“How was practice?” I ask.
“We don’t talk shop, remember? That’s also a rule.” Walker levels me with a stare that says I should know better.
He’s right, we have set that boundary before. Not just because he’s a player and I’m the general manager now, since he wants to keep what happens within the team confidential from me. I respect that space and trust he gives to his teammates. But we’ve decided not to discuss our jobs because then it would be all we talked about.
Since we both technically work for the family business, it’s easy to get swept up in it. But Walker and I have been tight since we were babies, and we’re an outlet for each other. He’s my best friend, the brother I never had. When we were in elementary school, Walker was the one who would punch bullies for me, and I’d let him cheat off my spelling homework. Later on in life, Walker was the one I’d cry to when my mom walked out on us right before my freshman year of high school. I was the one who drove him to and from physical therapy appointments when he fractured his wrist our senior year. We’d decided to attend the same university, and he was one of the only reasons I ever left my dorm room.
I don’t have many people I am truly close to, even though I have a huge extended family. But I have Walker.
“Hey, have you seen Hannah Giraldi lately?” he asks, his eyes becoming hooded with concern.
My heart thumps with panic. “Actually, yes. Why do you ask?”
Walker looks around, almost as if to make sure no one is within earshot. “I witnessed something the other night. I can’t be sure but … no, I’m sure. I’m pretty certain I walked up on her and Shane having a knockdown, drag out fight in the parking lot. And I’m pretty sure he shoved her into the side of their car.”
Bile rises in my throat, and that gut instinct you know to rely on as a human kicks in. “You’re sure?”
I don’t mean to question Walker, but as a general manager, I can’t just go around gossiping about my players. Especially, if it’s something as serious as this.
His eyes, the same shade of brown as mine, flame with fury. “Yeah, I’m sure. He shoved her, Col, like a rag doll. Then took off, leaving her in the parking lot. I helped her up off the pavement. She was shaking like a leaf, but kept blaming the argument on herself. Kept repeating over and over again ‘please, don’t tell anyone about this.’ I could kill him with my bare hands. Watching a man do that to a woman, especially one as gentle as Hannah …”
He trails off. He’s known Shane a long time, I have too. Damn, we were both guests at Shane and Hannah’s wedding six years ago. It makes me want to cry, or hurl up my lunch, just thinking about that bruise on her wrist.
“I’ll … I’ll try to look into it. Discreetly. You can’t act on this, Walker. We don’t know what’s going on, you can’t be sure of what you saw—”
“I know what I saw, Colleen,” he says sharply.
There haven’t been many times in our lives that we’ve argued, but I can see he’s raring to go about this.
I lay my hand over his. “I know, I know. I’m going to try to do what I can. But we can’t … you can’t just come out swinging. It could make things worse for Hannah, and those are serious accusations to bring against someone. We have to do our homework.”
“While she just takes abuse?” Walker is smoldering, I can feel the temper coming off him in waves.
“If it isn’t my two favorite people.” A smoky, low voice comes from across the dining room.
Our heads turn in unison, the seriousness of the moment lifted as soon as I see Sinclair walking toward us.
The tension dissipates, and I hope Walker heard my plea to hold off on acting hastily, but he smiles when he sees his brother.
Walker pretends to check a nonexistent watch on his wrist. “Wait a minute, Col, it’s before three p.m. Surely that can’t be my brother walking around the land of the living?”
Sinclair gives a sarcastic chuckle as he pulls out a chair, joining our table without being invited. “Your humor is on par, per usual, big bro.”
I try to swat my other cousin’s hand off my plate, but Sinclair grabs a handful of fries and shoves them in his mouth.
“How did you even get in here?” I scowl, annoyed at my stolen lunch.
“Good to see you, too, cuz.” He blows me a kiss. “I still have my ID badge from when I worked here as an intern. Dad apparently hasn’t revoked the access.”
“Maybe he’s thinking you’ll man up and get a real job.” Walker narrows his eyes.
It’s no secret that Sinclair is the slacker of the family. The black sheep, the party boy. He is partly the reason that the Callahan family is regarded as a bunch of rich snobs. Well, at least before my dad went to prison. But Sinclair is the typical trust-fund baby if I’ve ever seen one. While the rest of my cousins, aunts, uncles, and all the other various Callahans have real jobs, whether it’s working for the family business or otherwise, Sinclair does … nothing.
If you consider partying, drinking, and getting into trouble with the tabloids something, then I guess he does something. But after a failed string of jobs, both inside the baseball team and from connections my uncle Daniel has, Walker’s younger brother is a total slacker. Most days, Sinclair doesn’t wake until five p.m., and then immediately starts his night of drinking and debauchery. He throws massive parties almost nightly at the enormous house he bought with some of his trust money, and Walker seems to think he’s getting involved in some shady crowd that could be involved with drugs.
For a twenty-six-year-old man, he lives like he’s an eighteen-year-old getting their hands on their first taste of freedom.
“Fat chance. You guys want to come to the party I’m throwing tonight?” he offers.
I snort. “Fat chance.”
Sinclair tilts his head. “Yeah, the last time I saw you at one of my parties was … well, I don’t think ever. It could be good for you, Col. You look like you could use a stiff drink and a stiff—”
“Okay, enough.” Walker smacks his brother upside the head.
I keep my mouth shut, but why is everyone all of a sudden pointing out how much my sex life needs to improve?
15
Colleen
It’s unusual for me to sit down in the lower levels, even at a Pistons’ home game.
But tonight is a special ceremony for one of our retiring coaches, a pitching coach named Stan who has contributed his life to the sport of baseball, and I felt it necessary to honor him by sitting right by the away dugout at our game tonight.
We’re in Houston, playing a divisional three-game series, and the crowd is jovial. It’s a scorching Saturday afternoon, and Hayes is standing a little bit aways near second base.
He’s protected his position all afternoon, making play after play and saving the pitcher some major embarrassment. The guy on the mound was someone Grude had called up from the minors, and his rookie jitters are clearly visible.
But Hayes, who despite his refusal to be a leader on this team is one by default anyway, has backed him up and essentially is carrying the team on his back today.