Belle Pointe. Karen Young
cutthroat world of professional baseball by just sitting back and accepting what a couple of so-called experts said. If he’d done that, he would have quit before he was twenty-five years old. Nearly ten years in the minors had taught him a thing or two about survival. Hell, being raised by his cold-hearted mother had taught him a thing or two about survival. Balanced on the crutches, he opened the door to the pantry.
Using one of his crutches, he snagged the leg of a stool and, moving cautiously, climbed a couple of rungs until he could reach the topmost shelf where he stored liquor, purchased by the case. Fumbling behind a case of Dewar’s, he found a small box containing a vial of a clear substance and a syringe. Stepping down from the stool, he stood for a moment with his head pressed back against a shelf loaded with bottles of champagne. He took several long, deep breaths until the pain subsided to a bearable level.
A few minutes later—still sweating like a pig—he made his way out of the pantry, through the kitchen and the huge foyer to the den and finally to his recliner. This time, he simply dropped his crutches to the floor without caring whether he would be able to reach them if needed and sank into the chair. He was whipped.
A long, long three minutes passed. Then, with shaking hands, he fumbled at the seal on the box. No way he’d be able to inject his knee until he could hold the syringe steady, he thought. But he had the vial out now and he’d watched the procedure enough in the hands of other athletes to know what to do and how to do it. By the time he had the syringe filled with the powerful steroid, he was calm.
Fortunately, he wasn’t wearing jeans, but pajama bottoms, which had been a gift from Anne at Christmas. Since he always slept buck naked, when he’d opened the box on Christmas morning and saw what was inside, they’d both laughed at the absurdity.
“Wear them just once…for me,” she’d teased that day. “I have a reason.”
“Such as?” Suspicious, but he’d played along.
“Since you always have so much fun taking mine off,” she said, smiling and kissing him at the same time, “I thought I’d try the same thing.”
What would Anne think if she saw him now?
He quickly banished his wife from his thoughts and ripped the side seam of the pajamas all the way up to the knee. Steve’s exam and the trek to the kitchen and back hadn’t done good things for the injury. Gingerly feeling it up, Buck found the spot he thought would be about right and took a calming breath. Holding it, he pushed the needle into the spot and blinked rapidly at the pain. Slowly and carefully, he injected the drug.
For a minute, he was caught in a blankness of thought and time. Anne’s face floated before him. She looked so sad. Was she still crying for the baby, he wondered, or was it because of what he’d just done? What had he done, he asked himself as tears welled in his eyes. With sudden and profound shame, he flung the needle across the room and bowed his head in his hands.
In spite of the many opportunities he’d had over the years, he had never used chemicals to enhance his performance on the mound or for any other reason. It was cheating, pure and simple. How had he reached such a low that he turned his back on every honorable standard he’d prided himself on from the time he first held a baseball in his hand while his father smiled at him proudly? The game was sacred to him. The ethics of play were sacred. What did it say about him that staying in the game was so vital to him that he’d not hesitated before shooting up if it meant he’d play again?
A sudden deep, agonizing need for Anne welled up in him. Jesus, she would be horrified over what he’d just done. Using the fingers of both hands, he wiped his cheeks and let his gaze move to a photo of the two of them when they’d been married only a few months. Anne was leaning into Buck who was Mr. Cool in sunglasses, a crooked smile and shirtless, while she laughed and raked at strands of her dark hair whipping in the wind. No sunglasses, so you could see her eyes, those incredible, beautiful turquoise-blue eyes. God, he missed her. He hadn’t realized how empty the house was without her. Or how long the nights could be. Or how desperate he was to hear her voice. A dozen calls and she still refused to talk to him. He was flat-out scared that he’d hurt her so much she might never forgive him.
It came to him then that he needed to get his life in order. Still reclined in his chair, he considered what that entailed. First of all, he needed to win his wife back, but he could hardly do that if she was in another state and wouldn’t even talk to him. Next, he needed to get back in shape enough to play baseball. In time, the concussion would take care of itself, but the knee was a problem. The chemical he’d just injected was only a temporary fix. A lengthy physical therapy plan was vital. He sat up in the chair. But who said that it had to be done here? There were physical therapists all over the planet, even in Mississippi.
Hell, he could kill two birds with one stone. The Jacks wanted him nearby so they could keep an eye on his progress. But what could they do if he left? He wasn’t going to be able to play and Schrader wouldn’t want him visible to the fans walking like a cripple. If he arranged to have his physical therapy in Mississippi, he could be near Anne. He’d have to pay for it out of his own pocket, but it was an expense he’d gladly bear.
His adrenaline was flowing now. He was a man of action. Instead of sitting on his butt, he was going to do something. But first he had to get to Mississippi. With his knee messed up, he couldn’t drive. And he didn’t want to fly commercial. Too public. Too embarrassing. He’d have to charter a plane. Simple enough. For the first time since driving the Porsche off into that ditch, he felt he was in control again. He could handle Gus Schrader’s reaction, no matter what it was. His biggest worry was what kind of reaction he’d get from Anne.
By the third day in Tallulah, Anne was sick of her own company. The baby was her first thought upon waking and her last at night, a sore and tender spot on her heart that felt as if it might never heal. She appreciated the fact that Beatrice and Franklin took her at her word that she wasn’t ready to talk, but a part of her wanted to tell someone how she’d felt when all was well in her pregnancy. She’d been so joyful. If a boy, she’d imagined him a carbon copy of Buck, complete with that rakish smile and easy charm. Or a girl with those same gifts. Would she be a tomboy? Would Buck’s son have his athletic gifts or would his talents be similar to hers? Or would their baby be nothing like either of them?
Lord, enough of that. To keep from dwelling on her troubles, she was headed to the Spectator to take her dad up on his job offer. She was genuinely eager to resume her career, but it was icing on the cake that she’d have access to the Spectator archives. According to Beatrice, who had proved to be a walking encyclopedia of Tallulah’s history, the archives would be chock-full of references to Buck’s family. The things Buck told her about his family had only whetted her appetite to learn more. It was a golden opportunity to fill in the blanks.
She had not spoken with Buck. She simply wasn’t up to arguing with him. After she’d refused to take his calls, he’d stopped trying. Maybe after thinking it over, he was relieved that she was the one who dared to say their marriage was in trouble. Maybe he’d been looking for a way out and just hadn’t found a way to tell her. God knows, there were scads of women who’d love to be with Buck Whitaker. And not a single one of them would complain about not having his baby.
Her stepmother had generously offered the use of her car and Anne was halfway to the newspaper office when she realized the gas light was on. She was torn between irritation and amusement at Beatrice. The woman was a crackerjack businesswoman with a creative bent but Anne noticed that, in practical matters, such as keeping gasoline in her car or stocking the pantry with groceries or picking up clothes at the cleaners, she was woefully forgetful. Franklin groused about it when it affected him directly, but Anne had seen right away that he was so besotted with Beatrice that it would take a lot more than a depleted pantry or a wardrobe mishap to make him truly angry with his wife. In the time that Anne had been their houseguest, she was completely convinced that her father was happier than he’d ever been. She suffered a pang of conscience every now and then, feeling a bit disloyal to her mother, but Beatrice really was a sweetheart.
At the service station, she swiped her card and prepared to pump gas into the tank of the small car. For just a second, she thought