PROLOGUE
TROY
Fifteen years ago…
It’s the bottom of the eighth, game four in the World Series, and I’m up to bat. The score is tied 2-2, and all eyes in the packed stadium are on me as I lumber to the plate.
I’m used to the pressure. It’s familiar, gritty, and good.
The only rookie on a team of elite players, I’ve had the most to prove this season. But I’ve proven it, game after game, crouched behind the plate as the starting catcher while the team powers through a legendary winning streak.
And now we’re here. Ready to accomplish the impossible. No team has had an undefeated season since the Cincinnati Red Stockings in 1869. If we grab this win, we’ll go down in the history books.
Steeling myself with determination, I step behind the plate. The announcer declares my name, and a roar goes through the crowd.
I block it all out and lock my eyes on the pitcher. Gripping the bat tight, I step into my stance, crowding the plate.
I’m not fast, but I’m powerful, and I know how to scare the shit out of a pitcher.
The first ball comes fast and high. It’s tempting, but I hold my swing, and the ump calls a ball.
There are two outs, and a player on third. Standing at the plate, I know that a split second decision can make the difference, and my mind becomes totally clear and focused.
I’ve trained for this my entire life. I’ve fought my way to the major leagues with every breath, all on my own, and now I’m going to show up for my team and deliver.
The second pitch comes fast with a curve, but I lean into the swing and nail it. The ball goes flying to left field, and I charge toward first base, pumping my legs. I can’t see my teammate or the ball, but I get the signal to keep going, and I plow forward, heading toward second.
The second baseman, Haber, is burly as hell. He turns, preparing to receive the ball, and I realize I might not make it. Pure adrenaline pumping through my veins, I launch my body forward, diving toward the base as he reaches for the catch.
I slam into the ground, dust everywhere. Elation surges through me as I make contact with the plate first, but a second later, Haber collapses onto me.
Our bodies tangle, and wrenching pain shoots up my leg. I let out a roar of agony as I feel my knee twist, but my hand stays planted firmly on the base.
And as our runner crosses home, putting our team one point ahead, I hear my bone break, and my baseball career comes to an excruciating, devastating end.
CHAPTERONE
TROY
Today...
“Those pricks,” I say as I loosen my tie. “Can you believe they dragged the negotiations out? As though they have the guts to walk on us.”
My business partner Mel settles into the booth across from me. We’re at a bar downtown, just down the block from the meeting. The place is a dive, but they have the game on.
“Sure,” Mel says. “But who cares if they’re pricks? We inked the deal.” She raises her drink. “Philly’s own hockey god is going to be the face of electric trucks, just like he wanted.”
I frown and throw my whiskey back. “Our agency is a force. Greedy pipsqueaks in bad suits shouldn’t think they can outplay us.”
“We got our terms,” she points out.
“Maybe I’m getting too soft,” I grumble, mainly to myself. “Maybe I should have yelled at those truck assholes weeks ago.”
If it would have gotten the athlete better terms, I should have.
Mel laughs. “You think you’re too soft? You, my friend, are the biggest hardass in this business.”
I frown at her, although a little pride twitches through me. “Go to hell.”
