THE DARE (Chicao Nights #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

CHRIS

The smell of freshly cut grass is still on my jersey by the time I sit down in one of Cougars’ Manager Alfonso Rodriguez’s oversized chairs.

His office is cold, filled with the fear of a thousand baseball players whose careers have ended before mine.

The air-conditioned environment is a stark contrast from my skin, which is still hot from this afternoon’s game, and for the first time in a long ass while, I thank God for my Mediterranean heritage—the only failsafe that has kept me from burning like a breakfast sausage in the dead heat of a broiling April Arizona sun.

I know now, sitting here, that no amount of thanking God will save me from Rodriguez, a man who consumes careers for a living.

My eyes barely adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting before he’s back.

He stands on the opposite side of the office, his body blocking out some of the light coming from behind him. When I turn my head to look, he’s standing there in front of me.

The late afternoon sun shines through the wall-size windows behind him, casting shadows across his face, making them appear darker, more unforgiving than before.

“Sit down, sit down.”

His voice is a rising grizzly bear’s growl that fills the office with a threatening vibration that sends a chill up my spine. I sit back down.

I’m nervous.

He sits down across from me and glances down at the paper on the table before peering over at me, eyes as dark as his glossy hair.

“I, uh, heard about your uncle’s wedding. I know that’s where you’re heading now, so I won’t keep you, Onasis.”

I smile, not confident that I still have all my teeth. I’m grinding them so hard.

“Look, uh, Mr. Rodriguez,” I start, “if this is about today’s game...”

“Enough about today’s game. I’m over talking about that.” He waves it off, as if shooing a fly. “So, Onasis, how’s that bachelorhood been treating you?” He asks, changing the subject.

“You mean getting s**t-faced every night after games?” I counter, deadpan.

He shakes his head.

“I’m talking about women.” Rodriguez studies my face for a reaction. I squint against the sunlight streaming into the room, not giving him the satisfaction. “I hear you’re dating some uptown Chicago socialite. Very pretty, I’m sure.”

I say nothing.

I try not to talk to anyone at the stadium about my last fling, Cynthia. She’s already a little too well known because of the several interviews she’s given, and I want to keep her name (along with mine) out of the spotlight as much as possible. I can’t risk any more rumors leaking out about me.

I’ve seen rumors ruin enough careers to last a lifetime.

“Her name is Cynthia Banks,” I tell him. But I’m guessing Rodriguez and the rest of the team already knew that. “And we’re no longer dating.”

I watch Rodriguez’s face.

The mention of Cynthia doesn’t seem to bother him.

He almost looks impressed. Clearing his throat, he sits back in his chair. For the first time in this meeting, I think he might be nervous. He looks at his watch.

I cough to break the silence. “But yeah, I date. But no one, in particular if that’s what you’re implying.”

“And by ‘dating,’ you mean...?”

“I mean exactly that. I date. Dinner. Movies. Sometimes dancing...often badly. Or, if you’re looking for a more technical definition: Let’s call it that, uh, thing some men do with other women when their wives are not paying attention.”

Rodriguez misses my underlying meaning. He nods. “Good. That’s very good. ‘Keep it light,’ I always say. You’re a young man. Prime of your life. You shouldn’t lock yourself down to just one pus—I mean, woman.”

He flashes a lethal smile, and I peer over at the ostentatious picture of his wife and kids sitting on his desk.

My fingers grow warm again, saddled with the urge to hit him. “Good thing I’m talking to the expert on locking things down, huh?”

His face falls. But he recovers fast. “Oh, I don’t know, Mister ‘Date Night’.” He delivers the joke with a straight face, but his eyes are on my hands. “You’d be surprised what I can lock down with these hands of mine.” He continues to stare at me, unfazed by my glare.

I don’t move.

“And speaking of ‘hands’...” His grin offers a trap. “I’m sure you’ll have some time on your hands since...well, you know. Not that we think you aren’t doing a good job.”

I know what he’s doing. Trying to soften me up a bit. Make me feel appreciated.

Before his infamous bicuspids come out to devour me whole.

I wait.

“You’re one of our top incoming players. The fans love you. The league loves you.” Rodriguez is spouting all the right lines. “You’re a true rising star in this league. A real up-and-comer.”

“That’s nice. I’m sure my mother would appreciate those compliments. Me? I’m wondering what any of that has to do with this meeting. Or did I miss something?” I ask, and I see his face darken a bit.

“Well, you know...I have to be prepared for anything. This is far from anything we’ve ever done, but it is the most exciting opportunity we’ve had in a long time,” Rodriguez continues.

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. And I’ve never known Rodriguez to not get straight to the point. But my patience (along with my cold-tolerance threshold) is running low.

I press forward. “And?”

“You’re more than just a second baseman. You, Onasis have the potential to be a franchise-changer.”

“Another compliment. Why, Rodriguez. I’m blushing. And yet...I see we still haven’t gotten to the point, so you want to help me out here? I’m not quite following what’s going on.”

“You know how we’re trying to get people to come to the games? You could be the face of our franchise. In fact...I’m not the only one who thinks you could be the face.” He leans forward, dark eyes gleaming. “Bar-back Sports Network thinks so, too.”

My heart stops cold, some of that air conditioning seeping into my bones, chasing out the warmth. I blink.

“Before we get into ‘pissing my pants’ territory, I think I need some clarification: Is this just another compliment? Or...are we being serious here?”

Rodriguez practically licks his chops. “Turns out Bar-back Sports Network is pulling out all the stops to set us up for a huge player profile. Bar-back will film the entire thing, right here at Cougars’ home field. Bar-back will broadcast it around the world. And the kicker is...” He hesitates like the hungry shark he is, chomping at the chum. “They want you, Onasis. They want the player profile to be on you...the new phenom from the Minor Leagues. Our fresh face of the franchise.”

I’m stunned.

Not ten minutes ago, I’d thought I’d be hearing some of the worst news of my life. That I’d be getting the axe. That’d I’d be getting let go.

Making it to the majors from the minors not even a year ago had been my only recent salvation, my only real reprieve from a tumultuous last five years of Hell.

And now Alfonso Rodriguez, an ice-cold heathen from the furthest reaches of Hades, was offering me a slice of Heaven.

It seemed too good to be true.

“And this is not a joke?” I ask. “I mean it. These uniform pants are expensive. Urine-yellow is hard to get out of whites.”

“No joke here. A dream. It’s almost like a dream come true. Bar-back is bringing in an entire crew from New York City. We’re going to be more of a spectacle. People from all over the world are going to be tuning into Bar-back just to see the piece, I swear.”

My throat tightens.

A profile on Bar-back Sports Network is huge. Huge—especially for someone of my stature...or lack thereof.

Rodriguez is right. This is a dream.

I just never really thought of it as my dream.

I’d been busting my ass so long in minors, I considered nothing beyond that. And with what I’d seen this summer, I always thought the only chance I’d ever have at being a major league ballplayer was as a prospect, patiently waiting my turn on the minor league teams.

Never the face of my franchise.

All of this is strange. So strange—so new.

“We just got an exclusive one-day advanced viewing time. The crew will come into Chicago tomorrow instead of Thursday. When you get there, they’ll meet you at the Chicago field office. And hey,” my manager cuts into my thoughts. “Don’t worry. All of this is likely to be a sure shot. With Bar-back, they do nothing unless they can make money. The network isn’t even going to broadcast the piece until we’re playing regular season ball again. Until that is, somebody will watch it and decide we might be a good franchise. We could be in the spotlight for years—but maybe just one. No pressure, eh?”

I let him continue his spiel in a daze, and when he thinks I’m not looking, he slugs down a glass of liquid courage I hadn’t seen until now. He might as well. The way I’m feeling, I’m going to need a dozen glasses myself.

Rodriguez takes a deep breath and launches into his by-the-book spiel. “Don’t do anything to make me regret that decision. Or to make any money into something less.”

I nod, not believing a word he says. I’m too busy thinking of all the possibilities. All the opportunities.

All the attention.

The spotlight sure as hell wasn’t what I signed up for when I joined this ride. But then again, few things in life ever are. And I’m a pro–I can ride the wave, no matter how big the swell.

I nod towards Rodriguez.

“I think I’m going to need a lot of extra detergent (or spare pants) for the next few weeks,” I say.

The manager laughs—a sickening sound.

I stand to my feet, unable to stay still. “Well, if that’s all, then I’d better act like a guy who’s going to be on TV pretty soon. And I’m sure we can talk more about this as soon as I get out of the shower. I think the dirt on my skin is growing roots.” I grin. “Gimme five minutes, and then I can talk—”

“But...” Rodriguez joins me, jumping to his feet. I ignore the now flushed look of his face. “There’s a caveat to this entire production. Ya see…Bar-back’s marketing department has to sign off on the player that Bar-back is going to use. It’s written in their contracts. And if they don’t approve of a player picked for a profile, then it all goes down the drain. Bar-back picks another player from our roster...or not. Either way, you’d have to be vetted. Thoroughly vetted. So, if there’s anything from your past—baby mamas, coaches’ daughters, a nose candy habit or anything that might make the Pope frown, I need to know soon. And by soon...” He glares. “I mean now.”

His stare grows meaner, desperation frosting over. He crosses his arms. “You don’t have any skeletons in your closet, Onasis, do you? Because if you do, that could be a problem.”

I’m standing about eight feet away from what could be my ticket to a formidable future in the majors, and I’m not exactly sure how to respond to this crap. I just barely know Rodriguez.

But I already know I can’t trust him.

Cynthia is no longer an issue. Neither is Amber, the girlfriend I’d dated before her.

And the only other skeleton in my closet...is her.

Rosalyn.

And she’s long gone.

Images of caramel curls and bee-stung lips invade my thoughts, but I shove them away, along with everything else I’ve ever felt for Rosalyn Morales.

I shake my head. “No...no skeletons, Mr. Rodriguez. And no problems. None at all.”

And that would be true…

If not for the fact that she is a former Cougars intern and, oh yeah...

My ex-girlfriend Amber’s younger sister.

I smile, but my mind is a storm. A hurricane. A perfect metaphor for what I’m about to face.