For All We Know (One Strike Away Book 3) Page 2

  Through everything, he never lost sight of his son, putting Travis and his needs first.

  If college could have helped him get what he wanted—a long, successful, major league career—Travis wouldn't have hesitated. He liked learning. However, he'd never been fond of school. Continuing his education would be a lot more fun if he taught himself. Read the books that interested him. Studied only the subjects that caught his eye.

  The idea that athletes were stupid muscle heads was a myth. Sure, there were always a few dumb jocks to be found. But not him.

  Not Travis Forsythe. He planned to make his father proud. On and off the field.

  Travis legged the two miles to the high school with ease, cutting through alleyways he knew like the back of his hand. Normally, he'd take his motorcycle. Unfortunately, the motor had started making an odd coughing sound on the way home yesterday.

  Probably clogged spark plugs—a common problem with the temperamental machine. Travis loved his old bike. But if he calculated the time he actually spent riding the machine and how many hours tinkering with various parts, he knew the winning total would skew heavily toward the latter.

  Scrapping the motorcycle would be the smart thing to do. However, Travis believed a man had the right to be stupid every now and then—as long as he was the only one affected.

  Besides, trying to keep the heap of metal running kept Travis out of trouble.

  Case in point. Last month, a group of his friends had their butts hauled into jail over in the neighboring town of Preston for disorderly conduct and underage drinking. Travis should have been with them. Instead, he was elbow deep in motor oil.

  Eddie Hayes—Travis' best friend since they were old enough to crawl around in his family's backyard sandbox—accused him of turning into a boring, old man. Cursed with carrot-bright red hair, the freckles to match and a medium build that tended to run toward chubby, he'd always been the class clown. Cute more than handsome, he figured if he couldn't attract the girls with his good looks, he'd win them over with laughter.

  A theory that seemed to work. Janey Moss, Eddie's current girlfriend, had a smile on her face more often than not.

  "Teenagers are supposed to get in trouble," Eddie had explained as he recounted his two harrowing hours behind bars. "We raised a little hell. And you missed all the fun."

  "You broke a plate-glass window, dented a police car, and will spend the next year working after school to repay your parents."

  "Worth every dime." But Eddie didn't look as cocky as when he started his story of youthful rebellion.

  "And the community service? Picking up garbage along the interstate?"

  "Overreaction," Eddie muttered. "We'll survive. Plus, our reps are secured."

  "Rebels with a cause," Travis snorted. "Nothing cooler than those reflective nylon vests they make you wear on road crew duty. Be sure and take a picture for posterity."

  "Asshole."

  In a way, Eddie had been right, Travis thought, picking up his pace as he passed an empty store along Main Street. He'd curbed most of his wild ways. A year ago, he would have led his friends.

  Front of the pack. Drunk and disorderly—with relish.

  Chet Fields, Green Hills' baseball coach, was the one who set Travis on a different path. As a man who had flirted with a career as a major league pitcher, his opinion held more weight than say, a teacher. Or even Travis' father.

  Talent only counted for so much. To survive—to thrive—a player needed the right mindset. Scouts, managers, owners. They looked at more than batting average and fielding percentage.

  They wanted leaders in the clubhouse. Not just the kind who made speeches, pumping up a locker room. But more important, men who set an example. Backed up their words with action.

  Travis wasn't perfect. He struggled with the desire to raise hell with his friends—especially when they ragged on him—and the knowledge his coach was right.

  Millions of kids played little league and high school ball. Only a handful had the chops to make the jump to the next level. Getting to the show? The big club? The major leagues? Not just making the leap, but staying there?

  The odds against him were astronomical. Travis and his mad math skills could solve the equation in a flash and, if he were anybody else, the answer would have sent his nerves jangling into overdrive.

  However, when baseball was involved, Travis was about as smooth an operator as there was. Not cocky—exactly. He knew he still had things to learn and never shirked the chance to put in the time and effort necessary.

  Nerves and over-confidence were two different animals. When Travis slipped on his glove, stepping onto the field, everything was right with the world. He knew he belonged. He was home.

  "Nothing wrong with a little arrogance," Coach Fields told him. "But never lose a trace of humility. Once you start to believe you can do no wrong, you will. I've seen more than one guy who was touted as the next big thing fall on his ass. Fast."

  "Injuries?"

  Travis swallowed hard at the thought. He—all athletes—tried not to think about his body betraying him. No matter how hard he worked. No matter how many hours he dedicated to becoming the best. One bad break could end his career in a snap.

  "Sometimes," Coach nodded. Shaking his head, he ran a hand through his thinning, salt-and-pepper hair. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, Travis. But sometimes good—even great—isn't enough. For whatever reason, some phenoms do their damnedest, but the brass ring stays just out of their grasp."

  Travis heard the words. Took them to heart. Then did what anybody with a dream had to do. He filed the advice away—way, way back in the recesses of his mind.

  Nothing would stand in Travis' way. He couldn't see the future—what would be the fun in that? But he knew where he'd be in ten years. Playing ball. In the show.

  "Well, what do we have here?"

  As Travis passed the alley on the far side of the high school, he stopped in his tracks. He knew the owner of the taunting voice. Pete Doran was a bully. He liked nothing better than to torment someone weaker—always backed up by the group of sycophants who had been hanging off his coattails since first grade.

  Like most bullies, under a layer of nasty swagger was a coward who never took on anybody able to fight back. One punch to the nose—delivered by Travis when they were twelve years old—was enough to keep Pete in check during school hours.

  Most kids were smart enough to travel in packs. But occasionally—like now—Pete caught somebody alone.

  Travis wasn't in the mood to play the hero. However, he couldn't walk away. With a sigh, he hung a sharp right.

  "Why don't you lift up that sack you call a dress and let us see what you're hiding underneath?"

  Jesus. Travis picked up his pace. Pete possessed little conscience when choosing a victim. His only criteria were that they were weaker and vulnerable. However, he wasn't known for going after girls. He must really be jonesing bad for his bully fix.

  Surrounded by a half-dozen scruffy cohorts, Pete smugly took a bite from an apple. Blocked from his view, Travis couldn't see the person trapped against the wall of an old storage shed.

  Imagining the girl scared. Undoubtedly crying. Unsure what was about to happen to her. Travis felt his blood start to boil.

  "She's not arguing," Miles Weller—Pete's right-hand man—chuckled nastily. "I think she wants to give us a show."

  Sick bastards. Travis shoved Miles aside—hard enough to send him toppling into Pete. The only thing that kept the goons on their feet was Pete's considerable bulk.

  Simple physics. A hundred and forty pounds of skinny was no match for three hundred pounds of blubber.

  "What the hell?" Pete's head whipped around, ready to eviscerate whoever dared interrupt his fun.

  "My thoughts exactly. What the hell, Pete?"

  Fear flitted through Pete's eyes. Along with frustration. And a big dose of hatred. Travis was just fine with all three.
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  "Get off." Pete pushed his so-called friend, sending Miles face first into the ground. "We was just havin' a little fun, Forsythe. What do you care what happens to Dippy Delaney? Nobody else does."

  As Travis angled his body between Pete and his intended victim, he glanced at the girl. Delaney Pope. So quiet and unobtrusive. She always dressed in clothes three times too big. Wore old, scuffed loafers and ankle socks—the kind with incongruous lace trim around the folded over cuffs.

  Long, dark hair—an indeterminate brown color—pulled back into a ponytail. Thick, black-rimmed glasses shielded her eyes—though she never looked up long enough from staring at the ground for a person to get a good look if he wanted to.

  Delaney was meek. Quiet. A girl who had no friends to speak of. In other words, an easy mark for a bully on the prowl. Too easy. Even for an asshole like Pete Doran.

  Expecting to see Delaney in tears—scared witless—Travis looked closer. Yes, she was afraid. Only a fool wouldn't be. But there were no tears filling her eyes. Only a sense of resignation.

  Travis hated to see a girl cry, his gut twisting in helplessness every time. But Delaney's been there, done that, what else is new demeanor sent a chill down his spine. Somebody so young should be filled with hope.

  Travis didn't know why, but he had the feeling Delaney had lost all hope a long time ago.

  "Fun's over. Move along, assholes." Travis crossed his arms, feet planted firmly in front of the girl.

  "Fuck you, Travis."

  "Not in this lifetime. Or any other."

  Travis could practically see Pete bite his tongue, holding back the words he didn't have the balls to speak. Red-faced, he turned, stomping off, his motley crew right on his heels.

  "You okay?" Travis asked.

  Delaney nodded. When Travis would have helped her straighten, she quickly tucked her hands behind her back, out of his reach.

  Travis didn't push the issue, but damn. Skittish didn't begin to describe the girl.

  "Pete shouldn't bother you again," Travis assured Delaney. "If he does, let me know. But in the future, try to avoid walking through alleys."

  Delaney mumbled a response, so low Travis couldn't hear.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I didn't want to be late."

  Travis glanced at this watch. If they hustled, they would beat the bell by a few minutes. He hadn't expected Delaney to fall at his feet in gratitude. But a simple thank you would have been nice.

  Shaking his head, Travis picked up Delaney's dropped books. She hesitated, taking them, careful her fingers didn't come in contact with his. She wrapped her arms around the items—copies of advanced physics and ancient history—hunching her shoulders. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose without giving Travis even a furtive glance. Shoulders hunched, she made her way toward the school, her stride short but fast.

  Strange girl, Travis thought, trailing behind. Not too close, but close enough. Just in case Pete was dumber than the glob of jelly he resembled.

  Travis had never given Delaney Pope much consideration. She was younger than the rest of his class. Sixteen maybe? The powers that be jumped her several grades just before they started their freshman year.

  Four years walking the same halls. Taking many of the same classes. But for the life of him, Travis couldn't recall them exchanging a single word. Delaney slunk—an accurate description—through school, garnering less attention than a shadow.

  The girl kept to herself. Quiet. Unseen.

  Yet—obviously—Delaney Pope was smarter than the average teenager.

  Intrigued in spite of himself, Travis watched as Delaney crossed the crowded parking lot. As she reached the sidewalk, she paused for a moment, then turned. Her knuckles were white, the grip on her books growing tighter.

  "Watch out," she cried.

  Instinct saved Travis. And phenomenal reflexes. He spun around, his hand snagging the half-eaten apple inches from smashing him in the side of the face. The fact that the damage would have been minimal didn't lessen his anger.

  "You better run," Travis bit out. "If you ever try that again, you'll have the apple so far up your ass you'll be lucky if you ever shit the thing out."

  Pete froze like a deer caught in the headlights. Before Travis could do more than fake a move in his direction, Pete made a beeline for the high school, moving faster than he had in his entire life.

  "What a freaking wuss," Eddie Hayes said, grimacing at Pete's retreating figure. "If lard-ass hustled like that on the football field, he would have made all-state instead of Coach cutting him after one day."

  "The only kind of exercise Pete believes in is the kind that gets him out of harm's way."

  "The guy's stupid." Stating the obvious, Eddie chuckled. "But I never thought he was suicidal. What set him off?"

  Travis shrugged, his gaze seeking out Delaney. He wasn't surprised to discover her nowhere to be found. He saved her. She returned the favor. The scales had readjusted to even.

  Strange girl, Travis thought again. Yet interesting, he amended.

  "Earth to Travis," Eddie snapped his fingers, regaining Travis' wandering attention. "Time for boring English."

  "I like English."

  "You like Ms. Oswald and her glorious array of clingy sweaters."

  Forgetting Delaney with the ease of any hormonal teenager, Travis grinned when the image of Ms. Oswald's sizable breasts popped into his brain.

  "I do love her… sweaters. Especially the fuzzy blue one."

  Realizing he still held the offending apple, he sent the dripping piece of fruit arching toward the garbage can.

  Whoosh. Nothing but net.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  "WANT TO FOOL around in the shower?"

  Travis suppressed a groan. Lorna Steele—dressed in her Green Hills Rangers cheerleading outfit brushed her hand across his sweaty chest. In Lorna speak, fool around meant no holds barred and don't forget the condom.

  Lorna didn't care if other guys wandered in and out of the locker room. Or if any of them stopped to watch. The danger of getting caught was half the thrill.

  After an hour in the weight room followed by five miles around the outdoor track, Travis wasn't interested in playing water games with Lorna. Or that was what he told himself. His body—led by his dick—had different ideas.

  Down, boy, Travis cautioned.

  Lorna acted as if she only wanted a good time. But if she had her way, when he left town, she'd go with him. The proverbial June bride. Orange blossoms danced in the cheerleader's head. Along with dreams of her life as a baseball superstar's pampered wife.

  "Aren't you dating Duncan Cornwall?" Travis asked as he peeled Lorna's short, but sharp nails from around his wrist.

  "Duncan is sweet," Lorna purred. "But I prefer a little more… meat on my man."

  "Consider my meat off your personal menu, Lorna." Stopping at the locker room door, Travis blocked her entry. "Go play with somebody else. I'm not interested."

  "You were last summer."

  "We had fun."

  "More than fun," Lorna insisted, used to getting what she wanted. "You said I was the best you ever had."

  "Did I?" Honestly, Travis couldn't remember.

  "Please, Travis?" Lorna pouted, her heavily mascara-coated eyelashes batting up a storm. Despite what she believed, the look wasn't a good one for her. "Once more? For old time's sake?"

  Warning bells sounded in Travis' head. Danger! Danger! If this was her attempt at a trap, too bad. Whatever Lorna had planned, he didn't want to find out.

  "I thought we were friends."

  "We are," Lorna insisted.

  "Then don't ruin some really good memories by doing something we'll both regret."

  "But—"

  "Go home, Lorna." Travis backed into the locker room. "Give Duncan a call. He's a good guy."

  Duncan deserved better, but the guy was obviously smitten wit
h Lorna. Setting him straight wasn't up to Travis.

  As he opened his locker, Travis glanced at the shower. Why tempt fate? Or rely on Lorna to do the smart thing? Deciding to wait until he was in the safety of his own bathroom to clean up, he grabbed his jacket and headed out the back way.

  Clouds filled the early evening sky, threatening rain. For once, Travis had his motorcycle in running order. If he was lucky, he'd be parked in the garage before the first drops hit the ground.

  Travis was about to pull on his helmet when he paused, the faint sound of music reaching his ears. Cocking his head, he listened, trying to figure out the name of the song. His dad loved anything classical, playing his old records during dinner.

  Without realizing his brain had been infiltrated, Travis had acquired an appreciation for the genre.

  The music room at Green Hills High, located in a converted maintenance building, wasn't large. Or particularly well equipped. A dilapidated drum set. A few brass instruments that had long ago lost their luster. And one used, upright piano donated to the school so long ago nobody could remember the name of the generous benefactor.

  Travis walked by the building almost every day on his way to the gym. But he'd never had a reason—or inclination—to enter the dented, metal, west-facing door. Turning the handle, he supposed curiosity was as good a motivator as any.

  The room was dark, the only light coming from a small gooseneck lamp sitting on the top of the old piano. The piano sat in the far corner of the small, rectangular room.

  At the piano, hunched over in what seemed to be her natural position, sat Delaney Pope.

  Travis had expected to find Mr. Leech, the science/music teacher. Or perhaps Marianne Rogers, the only student he knew for a fact played the piano on a regular basis. There were dozens of people he would have expected to see, fingers running expertly over the keys, other than Delaney Pope.

  How could such a quiet, introverted little mouse play with so much emotion? How could she hide this part of her so thoroughly? The feeling she put into every note.