silence was not good. Silence suggested sneaky.
Where had he gone?
She nearly jumped out of her skin when her cell phone rang. Without checking the number, she flipped it open and whispered, “Hello.”
“Dayne, baby.” Mick Jakes's radio-tempered voice stopped her heart. “I've given you a shout every morning on my show for a week. Why haven't you called in?”
She hadn't listened to the radio since he'd dumped her. She hated the fact that his call made her chest squeeze. And that she couldn't catch her breath.
“We have nothing more to say.”
“Give me five,” he pleaded. “I've boxed the books and clothes you left behind—”
“Which I would have packed, had you not changed the locks on the condo,” she reminded him.
“Where are you living?” he asked. “I need your address for shipping.”
A mail service kiss-off. UPS was impersonal. Slap on a packing label, and a brown truck would deliver her past.
“Donate the items to charity.” There was no reason to tell Mick she'd moved to Richmond.
His softly spoken, “I've missed you, Dayne,” surprised her.
“You're dead to me.” She wanted to kick him in the nuts.
“We had good times,” he returned. “I've never worked with a better Baby Gherkin.”