Page 8 of Hard to Lose

The big question though is: what exactly is it that I need?

CHAPTER TWO

Chase

The dowdy woman on the other side of the reception desk peers at me above the bifocals perched atop her nose. Her blue eyes are sharp and critical as they take me in. “Ryan Camden?” she asks.

“Yes. I was hoping to talk to someone who might know where to find him,” I say with a warm smile, attempting to butter her up.

“And you are?”

“He sent a letter some time ago while he was in the military. Strangely, it just got to me, and I wanted to speak to him about it. I’m a sports agent interested in seeing if he still plays baseball. Still pitches.”

She studies me for a moment. “He doesn’t go here.” Her voice is flat, the corners of her lips so stiff it would require a crane to lift them up as she clicks away on her keyboard.

“I’m aware he doesn’t go here—”

“Hasn’t been here for a good six or seven years if I recall.” Another tight smile. “And the records here on my screen say the same.”

“Like I said, I’m aware he no longer goes here. I’ve asked around and no one in town has a beat on him so I thought maybe if I could talk to Coach Bassett, he might know where I could find him.”

There’s another prolonged stare from the apparent keeper of Downship Junior College followed by a huff. “Please, wait here.” It’s all she says before she strides away, her nylons swishing and her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

Only a few moments pass before she can be heard swishing and squeaking her way back down the hallway toward me.

“Exit out of this door,” she says, motioning with her hand, “and then take a right down to the locker rooms. Coach Bassett will be waiting for you outside. He’ll be the one wearing all the muscles and the baseball hat.”

“Okay.” Odd way to put it, but she’s kooky in her own right so I let it go and follow her directions toward the locker room. The school is on the outskirts of Charleston. It’s small but it sprawls across lush green grass, and a grove of trees supplies its picturesque backdrop. The school’s colors of blue and gold adorn the walls in murals and posters . . . and even the coach as he stands waiting for me with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Coach Bassett?” I ask and receive a curt nod in response.

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“Chase Kincade with Kincade Sports Management.” I reach my hand out to him and he shakes it.

“I currently don’t have any players even close to the caliber needed to play in the major leagues so I’m quite curious what this is all about.”

“Ryan Camden.” I smile and shift on my feet as his expression grows guarded.

“What about him?”

“I was wondering if you happened to know his whereabouts or how I can get in contact with him?”

He eyes me beneath the bill of his cap, his arms still crossed over his chest. “Why?”

Why? A part of me sags in relief at the simple word, because doesn’t that mean Ryan is still alive?

I didn’t realize until right now how much I feared I’d find out otherwise. And I’m not certain why it’s so damn important to me that he is alive.

I draw in a shaky breath and clear the thoughts from my head. “It’s going to sound weird, but long story short, we tried to recruit him off an email you sent us almost six years ago. He never responded to us and then two weeks ago, we received a letter in the mail from him. A letter he mailed more than five years ago from a Forward Operating Base in the Helmand province of Afghanistan. Apparently, it’s been lost in the mail all this time and . . .”

“You expect me to believe that you’re coming to recruit a player from five, six years ago when he’s older now and there are new crops of athletes in your face every day?” He lifts his eyebrows. “C’mon now.”

“I never said I was going to recruit him. All I said was I was looking for him—”

“For what?” He raises his voice, and I shake my head to deny the accusation in his voice.

“To tell him we got it. To see where he is and what he’s doing and maybe highlight his plight somehow—”