Deuce likes Anne Keppler. I heard him tell Jack last night after everyone left their noisy party. He kissed her! I heard him tell Jack he got tongue. How gross is that?
Her limbs grew heavy at the memory of Deuce’s tongue. Not gross at all, as a matter of fact.
A series of broken-heart sketches followed that entry, but many months passed before she wrote again. A few words about entering high school, taking difficult courses, then…
Oh, lovely little piece of paper…I’m holding my driver’s license. Yes! The State of Massachusetts and some really obnoxious old lady with orange hair agreed that I could drive (they were mercifully understanding about the parallel parking problem—the parallel parking that Jack swore I wouldn’t have to do). Mom said I could go to Star Market this afternoon for some groceries. Guess I’ll have to take a quick spin past Rock Field…there’s baseball practice tonight....
She’d taken that drive about a million times. And she’d made up another million excuses to wander over to the stands, to give something to Jack, to watch Deuce out in the field, throwing pitches, getting chewed out by Coach Delacorte. Rarely, if ever, did Deuce notice her. Still, she was certain that if she just waited, if she just grew up a little more, if she just got rid of the braces, if she just could fill a C-cup, he would realize that he’d loved her all along.
By the time she grew up and the braces came off and the bra size increased, Deuce had ditched Rockingham for the major leagues. She tried to forget him and, for the most part, with her focus on getting into Harvard, and staying there, she succeeded. It was even possible to work at Monroe’s in the summers and not think too much about him.
Until Leah Monroe died, and Deuce came home, in need of comfort and love.
She didn’t bother to look for a passage in the journal that described the night she lost her virginity on the beach. She’d never written about it, trusting her memory to keep every single detail crystal-clear in her memory.
But as time passed, she did turn to her red notebook to write about the pain. The first entry was made when it began to dawn on her that she’d never hear from him again.
Deuce has been gone for nine days. Like a fool, I check my messages every hour. I pick up the phone to see if it’s working. I run to the mailbox for a card, a note, a letter.
The closest I can get to him is the box scores in the paper. He pitched last night. Lost. Does he think about me when he goes back to his hotel? Does he think it’s too late to call? Or does he have a girl in Chicago, in Detroit, in Baltimore…wherever he is right now.
Oh, God, why doesn’t he call? How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all
an act?
There was one more entry, but Kendra shut the notebook and tossed it on the table. The walk down memory lane was no pleasant stroll; the exercise had worked. She’d never meant any more to Deuce than Annie Keppler or any other girl in his past. Of course, since their paths were crossing again, being the professional player that he was, he hit on her tonight. One kiss in the dark. Another meaningless display of affection. He was just high on his packed house and she was the available female of the moment.
He had no idea how their one night of pleasure had ruined her entire life. Evidently, Jack had never told Deuce his sister got pregnant and had to drop out of Harvard. Even though her brother had stuck by her and was still close to her, Jack had been as embarrassed by her stupidity as her parents. And the father of her baby remained the closest-guarded secret in her life. She’d never told anyone. Not even Seamus, who had never, ever passed judgment on her. He’d just given her a job when she needed one.
Newman’s sudden bark yanked her back to reality, followed by a soft knock on her door. “Kendra? Are you still up?”
Oh God. Deuce.
She grabbed the red notebook and stuffed it into the first available hiding place, the softsided bag she took to and from work.
“What’s the matter?” She asked as she approached the door. Her voice sounded thick. How long had she been lying there, dreaming of Deuce?
“Nothing,” he called. “I wanted to give you back your key.”
Slowly, she opened the door a crack and reached her hand out, palm up.
He closed his fingers over hers, and pulled her hand to his mouth. The soft kiss made her knees weak.
“We made over a thousand dollars tonight,” he whispered.
She jerked her hand away and let the door open wider. “Get outta town!”
He grinned in the moonlight, holding up her set of keys. “I did that already. And now I’m back.” Stepping closer to the door, he whispered, “Can I come in and tell you about what a great night it was?”
How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all an act?
She swiped the keys dangling from his hand. “No. Just leave these on Diana’s kitchen table in the future. I’ll be sure you can find them on my desk at the end of the day.”
Then she dug deep for every ounce of willpower she’d ever had and closed the door in his face.
Something she should have done a long time ago.
DEUCE LACED HIS fingers through the chain-link fence that surrounded Rock Field and sucked in a chest full of his favorite smell. Freshly turned clay and recently mowed spring grass. A groundskeeper worked the dirt around the mound, raking it to the perfect height for a six-foot pitcher to slide some fire in the hole.
He didn’t have to be at the bar for another hour or so for his second full night of operation. All day long he’d fought the urge to go to Monroe’s and find Kendra to see what she really thought of his success the previous night. At the same time, he fought the urge to make a trip to his old stomping grounds.
Eventually, he lost one of the fights, and drove the short distance to Rockingham High, knowing that he’d probably arrive on a practice afternoon. In April, every afternoon was practice.
His elbow throbbed as he tightened his grip on the metal, pushing his face into the fence as though he could walk right through it. Come to think of it, he could walk right through it. All he’d have to do is whistle to the groundskeeper, who’d amble over and ask what he needed, assuming he was a parent or even a scout. Deuce would introduce himself, and watch the man’s face light up in recognition.
Deuce Monroe? Rockingham High’s most famous graduate? Well, get on the field, Deuce!
He heard a burst of laughter and turned to see half a dozen lanky high-schoolers dressed in mismatched practice clothes, dragging bat bags. One balanced three helmets on his head, another circled his arm over his shoulder to warm it up.
Somebody swore and more laughter ensued; one boy spat as they started unloading their gear.
After a few minutes of stretching out, some of the players took off for windsprints and laps. A guy who looked to be about forty, wearing sweats and a whistle, jogged onto the field. He eyed Deuce for a minute, then started calling out to the players.
Rick Delacorte, the only coach who’d ever known how to handle him, had retired last year after twenty years
