The Baseball Card Boyfriend (Starrycard Creek Bachelors #3)

Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

CHRISTIAN

Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

Christian Starrycard groaned a ragged, restless sound as a distant whining pulled him from paradise. “Don’t go,” he mumbled sleepily, but it didn’t matter. He knew what was coming. He winced as the agony returned, and an image imprinted in his mind faded—her image. The face of the mystery woman who’d appeared each night since he’d lost everything. She’d become his only respite. His one escape. When he slept, there was no pain, no expectations. Just her and a peace he hadn’t known since the day his body betrayed him.

But she came at a price—and she was getting harder to find.

As he transitioned from slumber to the land of the living, a persistent pounding echoed in his head. The room was too warm. The air, too dry. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows and sending drafts through every crack, making the indoors feel even more suffocating. His muscles resisted any attempt to move. He worked to part his lips, and Christ, his mouth was devoid of moisture. What he did taste was probably a hell of a lot like the grimy floor of a dive bar.

Where the hell had he passed out last night?

He squinted against the light seeping in. It stung his bloodshot eyes, and he exhaled a tight breath. “Fuck me,” he uttered, meeting the day like a drunk in the gutter.

Dammit, he better not be in a gutter…again.

He tapped his hand against what he’d hoped would be a mattress or even the couch. But the surface didn’t give because he was on the goddamned floor. Still, it was better than the gutter—but not by much. He made a second attempt at opening his eyes and spied his arm sling a few feet away in a crumpled heap. He recognized the rug—a silly fluffy white number his young niece insisted he purchase. At least he’d made it to his bedroom. He’d woken up on the front porch yesterday. Pretty pathetic—but it wasn’t some random alleyway. No, he was home. A fact that used to comfort him. He twisted and winced as shooting pain spiked through his left shoulder. It was his fault. He knew better than to sleep on his left side. The hardwood planks mercilessly pressed against the tender joint, and another jolt of pain ripped through his bare torso.

“Dammit!” he hissed, hoping it wouldn’t get any worse until the blast of a train horn reverberated through his skull.

Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

The airy cry used to mark the day like an old friend arriving. Now, it only added to his torment.

Ping! Ping!

And speaking of skull-rattling torment—his cell phone chime brought him no comfort either.

He groaned as the train continued blowing the whistle, then gripped the top of the bedside table with his right hand. His fingertips brushed his cell. And like some bad comedy routine, the damn thing tipped over the edge and struck him in the center of his forehead before bouncing off his chest and thumping onto the white rug. He ignored his phone and peered at his inked chest—at the message that once motivated him. He barked a mirthless laugh and exhaled a frustrated breath. Gingerly, he peeled his body off the ground and rested against the table leg as the train continued blasting away. “Can a man get a little peace and quiet?”

“Christian? Chris?”

Dammit!

He squinted and read the name blazing on his cell’s glowing screen.

Eliza Starrycard-Dunleavy.

He winced. Of all the calls to accidentally answer—on speakerphone, no less—this was probably the worst.

“Christian, can you hear me?” she called a touch too sweetly, like she was auditioning for the role of well-meaning yet extremely nosy sibling. “It’s Eliza, your sister. You know, the principal of Starrycard Creek Elementary School, the mother of your darling niece, and the smartest Starrycard sibling out of our unruly brood.”

Christian grimaced. He could deduce two salient facts from that lively introduction.

One: His headstrong sister was feeling feisty.

And two: He was screwed. That sing-song voice meant something was in the works.

He cleared his throat and prayed the brain cells he hadn’t killed off with excessive alcohol consumption could produce a witty response. “Don’t let Kieran hear you think you’re the smartest Starrycard sibling—or Finn or even Owen or your own daughter. I’m sure they’d all disagree. Come to think of it, Caroline probably thinks she’s the smartest one. But I’m still older than you, Liza. So there,” he rasped like a man who’d been lost at sea and hadn’t spoken in weeks, which wasn’t that far from the truth. Except, he’d made a dire mistake in his response. Not only was it not a witty reply, but he’d also broken an unspoken rule. Don’t get sassy with Eliza Starrycard-Dunleavy—at least before he’d had caffeine or grain alcohol or a fucking lobotomy.

“You, dear brother, are only a year older than me. I might be the fifth born, but I’m the first-born daughter. And you know what that means.”

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “No, I have no clue. What does that mean?”

“It means whatever the hell I want it to mean. And today, it means that I’m not letting you drown in a river of self-loathing.”

Scratch Eliza feeling feisty. His sister was in full-throttle meddling mode, a well-worn trait among Starrycard women.

He massaged his left shoulder and flinched. “I don’t have the energy to fight, Liza. Why are you calling so early?”

“It’s not early. It’s the afternoon. A little after one.”

“One,” he barked, a parched, mirthless laugh at the mention of the digit. “One, one—power-hitter number eleven, from Starrycard Creek, Colorado, Christian Starrycard,” he slurred, imitating the ballpark announcer.

“Are you drunk?” Eliza asked softly. The sharpness in her tone receded. It should have made him grateful she’d lost her biting edge, but it only amplified his emptiness. When Eliza softened, shit got real.

“I’m not drunk. I just woke up.” He retrieved the phone from a clump of rug fluff, then hauled his muscled frame off the floor to sit on the edge of his unmade bed.

“You cannot mix that Stumble Juice bathtub hooch you make with your meds.”

He eyed the arm sling. “I’m doing what I have to do. You should go easy on your ailing brother.”

“An ailing brother who should be doing better. It’s been eleven weeks since your surgery. I know a physical therapist at Creek County Hospital. He mentioned they hadn’t seen you there in a while. Are you skipping out on your appointments?”

Christian groaned, exhausted to the bone. “I don’t need to go to the hospital for PT. I know the exercises. I was a kinesiology major back at RMU. Hell, I could show up at the Starrycard Creek Senior Center and teach the Stretch-and- Fucking -Shine class to the geriatric crowd. But it doesn’t matter if I go to physical therapy or not. This shoulder is done. I’m fucking done.”

And there it was. The cold, hard truth.

“Doctor Driscoll said the surgery went well, Chris. You’ll have to be careful with your left arm, but you’ll live a normal life.”

Normal life. The phrase hit like a punch to the gut.

“My normal life is baseball.” He swallowed, a dry, tortured movement. “I mean, it was baseball. Whatever the hell I’m supposed to do now is anyone’s guess,” he hissed, utterly lost. The once regimented, methodical man was now trapped in an endless cycle of aimless days, each one punctuated by throbbing pain. Or maybe the shoulder pain had dissipated, and the agony now came from his heart. What did it matter? The life he’d loved beyond measure was over.

“Chris,” his sister said gently, “you need your family. You need connection. You need direction. You need a challenge—a goal. It’s who you are. You find that one thing, and you’re golden.”

“It’s a challenge to button my damn shirt. It’s a challenge to look at myself in the mirror. It’s a challenge to wake up every day. Do those count as challenges?” He glanced around his room, taking in the World Series Champion ball caps and the pair of rings he’d accumulated from two back-to-back wins.

“What about volunteering?”

“I’m not a celebrity anymore. Who gives a fuck what I do? I’m just some guy now. I’m not…” He paused. “I’m not me anymore.” He exhaled a tight breath. “Fuck, I don’t know what that means. I’m just groggy. I’m not making any sense,” he said, waiting for his sister to make a snarky remark. Seconds passed, and nothing. “Liza?” he rasped.

“Chris, I’m worried about you. It’s not good to close yourself off and hole up at the ranch. Lean on us. Let us help you. Get out of the house. Hell, hire someone to help with the house. The last time I dropped Kenzie off, she said it looked worse than the mess she’s got going on under her bed—which is a biohazard. I found a moldy PB and J under there. The cats and dogs won’t even venture into her room anymore. Anyway, back to you. I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands and?—”

“Eliza, stop,” he blurted. He hated cutting off his sister, but he’d said too much. He had to put her mind at ease. The last thing he wanted was a full-on Starrycard family intervention.

He glanced at the assortment of painkillers strewn across his bedside table. And then something else caught his attention—one of his lucky stones. He peered at two lines carved down the center and shook his head. So much for luck. His goddamned luck had run out. With a swift flick of his wrist, he brushed the item off the bedside table. It ricocheted against the wall and dropped behind his bed, where it could live beneath an inch of dust.

His gaze shifted past the clutter to a picture taped to his window. And dammit, the emotional arrows to his heart kept coming. His bone-deep rage morphed into soul-crushing grief. Tears blurred his vision as he stared at a picture. His seven-year-old niece had drawn a sketch of the two of them with bright, ruby-red smiles. She’d adorned him with a cape. It fluttered beside him like a superhero. It was the first thing he’d laid eyes on after surgery. His niece had captured him—the old, joyful him. The always cheerful celebrity athlete. Damn, how he used to love to smile—how he’d embraced life.

Baseball had fed him a constant feast of sensory delights. The crack of the bat making crisp contact with the ball would send a rush of endorphins flooding through his body. He loved the lights, the cheering crowds, and the scent of fresh-cut grass. He’d inhale the earthy aroma of the infield dirt. It sustained him. Now, there was nothing but the tick of the clock counting off empty minutes, hours, days, and weeks. He’d lost his ability to dial into life. Was this his fate? Pills, alcohol, blacking out on the floor, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of his mystery woman’s face?

He cleared his throat. “You caught me at a low moment. That’s normal in recovery. Ups and downs. I need time on my own, a little more time to think and figure things out,” he said, trying to appease his sister.

“Listen, Christian, don’t get mad. I asked Owen to stop by and see how you’re doing. Mom and Dad agreed it’s a good idea.”

Dammit! The Starrycard family’s intervention had already started.

“So…everyone’s talking about me,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes, we are,” she snapped. “Your family loves you. I have a feeling you’re falling apart. I know you’re eating like crap. And don’t even get me started on the alcohol…”

But she’d already gotten started.

His sister continued speaking, but he couldn’t focus on her words. A flicker of movement outside caught his eye. He peered out the window past the gurgling creek and fall-kissed dried grasses and spied a woman running toward the train tracks. Dressed in a jean skirt, boots, and some type of pink bib, she looked both entirely out of place and strangely at home.

What the hell kind of thought was that? Perhaps Eliza was right about him needing to cut down on the booze.

Still, this woman shouldn’t be there.

The ranch was on the outskirts of Starrycard Creek. It wasn’t far from town, a ten-minute bike ride at most, but it was far enough that stragglers didn’t often appear. And it was private property. No matter who this woman was, she wasn’t allowed to be here.

“Liza,” he said, eyes trained on the trespasser, “I need to go. Something’s happening outside,” he mumbled, abruptly ending the call. He tossed his phone on the bed and went to the window to get a better look.

Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

His foggy mind cleared. He’d spent enough time living by the tracks to recognize the signal patterns. And holy shit, those continuous, sharp horn blasts meant something—or someone—was in the train’s path. The breath caught in his throat. That had to be why the woman was on his land.

There was trouble on the tracks, and that could be deadly.

Barefoot and clad only in jeans, he dashed through the house. He flung the front door open. The unforgiving autumn mountain winds whipped his bare skin. But he didn’t feel any pain. His body was on autopilot, as if it were being pulled by an invisible force. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he zigzagged past a trio of evergreens, and the horrifying scene unfolded in front of him. A dog was stuck on the tracks, and the woman was running straight for it. But they weren’t alone. A freight train barreled toward them—closing in on the pair at full speed.

Goddammit!

The last thing he wanted to do today was take on a freight train. He had his own problems—and those didn’t include getting obliterated by a steam engine. He huffed, then looked between the woman and the dog, and there it was—that undeniable pull.

He had to go to her.

“Of all the days to play the hero,” he muttered, then took off running toward the tracks.