Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Stephen Frey is a managing director at a private equity firm. He is the bestselling author of fourteen previous novels, including The Fourth Order, The Insider, and The Takeover. He lives in Florida.

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Forced Out

Atria

1

Four years. Four damn years since he'd been to a baseball game, watched one on TV, even snuck a sidelong glance at the standings in a summer sports section. But it seemed more like a lifetime.

Jack Barrett turned off the stadium's main concourse just past a tempting hot dog stand and limped up the narrow tunnel toward Section 121 on his gimpy knees, muttering to himself about this being a bad idea. His daughter and her boyfriend had finally convinced him to come with them tonight after badgering him about it all spring. But now that he was here, he wished he'd kept that blood oath with himself and stayed away forever. Nothing good could come of this.

As he emerged from the tunnel into the half-light of the Florida evening and that familiar panorama rose up before him for the first time in so long, Jack stopped to take it in. Felt that same intense anticipation and excitement building in the center of his chest, like he always had. He'd been to thousands of games over the years in ballparks ten times the size of this one, but this single moment always had the same profound effect on him. Always made him realize that his darkest problems weren't as bad as they seemed. Even now.

His emotion had nothing to do with the stadium. Whether it held sixty thousand or six hundred. Whether this was game seven of the World Series or a meaningless minor-league scrap. Whether there was a giant screen past the fence in center showing multiangle, slow-motion replays -- or a cow pasture, like there was tonight. His reaction had to do with the field itself.

With the perfect symmetry of the diamond inside the nuances of the outfield and foul territory. With the contrast of sculpted brown dirt against a canvas of lush, carefully manicured green grass. With how lonely the snow-white island of second base seemed. With the sharp right angle formed at home plate and how the lines creating the angle seemed to stretch past the fence and the cow pasture into eternity. How frighteningly close the pitcher's mound was to home plate, but how big the entire field seemed. How only nine men covered the vast expanse before him, but how a batter who failed to reach base six times out of ten was a lock for the Hall of Fame. How each baseball field was a work of art, unique and compelling in its own right. Which made the game so much more intriguing, so unlike all other geometrically constrained sports. And now that Jack had suddenly reconnected with the game, he was forced to admit how empty the past four years had been without it. Forced to admit how much he'd missed this game.

Like you missed the love of your life.

Like he still missed the love of his life.

Even after all these years.

Jack glanced at the burning orange sun sinking toward the glittering aqua waters of the gulf beyond the grazing black-and-white cows. Nostalgia surging back at him from all directions as he inhaled the scents of freshly mown grass, cigar smoke, and those sizzling hot dogs all intertwining on the gentle sea breeze. It seemed like such a simple game -- a man attempting to hit a pitched ball -- yet ultimately it was so complicated. He'd been devoted to this game, given all he had to it. In return it had destroyed him.

He shook his head grimly. But here he was, back for more. In the end unable to resist the allure. Sometimes being human was nothing but pure hell.

"Come on, Pop, let's find our seats."

Jack shrugged Bobby Griffin's hand from his shoulder like a horse shaking away a pesky fly. "I'm not your pop," he said with a growl as the young man lumbered past.

"Be nice to this one, Daddy," Cheryl urged as she came up beside him. "I really like him."

Jack eyed an usher. The thin, elderly man was leaning over, his age-spotted forearms resting on a yellow-painted railing. A railing separating seven rows of box seats from the rest of the stands -- the haves from the have-nots. The usher was wearing a short-sleeve button-down white shirt, black polyester pants, and a red cap with a shiny black visor. He looked more like a bus driver than an usher.

"Look, it's just that -- "

"What's Bobby done so wrong?"

He was born a male and he's dating you. Isn't it obvious? "First of all, he keeps you out 'til two in the morning," Jack began, proud of himself for showing such restraint. "Which is way past your bedtime."

Cheryl smiled like it hurt. "I'm thirty-three, Daddy. Don't you hear how silly that sounds?"

"Second of all, he's only twenty-five. He isn't serious about your relationship." Jack hesitated. Talking about this with a woman wasn't easy for a man born into a staunchly conservative household on V-J Day -- even when the woman was his daughter. Maybe because the woman was his daughter. "He's using you for sex." At least he'd made progress. Ten years ago he wouldn't have been able to say that. Not nearly.

Cheryl's expression tempered into one of sincere amusement, and she ran her fingers playfully through her father's full head of salt-andpepper hair, then lightly down his grizzled cheek. "Maybe it's the other way around, Daddy. Maybe I'm using him for sex."

Jack groaned, grabbed his chest, and staggered forward a few steps. "You sure know how to hurt an old man, don't you?"

"You're not old, Daddy. You're middle-aged."

"People don't live to a hundred and twenty-six, Princess."

"Can I help you?" the usher asked in a voice that sounded like it needed oil. He rose slowly off the railing like his joints could use grease, too.

"We're fine," Jack replied, clasping Cheryl's elbow and guiding her toward Bobby, who was waving at them from up in the stands. "But thanks."

"You should think about doing that," Cheryl suggested, gesturing over her shoulder.

"Doing what?"

"Being an usher."

"Yeah, right."

"No, really. You'd be out here at the ballpark all the time. For free, too. It'd be perfect. You'd love it."

Jack rolled his eyes as they neared their seats -- eight rows up from the railing on a direct line behind the third-base dugout. Cheryl meant well -- she always meant well; she just didn't understand. Being an usher would be even worse than what he was doing now, which was bagging groceries at a local Publix store for ten dollars an hour. Not very long ago he'd been a top man in the New York Yankees' scouting organization. An important cog in the greatest sports franchise in the world -- at least, in his opinion it was the greatest. He couldn't bear the thought of his baseball career ending as an usher for the Single-A Sarasota Tarpons.

"Maybe I will, Princess," he said softly, "maybe I will."

Bobby Griffin sat at the end of the row -- he'd bought tickets for the three seats closest to the aisle. He stood up and moved out of the way as Jack and Cheryl approached.

"What are you doing?" Jack wanted to know.

"Letting you in." Bobby motioned for them to go ahead. "Look, I've got to sit at the end of the row, Pop," he pleaded when Jack didn't move. "I'm six four. My legs don't fit in the -- "

"Well, I'm sixty-three, and I've got arthritis in both knees."

Cheryl grabbed Bobby's hand and pulled him toward the second seat. "Come on, honey."

"But baby, I paid for the tickets. I ought to at least get to -- "

"Come on."

"Jesus," Bobby grumbled.

Jack sat down slowly, then stretched his legs into the aisle. No way Bobby was going to start an argument now. That might jeopardize his plans for later.

He shook his head, trying to clear away the bad thoughts. It bothered him to think...