Batter Up: Up Series Book 2

  Table of Contents

  Bonus Content: Chapter from Riled Up

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Etta’s Playlist

  About The Author

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  Bonus Content: Chapter from Riled Up

  Batter Up

  By Robin Leaf

  Batter Up

  Copyright © 2017 Robin Leaf

  All rights reserved

  Robin Leaf, publisher

  Cover art by Marianne Nowicki at PremadeEbookCoverShop.com

  Except for use in a review, no part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, businesses, places, events, or incidents are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  One

  September 3, last year

  I never intended to spend my thirtieth birthday in agony. Searing. Soul crushing. Excruciating pain. Especially in front of a stadium filled with fans, and not fans of my team, I might add.

  Diego Gallardo, Oakland’s chubby third baseman, collided, cleat first, into the inside of my right knee as he slid home trying to beat my tag. After the collision, his body bowled over the same leg. The audible gasp of the crowd was the last sound I consciously remember before my awareness of the gravity of the situation settled on me. The pain registered, and then began the blur of activity around me, first and foremost, Diego rolling his fat ass off me. I can’t prove it, but the arrogant look on his face as he untangled himself kinda made me think he did this on purpose. His push off my injured leg to help him stand let me know he damn sure did. At least he didn’t beat the tag.

  I knew I wasn’t going to die from this injury, but I feared it was a potential career killer, which probably explains why when my life flashed before my eyes, it was filled with the last eighteen years of my baseball achievements – playing catch with my dad, traveling to the little league world series, winning the state championship in high school, college signing day, playing my first college game, getting called up to the minors my senior year, hitting my first professional homerun, receiving rookie of the year, breaking too many records to count, getting named to the all-star team every year of my pro career, winning four professional homerun derbies. But the flash that puzzled me was the pair of eyes that kept popping up, ones I hadn’t seen in person in almost eight years. Why?

  Getting carted off a field, no matter how serious the injury, is still a humiliatingly humbling experience. Our trainers and the other team’s medical staff didn’t even bother assessing me in the locker room. I went straight to the hospital, complete with police escort.

  Next was a mix of X-rays and MRIs and morphine. Normally I refuse drugs, but the friggin’ genius who invented that stuff needs to be kissed. I was seriously thinking of becoming an addict. However, when morphine courses through a body, the brain doesn’t really process necessary or important information, which explains why I didn’t register the prognosis right away. I vaguely remember talk of a cracked fibula, meniscus tears, patellar dislocation, ruptures of MCLs, ACLs, PCLs (I swear sometimes they just string together letters to make it sound more serious.) and surgeries with grafting of tissues. Gah. All this time in the hospital, I never once fully registered the dire nature of my situation. Yeah, morphine rocked.

  When left alone in my drug induced haze, I kept seeing the eyes. Greyish-greenish blue, with a hint of gold flakes, they were unreal, almost ethereal. Except they were very real. I had looked into those eyes almost every day for damn near two years. I secretly loved those eyes. My uncontrolled brain kept conjuring them, making me think of her. The girl to whom they belonged. The girl who never belonged to me. Painkillers, although great for physical pain, suck when it comes to keeping repressed memories, well, repressed.

  A week and three surgeries later, I was roused out of the haze I’d lived in since the “accident.” The first thing I did? Ask to watch the replay. I had to prove that fat fucker did this on purpose.

  Jeremy Fike came to check on me at home after my second surgery. He was the team’s head ATC, and I considered him one of my closest friends. What was it about me always befriending the athletic trainers for my teams?

  “You want to see the tape? Why would you want to watch that?” Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Nate. It’s pretty ugly.”

  “Fuck that, Jer. I gotta see it.”

  “Look, Nate Dog, I know you say he did this on purpose. And I believe you, I do. But the tapes are inconclusive.”

  “Inconclusive?” I asked, not masking my outrage. “How? He fucking round housed my knee cleat first and then rolled on it. It has to be obvious.”

  Jeremy sat down in the chair next to the couch I hadn’t moved from since I got home and ran his hand over his head. “Look, the League looked into it. They found no proof that he did this on purpose. The bastard looked smug, yes. But they don’t fine for smug looks, Nate.” He sighed. “In fact, they tried to say you blocked the plate.”

  “I fucking fielded the ball!” I pounded my fist on the pillow next to me. “What the hell? You can’t be charged with blocking if you are fielding the ball, and I got the out, which means I had it in my possession.”

  “I know, Nate. I know.” He rubbed his head again. “The Skipper went to bat for you, even the owner got involved. But they ruled it an accident.” He smiled. “If it helps, some of the sports talk radio guys have been blowing up the phones about it. And the fans boo Gallardo every time he takes the field for an away game.”

  “But he still gets to take the field.” I closed my eyes and sunk back on my couch. “My career may have ended, and he still gets to play.” I gritted my teeth. “You don’t understand how much that fucking sucks.”

  Jeremy sighed. “Don’t think like that. You have to believe your career isn’t over, Nate.”

  I looked at him trying to see any evidence that he didn’t believe what he said. “You sure about that? They basically rebuilt my entire knee. You telling me you think I can come back from this?”

  The pause he gave before replying to me was my answer. I closed my eyes again for fear that I might actually cry. I haven’t even cried since my dad died, and that was in private. Yet here I was fighting stinging eyes. Pathetic, I know, but my career was everything.

  “Look, Nate. This isn’t an easy or predictable injury. But I know you. I’ve seen guys with less commitment to this game come back from worse injuries than yours.” He stood. “Is it going to be easy? No. But I know you can do whatever it t
akes.” He sighed and rubbed his head again. “You probably won’t be catching though. I know it’s your position. But if you want to play the game, you may need to train for another one.”

  “Jer, I have been a catcher since I was eight. It’s where I belong.”

  “Well, all that squatting will be hell. You aren’t as young as you used to be.” He patted my hand. “I’m just giving you something to think about. Remember Biggio went from catcher to second to outfield.” He smiled. “You need to be flexible.”

  I clenched my fists. “I don’t know, man.”

  “Nate, the only person I know who loves this game more than you is my Nana, who is your biggest fan, by the way. You got the heart. You breathe baseball. You are more dedicated to this sport than anyone I’ve ever met. And now, you will have to put that dedication to work.”

  “That’s the plan. I will not let that fat fucker take me out of this game permanently,” I growled. I took a minute to calm my breathing before I asked my next question. “How long do you think it will take?”

  He blinked. “Hard to say. Six months maybe? But for now, you need someone to help you out at home.” He sighed again. “You think your mom will…”

  “No. I can’t ask my mom to move to L.A. for me. She just remarried.”

  “I know your mom. You won’t have to ask. She’ll just do it.” He smiled again. “Well, is there anyone else?”

  Her eyes flashed again, but that bridge was effectively burned. I closed my eyes trying to block them from my conscious mind.

  “I can move back home. My brother lives in my house back in Houston. He can help. He owes me for letting him live there rent free during the season. And my mom can help during the day so she doesn’t have to move here.”

  “And you can hire some hot live-in if need be.” He laughed at his own joke. “Once that hairline fracture heals, you will need to start physical therapy. I won’t lie – It’s going to be intense, Nate.”

  “No bullshit, Jeremy. What are my chances?”

  “On a chance of a one-hundred percent recovery? I’d be looking for a miracle.”

  Miracle it is, then.

  Two

  October 16, last year

  “Good news, Mr. Slaughter,” renowned orthopedic specialist, Dr. Woods, announced upon entering the fully decked out examining room. “The x-ray confirms your fracture has healed quite nicely.”

  “See, Nathaniel. I told you,” my mother said to me. She never shied away from rubbing it in when I was wrong. “So, Dr. Woods, where do we go from here?”

  “Well, Mrs. Slaughter, is it?”

  “Mrs. Sandoval, but please, call me Tammy.” She held out her hand which the doctor shook.

  “Nice to meet you, Tammy.” He turned to me. “As we have discussed before, I am expecting you to start physical therapy right away.” He took a card out of his pocket. “Here is the number of the physical therapy clinic. The kinesiologist there specializes in sports injuries, especially therapy for tendon and ligament reconstruction. You will be in excellent hands.”

  “Okay, so now will you tell me, in your honest opinion, what my chances are to play baseball again?”

  Dr. Woods sighed. “Honestly, Nate, I don’t know. You’re healing nicely.” He set my chart down and sat on the stool in front of my chair. “My major concern is your patellar dislocation. They are tricky little buggers and need to be rehabbed carefully. You were active before the injury, so it may go faster. However, I will tell you this: I am sending you to the best specialist in rehabilitation I have ever seen. I’ve seen them do the seemingly impossible over there. But it’s a combination of your ability to heal and how well you follow their directions.” He scribbled something on my chart. “It’ll take time. You can’t rush it.”

  “I really want to be ready for spring training, Doc.”

  “That’s in February. It’s October 16. That might be pushing it.” He scribbled again. “Tell you what. Let my receptionist make the first appointment when you check out today for some time this week. Let the staff over at the clinic assess your situation. Be honest about what you want to accomplish. They’ll let you know if it can be done.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  He shrugged and smiled tightly. “Miracles can happen.”

  Miracles? Again? Crap.

  ***

  While I visited the restroom, Mom set up the appointment with the PT clinic for the next day, and then she drove me home. Unfortunately my knee brace made it difficult for me to drive, so I had to be chauffeured around like a pre-teen anywhere farther than a few miles away from home. This uselessness I felt seemed to be getting worse, and the thought that I might never play again was weighing on me like lead. I felt like I was floundering.

  “Nathaniel,” Mom began. She used her worried voice, so I knew I was in for it. She was never one to pull punches, metaphorically speaking, when I grew up. Realistic parenting is what she called it. She was supportive, but she always called me on my shit. I knew this would be one of those conversations. She’d start out telling me how worried she is, then light my ass on fire with some hard truths, and finally, she’d sugar coat it with some humor or lovey-dovey mom shit. There was always a lesson or a moral I’d take away from it. This parenting style made me who I am today. I’ve always known I was loved, but at the same time, I developed some thick skin, a trait that comes in very handy for a famous ball player. Tammy Nicole Brown Slaughter (now Sandoval) was one tough momma. She’d tried the last few days to talk to me, but I’d repeatedly shut her down. Now, trapped in this car, I had no choice but to endure it.

  After a pause, she started in. “I’m worried.” See? I knew it. “Ever since you’ve been home, you’ve been moping around. I know this is difficult, but I’m concerned that you might be…”

  “What, Mom? Depressed?” I snapped. “I probably am. My career, you know, the one I’ve dreamed about since I was a little boy, may be over.” I closed my eyes. “I have a right to be pissed about that.”

  “Yes, Nathaniel, your career may be over. And it IS okay to be pissed about it. But your life isn’t over.” She sighed. “Look, I haven’t said anything until now because I felt that you needed time. But now, well, I think it’s time you started living.”

  “And just what do you think I have been doing all this time?”

  “Eating, sleeping and breathing baseball.” She looked at me. “Not living.”

  I was quiet for a minute. “I have a life,” I finally grumbled defensively.

  “Really, Nate? Where’s the evidence? In the parade of friends who have come to visit you?” She snapped her fingers as if a thought occurred to her. “Oh, yeah! That’s right, there haven’t been any.” She grunted. “Where’s your loving wife? My grandchildren? Heck, right now I’d settle for a devoted girlfriend or one good friend. But there isn’t anyone.”

  “There’s Jeremy. He’s a good friend.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s a proximity friend – only a friend as long as you are around each other all the time. How many times has he called since you’ve been home?”

  I ran my hands over my head in frustration. I was losing this argument. “I had a girlfriend. You met her last December at the…”

  “Had, Nate. Had. And I know you were never serious about her. I’m pretty sure that was just for publicity. Anyway, where is she now?” When I didn’t answer, she continued. “Yeah, don’t you get it? You’re lonely.” The more she spoke, the louder she became. “And it’s no one’s fault but yours. You created all these superficial relationships based on your job or your celebrity. They were only around you because of what you do, not who you are. And I think you liked it that way, no one gets close, no one hurts you.” She banged her hand on the steering wheel, her voice in a full-on shout now. “And what’s worse is that you could be very happy right now, but you royally screwed that up and let your happiness run away from you. Ugh. That right there is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. I told you NOT to screw it up. And
now you have no one close to you. Your so-called closest friends are all tied to baseball and can’t even take a second out of their busy lives to make a phone call or come see you, even though their season is over. All you have is me and your brother, which is kind of loser-ish.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Look, if you don’t like getting called a loser, then stop acting like one.”

  “Jeez, Mom… Wow.”

  Silence followed my almost whispered interjection. After a long time, she looked over at me, a guilty look on her face. All her anger had vanished and her tone softened. “I know it probably feels like I’m kicking you when you’re down.”

  I laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, right in the junk.”

  “But I just want you to be happy, Nathaniel. And you’re not. You’ve relied on one thing to bring you joy these last few years. The problem with relying on only one thing is that when it goes away, you have nothing left. And life is hollow without people in it, Honey.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You know, you could make some calls to Chris or Josh… or you could call...”

  “I never kept in touch with anyone,” I cut her off. I knew where the conversation was going, and it would kill me to hear her name right now. Mom had always held out hope that we’d end up together. After two years of pleading with me to try to contact her, Mom gave up asking.

  “So?”

  “So they are probably angry at me for not contacting them.”

  She smiled. “Oh, I know they are. That just means you need to work hard at reconnecting.” I rolled my eyes. “I honestly don’t know if there is such things as fate, destiny, karma, kismet, signs, or other things like that, but this whole situation could be one of them. Life’s, or maybe even God’s way of telling you to make some changes? It’s possible, don’t you think?”

  “I used to think anything is possible.” I turned to look out the window. “Now, I’m not so sure.”