Latin Lovers: Passionate Spaniards. Cathy Williams

The catcher smiled, then jogged toward the dugout and the showers underneath the stadium.

      “Does your father know you’re here?” Lane asked.

      It was another question Roy understood the reason why she asked. He really didn’t want to talk about his father, but he had to take the fact that she was talking to him as a positive sign so he answered her.

      “No.” Roy wanted to avoid that conversation as long as he could. He could just imagine how it would go down. He would have to explain how he lost all his money. Instead of being worried about that or sorry it happened, his father would no doubt be thrilled to fly out and see him at his next game. His father would instantly revert to his old ways, thinking that he and Roy could be a team again.

      When Roy left the game his relationship with his father had all but dried up. A lot of that distance had to do with losing his mother the year before. Once she was gone, he and his father realized the only thing that connected them was baseball. The reality of it after he’d left the game was even worse than he could imagine. It was as if his father didn’t know how to speak to him anymore. Like all Roy had ever been to him was a star player instead of a son.

      Now that he was back in the game his father would want to be in his life and the pain of that, knowing he would only take an interest because Roy was playing ball again, was something Roy really didn’t want to deal with.

      It was something he could have talked about with his mom. Six years gone and there wasn’t a day he didn’t wish he could pick up the phone and call her. Let her explain why Dad was the way he was and how baseball was his way of showing his affection. She had always made Roy feel better about himself, his dad and their relationship.

      He should call his dad. He would call him. He just wasn’t ready yet.

      “How long do you think you can stay hidden? The season starts in three weeks. You’re going to be on the team—”

      “You don’t know that. It’s not official.”

      “I saw the five pitches you threw before that last one. You’re going to be on the team. The world will know Roy Walker is back.”

      There would be press, there were would be stories and assumptions and investigations. News of his colossal business implosion would be everywhere. Mike and Mike on ESPN radio would no doubt discuss it and his return for a solid week.

      Forget the field day Roy would have with the local press, who would be jumping at the chance to beef up their distribution of newspapers with the story of Roy’s return and being part of the Minotaurs. He’d met the owner of the team, Jocelyn Taft-Wright, who seemed ready to pounce on any publicity that Roy might generate that could translate into ticket sales. Considering she was married to a local sportswriter, Roy imagined she would have some influence over the volume of stories produced.

      All of it would suck for someone who never craved the media spotlight. It wasn’t as if Roy didn’t love attention. But only when he was on the mound. There he craved it. Soaked it in like sun on a beach. He always wanted everyone to see what he could do.

      Off the mound, he always felt like the less people knew about him, the better.

      It would be something Lane might have teased him about when they were friends and say it was because he didn’t want everyone to know what an ass he was. Maybe that was true. But he also didn’t want everyone to realize how shallow he was.

      What had he been other than a ballplayer? Nothing. Not husband or father. Not a person with interests or hobbies. Roy threw the ball. That’s who he was. An interviewer could ask only so many questions about that. A player could give only so many answers.

      Now those questions would be about whether he could still throw the ball.

      The jury was still out. The throwing didn’t feel like it used to feel. But he wasn’t as bad as he might have thought after so long away.

      “The plan is to hide for as long as possible,” he eventually said. “When the storm shows up, I’ll see how it goes. You know me and my love of the press.”

      “They used to call you One-Word-Answer Roy.”

      “They ask a question, I give them an answer. They don’t like it, that’s their problem.”

      “Right, but it was one of the things that fed in to your whole alter ego.”

      “Alter ego? I wasn’t a superhero, Lane.”

      “No, Roy, you weren’t. Hate to tell you but you were the bad guy.”

      It wasn’t exactly news to Roy. He had always understood how he was perceived. He hadn’t done it on purpose. He hadn’t deliberately cultivated the image as the loner. The team villain. The guy who everyone wanted to hate but couldn’t because he was too damn talented.

      His reputation developed because of his nature and how he was brought up in the game. Maybe there had been a time when he thought about changing people’s perception of him. Then he thought about taking time away from his regimented training schedule to do more interviews. Or spend more of his off time with his teammates. The extra effort it would take to show up at some swanky event just to get his face on camera.

      The return on that effort hadn’t seemed worth it. Only the pitching mattered to him.

      Roy started his career with two, and only two, objectives: a World Series victory and the Hall of Fame. The level of commitment it took to achieve those goals was something that probably only twenty of the three hundred plus pitchers in the major leagues understood. The commitment—the work—was all he was. All he knew. And he’d accomplished one of his objectives.

      His objectives this time around were even simpler. He needed money. A mercenary reason that didn’t require him to be the best there was, because there was no way he could ever be better than his younger self. But he did have to be good enough.

      Good enough. A heck of a lowly ambition for Roy Walker, but the best he could hope for.

      “Maybe I’ll try to do things a little differently this time,” he said, thinking that his capitulation might gain him some goodwill with Lane.

      “Don’t do it on my account.”

      Or not.

      “So you’re going to tell the press the whole story?” she asked.

      He laughed then. “There’s no getting around what happened, Lane. I can’t shake it, or dodge it, or pretend it didn’t happen. So, I have to man up. I reached for something and missed and it cost me everything. All I can do is hope I have some gas left in the tank to give myself another shot.”

      “People love a good comeback story,” Lane said. “And you’ll be one hell of a comeback to baseball.”

      “Can I ask you something? Honestly.”

      “Have I ever been dishonest with you?”

      Roy thought about that but didn’t necessarily want to go to the past. The answer to that question wasn’t as black-and-white as she wanted it to be. Maybe she hadn’t been dishonest with him, but she’d damn sure lied to herself. It was the only reason her marriage to Danny lasted as long as it did.

      “Do you really think I’m pathetic? A thirty-seven-year-old, has-been pitcher. Are they going to pity me?”

      It felt like he was exposing himself. Like he’d ripped apart his T-shirt, shown her his bare chest and asked her if she wanted to take a stab at his heart. Except she was Lane Baker, and she used to be the princess of baseball. Before her breakup no one respected the game more, except maybe Roy, so he knew he could trust her to tell him the truth even if she did hate him.

      Was he blowing up his reputation, his history in the game and everything he ever worked toward for a damn paycheck? Lane would understand, even through her anger, what it would do to him to shit on his own legacy.

      She bit her lower lip. Five years ago that habit would have