Grand Slam (The Boys of Summer 3)

“Anyway, I’d like to get Travis out in public. Continue his charity work and make sure that he’s mingling with people who will support him.”

Irvin sighs and leans forward. “It’s an election year. With these other women coming forward, the district attorney is going to have a field day.”

“I didn’t do anything to them either,” I say, defending myself.

“You don’t even know their names,” Irvin adds, but that doesn’t make a difference.

“Well, the way I see it, it’s her word against mine. Witnesses in the bar will see that I left without her. Besides, I didn’t give the police a DNA sample, so they’ll have to arrest me before I give that up.”

I push away from the table and walk out the door. I can’t take any more of this shit. This bitch is fucking up my life, and there isn’t anything I can do about it.

The bad news keeps piling up for Travis Kidd. It’s being reported that more women have come forward with similar allegations. Our attempts to reach Kidd or Irvin Abbott, his lawyer, have been unsuccessful.

Under the condition of anonymity, an employee of the police department has said an arrest is imminent as the evidence against Kidd continues to pile up.

After a call to the BoRe Organization, we were told that everyone was on vacation and to call back later.

We’ll update you when we have more information.

The BoRe Blogger

Eight

Saylor

The articles about Travis are getting worse, and now the blog that covers the Renegades exclusively is reporting that an arrest is coming, which will make it almost impossible for me to do my job. Deep down, I know he didn’t do this, but I’m not certain that he didn’t do something to the others. I’m so torn on what to do, but coming forward with what I know isn’t worth the risks that I face.

My apartment isn’t big by any means, but it’s warm and homey, and as I look at the Christmas tree with its lights twinkling against the rain-pelted window and the fire as it emits a soft glow over my living room, it shows me everything that I’ve worked hard to build. And I’m not willing to lose it because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The urge to even go into the bar was stupid. I should’ve walked past and kept going until I was home, but the letter from Lucy’s father really threw me for a loop.

That letter sits on my coffee table next to my glass of hot apple cider, taunting me. I’ve read it over and over again, and each time it breaks my heart a little bit more. I know that I have to let him see her, to allow him to be a part of her life, but why now? How come the prior years weren’t enough for him to want to see her?

I pick it up again and read Dear Saylor only to put it back down and grab my cider. It’s warm and somewhat satisfying but not strong enough to numb the pain and anxiety I feel. This week, I want a redo.

The knock on my door is soft and sends my heart racing. I look over my shoulder and swallow hard before getting up and tiptoeing toward it. I’m not expecting anyone, and it’s far too late for company. My breath catches when I look through the peephole and see Travis standing on the other side. He’s wet from the rain and looks like he’s shivering. I rest my hand on the doorknob and pray that he goes away. Part of me wants to open the door and let him in, to let him finish what he started today, but I can’t. It’s unprofessional and against my contract. Fraternizing with the athletes will get me fired. I knew this when I slept with him the first time, and yet I risked it. But never again.

He knocks again. It’s quiet and soft but enough for me to gasp and jump.

“Saylor,” he says, his voice muffled by the door. “I know you’re there. I can see the shadow of your feet. Please, I have nowhere else to go.”

I rest my forehead against the door while my hand moves slowly over the locks. First the chain, followed by the dead bolt, and finally the knob as I have an internal battle between right and wrong. I crack the door open, and the muted hallway light provides a path into my apartment. He’s been here before, a few nights after we got together. I refused to let him in, didn’t want him to see the damage that I had done to myself when I crashed my car. I didn’t want him to know that I regretted ever going home with him.

He steps in and closes the door behind him softly. Is he being conscientious of Lucy, knowing that she’s sleeping, or is this how he is all the time?

“Thank you,” he says, even though I haven’t done anything. Since he walked out of our meeting earlier today, I haven’t heard from him. My call to him went unanswered, and the message I sent, never replied to. I figured he needed time to decompress

and I didn’t want to bombard him. The business we have to tend to can wait.

“For what?”

“For letting me in. I know you don’t want me here.” His voice breaks, and his head hangs. This man’s world is falling apart, and I could fix it, but I’d lose mine in the process. I reach behind him and lock the door, not because I plan on letting him stay, but because if any fans or members of the press followed him up here, I don’t want them trying to get into my place.

“It’s not that, Travis. Let me get you a towel.” I leave him standing by the door while droplets of water start to pool at his feet. When I return, he’s taking off his hat, jacket, and shoes. “Here ya go,” I say, handing him the towel. “I’d offer you a change of clothes, but I don’t think you’d appreciate wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt that would barely cover you.”

He laughs. It’s the first time in a couple of days that I’ve heard it. Usually, Travis is cracking jokes and making my eyes roll with his one-liners and classic schoolboy antics. There have been many rumors that he’s the jokester in the clubhouse, which I have no doubt are true.

“Let me take your stuff.” He hands everything to me, and I hang the clothes in my bathroom to let them dry and turn my heat lamp on. He’s still standing by the door when I come back into the room.

“Do you mind if I take off my pants?”