Chapter Sixteen

Rhett

By Saturday morning, my nerves had steamrolled away like a spastic locomotive. Brenna hadn’t called me since I’d spoken to her and invited her to dinner with my parents. Had I been beaten at my own game? I hated to admit it, but somehow, that thought really chapped my hide. I knew it sounded crazy, but worry had infiltrated my mind and poisoned it. I felt like I was losing my hold on Brenna. I had to keep her interested – interested enough to keep her from doing any digging around about our past.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ever been this nervous about having dinner with a girl. It’s not just a girl, bucko, I reminded myself as I paced around my condo. This is a girl you’ve been charming the panties off for weeks…and your parents. The two most important people in your life.

When my phone buzzed on the table, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Riley’s number flashed across the lock screen, so I sighed with mixed relief and irritation.

“What?” I asked, holding the phone to my ear and flopping down on my leather couch. “What do you want?”

Riley groaned. “A nice good morning to you too,” she said, sarcasm lacing every syllable. I’d been a jerk. I’m impatient with women I’m not fucking. So sue me. “Have you heard from Brenna?”

The feeling in the pit of my stomach escalated from bad to worse.

“Not today. Why? Did something happen?”

Riley sighed as if she couldn’t stand to be talking to me due to my stupidity. “I don’t know. But she really got reamed out in a meeting last week. Her memory isn’t coming back. The doctors said it should be back by now and it’s not. And the way she talks and looks at me…she thinks she’s covering it up, but I think it’s even worse than she’s letting on.”

“Isn’t that good for you?” I asked, throwing it right back in her traitorous face. “Aren’t you still planning to steal her career? The one you haven’t earned and don’t deserve?”

I had half a mind to put my dislike of her aside and call Janet just so Riley could get her comeuppance. I hadn’t expected to like Brenna, and now I was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. With an ugly tart pulling the reins.

“I was,” Riley whined. “But I thought her memory would come back before now. Christ, Rhett, I’m starting to get a really bad feeling about this.”

You and me both, honey.

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her, trying to reassure myself more than Riley. “I’m sure it’s fine. I’m taking her to dinner tonight – she’s meeting my folks. If my mom doesn’t trigger strong emotions in a person, I don’t know what will.”

“What?”

“I said we’re going to dinner with my parents.”

Riley snorted. “Good luck with that,” she said. “Doesn’t your mother know Brenna hates you? Every mother since the dawn of time reads every single printed piece about their professional athlete son. You’ve blown it, Bradshaw. Don’t take me down with you.”

“Yeah,” I said, ignoring her. My mother may have read something Brenna had written, but I guarantee, she’d never read a byline. She’d never make the association. And my dad is as blind as a belfry bat, so he only reads on his iPad with forty-eight font. “So, have you written anything good about me yet?” I puffed up my chest, imagining a nice headline after my slew of bad pitching. A second chance. A new beginning.

“Asshole, you actually have to win a game for me to do that,” Riley said, then snickered. “And you haven’t come close in days.”

I groaned. Riley was right, but I’d never admit as much to her and have her think she had any kind of upper hand in this fucked up situation.

“The season’s still in its infancy. Whatever,” I said. “I gotta go. Bye.”

I hung up before Riley could respond. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about her irritated the shit out of me. And Brenna had said as much. Back when she’d offered to help me with Brenna, I’d only assumed that she wanted to give her ladder climb at Sport Taste a little nudge upward. But now talking to her left a bad taste in my mouth. She really seemed to harbor malicious feelings toward Brenna, and despite my own slightly unsavory behavior, it made me uncomfortable. I was only guilty of wanting to get my rocks off with a little revenge fuck, not implode a talented journalist’s rise to fame for my own selfish motives.

Because we had a one o’clock game, I had to be at the stadium by nine for pre-game practice and warm-ups, so I hit the shower and busted it for the field.

Time to play ball!

Hours later, I stood on the mound, winding up for my first pitch. It was a foul, the second a ball. Taking a deep breath, I nodded to Ernie when he signaled for a curve. Strike! The crowd went wild.

After that, I found my stride and took that batter and the next one out. Ernie called for a fastball, and I nodded, rolling the ball around my fingers to find the seams. Rearing back, I wound up the pitch and let the ball roll from my hand. Strike! Then two more. And that inning was complete with a big egg for my opponent on the board.

And just like that…I was a crowd favorite again.

By the seventh inning, I’d pitched a one-hitter, but my arm was getting sore as hell. I knew I was over a hundred pitches, probably closer to one-ten, and expected to be pulled at any moment.

Crack!

The ball went straight into the air, and I smiled, needing only to take a few steps back to snag the in-field pop-up into my glove. From the corner of my eye, I saw my coach step onto the field, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hell of a job,” Don said, taking the ball from me.

I grinned back. “It felt good.” Then I nodded to Ryan, my replacement. “Finish it up for us, Ry.”

The crowd roared as I walked off the field, the score of 6-0 shining on the board. I hadn’t allowed any runs, and one of those six belonged to Ernie. I took in the moment. Damn, it felt good to be on top of my game again. A few innings later, we had a “W” in the ledger.

8-2. I’d take that score all season long.

After the game, I did the media shit then hit the showers. At six-thirty, I took a cab to Midtown. I’d made reservations at Tony’s Di Napoli – touristy, but great Italian and the staff would make sure I didn’t get mobbed. My mom was not yet ready for prime time. My parents didn’t like the newer restaurants that had sprung up all over Manhattan. Mom complained that they were too weird since they served local and organic. My dad just wanted something to fill his beer gut full to the brim and “rabbit food” didn’t do that for him. I had a feeling Brenna would enjoy Tony’s, though, and that was part of the reason I’d chosen it. If everything else went to shit, at least the food would be good.

My heart sank when I walked into the lobby and saw Brenna already chatting with my parents. Her animated expression radiated joy as her elegant hands flew through the air. She wore a green jersey dress that clung to her full tits, and I almost groaned when I saw my father’s eyes leering at her chest. Brenna didn’t notice, however – she and my mom already had their heads together as if they’d known each other twenty years.

When my mom saw me, a huge grin split her face in two. She immediately pushed past Brenna and darted over to me, wrapping her chubby arms around my waist and pulling me close.

“Rhett!” Ma sang loudly, squeezing me so hard I thought I might not be able to stifle a grunt. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

When I looked over Mom’s shoulder, I saw Brenna giggling and covering her mouth with her hand. Great. At least someone thinks this is funny.

“Hi, Ma,” I said, giving her a quick squeezing back and then pulling away. “It hasn’t been that long, you know.”

Ma wiped tears from her eyes. “It’s just so nice to see you,” she sniffed. “Your father and I have missed you so much.”

“I didn’t die,” I said, not sure what to do to get her to stop with the river of uncomfortable emotion. “I just moved to New York, that’s all.”

“Oh, Rhett,” she said, patting my arm. She linked hers with mine as we walked toward Brenna and my father. “Brenda is such a nice girl.”

“Brenna,” I corrected quickly. “Her name is Brenna.”

Ma reached for Brenna’s hand and pulled her close. She frowned, scrutinizing Brenna’s gorgeous face. "Brenna, hmm? That sounds familiar…” Ma said, trailing off. “Have we met before?”

Brenna shook her head “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Well, any friend of Rhett’s is a friend of mine,” my dad said, finally joining the conversation. He’d always been a man of few words unless they were critical. “I’m glad you were able to join us, Brittany.”

“It’s Brenna,” I said through clenched teeth. Over Ma’s head, I shot Brenna an apologetic glance. Sorry, I mouthed to her. These two weren’t nearly old enough to be so fucking senile. And embarrassing.

Brenna just giggled, as if she hadn’t noticed my parents butchering her name. Just then, a cute little waif of a hostess in a tight black dress swooped down and led us to our table – right in the middle of the restaurant. So much for keeping me away from my adoring public. As we walked through sets of tables and families, stares pricked the back of my neck.

Shit. That was pretty fucking boneheaded to pick such a popular haunt for tourists, I thought as I sat down. Half of these people probably have my face on a Yankees poster back in Bumfuck, Ohio.

“Oh, Rhett,” Ma gushed. “This all looks so good. Just scrumptious. What a great choice of restaurant.” She glanced down at the menu and gave a little shake of her shoulders. “Barney, what are you having?”

My dad grunted. “Wine,” he said. “Rhett, get a couple of bottles for the table, will you?”

I nodded. Maybe this wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe if my mother could manage to stay on her hero-worship track while she liquored herself up, she wouldn’t ask too many questions about Brenna and me.

“Rhett, your mother was telling me about the first time you ever played baseball,” Brenna said. “She even had your little league picture on her Facebook page. You were such a cutie.”

“Rhett was just the most darling child,” Ma said. She smiled at me, her face beaming love from every orifice. “Did you know that he was always such a little genius? He used to spell letters with his food when he was a toddler.”

I groaned, feeling my face flush with embarrassment. “Ma, stop. Brenna doesn’t need to hear all of this. It’s boring.”

“Rhett, if this Breanna is important to you, she’ll care.” Ma beamed at Brenna, who smiled back in spite of the constant fuck-ups on behalf of my maternal unit. Christ almighty.

“My name is actually Brenna,” Brenna said. “Like, with two n’s. It’s Welsh.”

Ma smiled but didn’t even stop to really listen to the younger woman. “That’s nice, dear,” she said. “Is that like those river dancers led by that handsome Michael Flatley? It must be.” She turned back to me. “Rhett, what’s all this I hear about you two dating? How did the two of you meet? I can’t wait to hear the story.”

Just as Brenna opened her mouth to speak, I interrupted. “We’ve not dated for long,” I said in a rush before Brenna told Ma what she did for work and my ditzy parent made the connection. Thankfully, dad didn’t give a shit, just read the menu in silence. “You know, we’re still getting to know each other.”

“Well, that’s good,” she said. “But really, dear, you should know how important my son is,” she turned to Brenna with wide eyes. “He’s the star pitcher for the Yankees.”

“I know,” Brenna said with the stunning smile of hers. “I’m a journalist, actually. I cover Major League Baseball.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Oh, that’s fascinating!” Ma smiled. “Look at you two, what talented young people!” She laughed and held a hand to her chest as if preparing for a coronary event. “When I was a girl, I didn’t even finish college! Barney asked me to marry him and then I just dropped out.” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially to Brenna, “That’s just what we girls did back then, dear, don’t be offended. I’m so jealous of you career girls. If only things had been different…”

Brenna smiled and rushed to reassure Ma, putting a hand out to touch her shoulder. I melted right there. Brenna had a heart of gold, and I didn’t deserve her. If I made it through this shit storm, I vowed to cut her loose so she could find a man worthy of her.

“Right,” she said. “I’m actually a sports journalist.” She blushed under the weight of my mother’s beaming gaze. “I mean, right now I’m kind of in a weird place with regards to work. But normally, I write about players like Rhett.”

Mom’s smile faded, and a cold panic descended over my heart.

“You are?” Ma narrowed her eyes. “And your name is Brenna?”

Brenna nodded. “Brenna Sinclair,” she said. “I write for Sport Taste. Not as huge as Sports Illustrated, but I’m pretty proud to be working there. It’s a first-rate publication in NYC.” She smiled self-consciously, probably not used to bragging about herself. “It was such a big deal for me to get that job. Sports journalists were typically men when I first started working there. But they’ve done a good job of encouraging and supporting a diverse workforce.”

Ma leaned back like someone had slapped her. She shot a quick glance toward me, and I shrugged, trying to look helpless. But she speared me with that steely mom glare that indicated her disappointment.

“I just love the lasagna here,” I said so loud my dad glanced up from his menu. I rubbed my stomach for the extra effect. “Wow, I’m starving. Where is our server?”

“I passed starving an hour ago,” my dad grumbled. “See, Rhoda, this place is a real shit heap. Everyone talks about New York, New York, New York…but I wouldn’t want to live anywhere that takes an hour for me to get a glass of wine.” He laughed and raised his empty water glass as if in salute to the attributes of suburban New Jersey.

“Well, of course you know I’m hoping Rhett will choose to settle in New Jersey, close to us,” Ma said, her eyes still a bit narrowed as she considered Brenna. She patted the back of Dad’s hand a thirty plus year history of placating him, giving her a special touch with the old codger. “But we have to wait for these young people to make up their minds first.” She winked at me, and I groaned in silence, tilting my head back and uttering a fervent prayer toward the ceiling.

Please don’t let Ma recognize Brenna, I prayed. Please don’t let her remember that time she berated me on the phone for over an hour until her voice went hoarse over Brenna’s headline: Rhett Bradshaw Takes New York By The Crotch…

“So,” Brenna said, making polite conversation. I loved her for it, and it appeared Ma was just as enamored of the chestnut haired stunner. “How long are the two of you staying in the city?”

Ma glanced at me and tittered. “That depends on Rhett,” she said, throwing the answer my way. “We were hoping to have brunch tomorrow, would you like to come?”

“Sure,” Brenna said, although her eyes told a different story. When would Ma stop butting in? Probably not until she’d been gifted with at least one grandchild to fawn over. With a groan, I shot my foot out in an attempt to kick her under the table. My foot missed, connecting instead with a solid oak table leg and I groaned in pain, biting my lip.

“Rhett, what’s happened?” Ma glanced up in alarm. “Are you okay? You look constipated, son. Have you been eating enough fiber?”

Brenna looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Yeah, Rhett, are you okay?”

“Brenna Sinclair,” Dad suddenly shouted, then slammed his menu down on the white linen tablecloth. With narrowed eyes, he clapped his hands together, causing the nearby diners to stare at us in open fascination. “I remember now. I totally remember you, young lady.”

“What?” Brenna cocked her head to the side. She looked at me, her eyes wide. “Rhett, what did you tell your parents about me?”

“Nothing, I–”

“He didn’t tell us anything,” Dad bellowed. He bared his teeth, then reached over and slapped me on the back so hard I coughed up a cloud of panic. “But I remember. You wrote a piece about my son’s loose lifestyle,” Dad said with a low chuckle of pride. As if he’d lived multiple escapades vicariously through me. I’d never been so ashamed of my outlandish behavior than at this moment. The moment that Brenna’s eyes clouded over with understanding. And disapproval. “He’s a real Bradshaw. If I had made the Majors, I would have done the same damn thing.”

“What?” Brenna narrowed her eyes as if hearing my manwhore status for the very first time. Could it be possible she didn’t remember anything about me? I knew Riley was keeping her mouth shut, but I’d expected someone else at Sport Taste to clue her in. Impossible. But the way her eyes dripped censure and disappointment stabbed me in the gut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ma stared at Brenna, her eyes flashing vitriol where kindness had formerly resided. “Oh. Yes, Brenna…”

Brenna fidgeted in her chair underneath Ma’s death glare and looked to me for help. “Rhett, what’s going on? What are they talking about?”

Ma shook her head and sniffed, like Brenna had slapped her. The sound of her chair budging away from Brenna’s sounded like a cannon going off inside my head.

“You don’t have to pretend, Brenna,” she said, pointing an accusing finger. “I’m sure it might be water under the bridge between you two now, but I’d like an explanation. That was cruel, and I think you owe me, as Rhett’s mother, an apology.”

“An explanation for what?” Brenna asked, throwing her hands up in the air, a panic-stricken expression turning her jade green eyes a deep shade of emerald. “An apology for what? What are you talking about?”

Everything inside of me panicked. I stood in a desperate attempt to grab Brenna, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her petite body out of Tony’s Di Napoli caveman style. But I’d blown it. I felt like I’d just lost everything I’d ever wanted before I even knew I had it.

It was fucking over. And it was all my fault.

“The hit piece,” Ma said with a haughty lift of her double chin, glaring at Brenna until tears clouded the younger woman’s eyes. “The hit piece you wrote about my son.”