Spotlight (The Holland Brothers Book 4)

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

That’s my only thought as I get a tour of the Mustangs training headquarters.

I have been inside a lot of baseball facilities in my day. None as small or run-down as this one. Which isn’t really a fair statement. It’s clean and appears well taken care of, but it doesn’t have any of the sparkle and extravagance that other teams flaunt.

I can tell the walls were recently painted and the floors shine with new polish, but it’s obvious that no real money has been put into the club since… maybe ever.

I try to keep my face from showing all this as the Mustangs general manager, Charles Harper, leads me through a series of hallways, grunting out names as we pass rooms. Weights. Therapy. Media. Kitchen. He walks too fast for me to get a good look at any of them, and maybe that’s the point. Best not to look too closely.

I grip my duffel tighter in my left hand as I follow him. I knew signing with the worst team in the league was going to be an adjustment, but any optimism I was holding on to flew out the window the second I stepped inside the door.

My stomach swirls with dread and the feeling that I have managed to go from the height of my career to the bottom in six months’ time. It’s just one year. One season to show everyone what I’m capable of and get back on track.

Last fall I pitched in the playoffs for an incredible team. I thought I was on my way to the top. This place is going to be a daily reminder that staying at the top takes a hell of a lot of work.

“We’re all excited you’re here,” Charles says. His mustache pulls at the corners, indicating he might be attempting a smile.

Before I can reply, a man I recognize approaches.

“This is your catcher, JT Ryan.” Charles opens his stance as JT steps up to join us.

“Flynn Holland. Welcome to the team.” JT Ryan stands in front of me, sizing me up but in a non-confrontational way. He’s baseball royalty. His dad is a Hall of Famer who played with four different teams over his career and won the pennant with three of them. JT has been with the Mustangs since he was drafted six years ago. Before that, he played in college and helped his team win a national championship. I don’t know how he ended up here. Or why he hasn’t left. But the Mustangs are damn lucky to have him.

“Thanks. I’m…” I search for the right word. Happy isn’t accurate. Excited? Not exactly. “Looking forward to it.”noveldrama

The it being the baseball season. I’m itching to show everyone what I’m capable of.

“I’ll let JT give you a more in-depth tour,” Charles says, pulling his phone from his pocket in that way people do when they’re anxious to get back to work. “Really great to have you here, Flynn. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Thank you, sir.” I nod to Charles as he steps away.

JT places both hands on his hips and his smile pulls up. “I’m so stoked you’re here. I’m a fan, actually. I saw you pitch in game six against Kansas City.”

He whistles, grin lifting higher at the same time he chews fast on a piece of gum, and starts walking, leaving me little option but to follow him.

“How’s the arm? Did you take some time off after the end of the season?” JT fires questions faster than I can answer them. He stops in front of an older man coming out of a small office.

“This is Earl,” JT introduces him. “You need something around here, he’s your guy.”

I give Earl a polite once-over as I try to guess his role here. There are a lot of people behind the scenes that make an organization run, but I’ve rarely had them called out as the go-to guy.

“Hello,” I say.

Earl looks like every TV sitcom grandpa. Gray hair, a light tan, creases around his eyes and mouth, clean-shaven. He’s wearing an off-white, short-sleeve dress shirt with a pocket on the left side. His pen and glasses are tucked inside, and he smells faintly of spearmint.

“I’m the facilities manager,” he says as he extends a hand. He has a warm smile and a firm grip. “Nice to have you. Some arm you’ve got, kid.”

Kid. Everywhere I go it seems people are hung up on my age, like a few years makes a difference in my abilities. I’ve spent my life proving people wrong and I guess that’s going to continue here. When will it be enough? But Earl oozes a friendliness that keeps the word from annoying me too much.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say, squeezing his hand before I pull my arm back.

“If you need anything, anything at all, holler.” He flashes another smile that I feel myself mirroring.

“Yeah, I will.”

He tips his head to me in acknowledgment before walking off.

JT continues the tour. He walks slow but talks fast, pointing out every nook and cranny of the small facilities, much like Charles had, but in much more detail. I’m struck again by the difference in size and extravagance from the other teams I visited. It’s staggering, really. I never thought a lot about the disparity between the top teams and the worst. It’s no wonder, really that they’ve had a hard time signing talented players.

JT shows me the indoor batting cages and a weight room with one of those garage doors that opens to a side parking lot. Music is pumping and a couple of guys are using the squat rack.

They both lift a chin to JT and then their gazes move to me. I raise a hand in a wave, but neither return the gesture.

“That’s Gunnar and Bo,” JT says. “You can always find them in the weight room. And don’t even think about changing their music. Nice guys, though, once you get to know them. I’ll introduce you later.”

Judging by the icy stares, I’m not sure they’re all that eager to meet me. It’s been a whirlwind since I signed last week. Interviews and photoshoots, mostly highlighting the excitement of three brothers playing professional sports in the State of Arizona. Four if you count Brogan, but since he’s not blood, most of the headlines have only featured me, Archer, and Knox. A baseball player, a football player, and a motocross rider. It’s been fun to commemorate the moment with them, but I can see my teammates might not be so excited about the attention I’m getting. It’s either that or they’re worried about my performance last season. Though, I’m not sure I could make the team any worse.

Next, I see a lounge area with a large TV and big, leather couches. It’s next to a kitchen that smells like coffee and burnt popcorn.

“Microwave, refrigerator, water cooler.” JT points to each and then taps a finger on a clipboard hanging on the wall. “Sign-up is here. Whenever you get a chance, you can put yourself down for a few days.”

“Sign-ups for what?”

“Throughout the season, we all pitch in to make sure there is always food around for the team and staff,” he says. “My wife makes the best coffee cake muffins. You want to get in early on my days because they go fast.”

What in the potluck hell? I’ve fallen a long way from the catered food and delicious cafeteria options I had access to with the Twins.

“You don’t want to eat anything I make,” I say.

“A lot of the single guys bring in donuts or order pizza or something.” He waves it off, so I do too. One year. That’s it. One amazing season and I’ll be out of here.

Then finally, we’re stepping out of the building and onto the field. My eyes drift closed, and I inhale deeply. One thing that’s always the same with baseball stadiums, that smell. Grass. Dirt. Sunshine. Is there any better scent?

A few guys are out here, running in the outfield; others are playing catch. Spring training doesn’t start until tomorrow, but there’s an eager energy in the air that gives me my first hint of excitement since I signed with the team.

“Want to throw me a few?” JT asks.

I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, but the enthusiastic look on his face has me nodding.

His grin widens. He leans down and plucks a baseball off the ground, then tosses it to me.

My fingers smooth around the ball and that familiar sensation of comfort spreads through me. While I grab my glove out of my duffel and head up to the pitcher’s mound, JT gets in his gear.

We play catch for a few minutes, while I get warmed up. It feels fantastic to be out here. Amidst all the chaos of the off-season and busting my ass in tryouts and meetings to find a team, I almost forgot how much I love this sport. There’s nothing better than standing out here in the sunshine with the ball in my hand.

“Warm yet?” JT asks as he throws the ball back to me.

“Getting there.”

“All right, then. Let’s see that fastball.” JT punches his glove and squats down behind home plate.

I pull my shoulders back, stretching my muscles, then tip my head side to side. I throw the first pitch, a fastball just like JT wanted, but at only eighty percent.

He catches it and tosses it back. We do it three or four more times until my arm is loose, and this feels like any other field, with every other team. There’s a familiarity in baseball, probably in most sports. Everything changes as you move from team to team, but everything is somehow exactly the same.

The sun pricks the back of my neck as I get into a zone. JT nods that he’s ready, and I wind up and give him everything I’ve got. It feels good. No. It feels fucking fantastic. It’s the first pitch I’ve thrown in months that wasn’t in front of coaches and general managers—people picking apart my every move so they could decide whether or not I was right for their team.

I realize some of the weight of that is gone now that I have a spot. Maybe it isn’t the place I wanted to end up, but now that I’m here, I’m ready to get to work.

After a few pitches at full speed, JT stands and lifts his mask with one hand. His grin stretches across his face as he yells, “You’re putting on a clinic.”

I don’t immediately understand his meaning but then follow his gaze to right field where guys have stopped what they were doing to watch.

I get it. I’m the new guy and they all just want assurances that I’m not going to come in, throw like shit, and cost them a bunch of games. Although honestly on this team, winning any games would be an improvement over their previous seasons.

When they realize we’ve noticed them, they go back to playing catch. I’ve got the bug now. I don’t want to stop.

“Got time for a few more?” I ask, hopefully.

His nod is immediate. “Definitely.”

So we keep at it. I throw to him, trying out all my pitches and seeing which feel rustier than others. I have work to do, no doubt about it, but my arm feels great and anticipation hums through me. Out here I can forget that I’m playing for my last-pick team and that I blew an amazing opportunity just months ago—one I dreamed about my whole life.

All this buzzes through my brain as I pitch to JT. The familiar whoosh as the ball sails through the air followed by a thwack of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt time and again has every muscle in my body relaxing. I dream of that sound.

I’m not sure how long we’re going, but at some point, I stop trying to throw hard and instead focus on getting back to my rhythm. Speed is great, but precision and accuracy make or break a pitcher.

Sweat drips down my temples when JT finally stands and jogs up to the mound. He doesn’t remove his face mask and a pit forms in my stomach. I’m teleported back to the last inning I pitched in game six of the World Series. I’d been unhittable up to that point and then I just lost it. I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t put the ball where I wanted no matter how hard I tried. I was all over the place. Inside. Outside. High. Low. When I tried to pull back on the speed to regain some precision, it was like I was lobbing softballs.

I knew it was coming. I knew I was going to be pulled from the game if I didn’t get it together. Still, I fought as long and as hard as I could.

No pitcher wants to get pulled, especially not like that. And not when you know your career depends on it. Walking off that mound I knew it was going to be a fight to get back. At least I thought I did. The last four months have shown me just how fast an entire league can turn on you.

JT holds the ball in his glove. He stops two feet away and finally lifts the mask. His brown eyes twinkle with excitement, and that uneasy feeling turns to confusion.

“Was that the best you’ve got?” he asks.

Shit. Maybe I’m still lobbing softballs.

I reach up with my right hand and rub the back of my neck as I flounder for an answer.

He laughs, then pulls his glove off his right hand and holds his palm out in front of him. He opens and closes it a few times, staring at it with an expression I can’t make out.

“Even when you were holding back, I’ve never felt anything like that,” he says, voice filled with wonder.

For a second longer, I’m still confused. But as his boyish grin, one I’m already becoming accustomed to, lights up his face, understanding hits me. Along with relief.

He forms a fist with his hand and then hits me with it lightly. “You throw like that all season and we’re going to be unstoppable.”

Archer’s gaze roams around the space, still all blank, empty walls and sparse furniture, as he enters my apartment.

“Is this everything you have?” he asks.

“Yep.” I’ve been in paid housing since I left college or, most recently, crashing on Archer and Brogan’s couch, so I don’t have a lot: couch, coffee table, TV, bed.

“It’s temporary,” I tell my brother, signing the words as I speak. My brothers and I all learned sign language. It helps in situations where it’s loud or there are lots of people or when he’s too busy looking around at my drab apartment to watch my face.

“It’s depressing as hell,” he says.

A laugh shakes my chest. “The location is good and it’s not like I’m going to be spending a lot of time here. I’m close to the Mustangs’ facilities and there are restaurants and bars within walking distance.”

With an expression that seems to say, if you say so, Archer plops down on my only piece of furniture.

I grab two Gatorades from the fridge and bring them to the couch, taking a seat on the other end. “It’s a six-month lease. Why get a lot of stuff if I’m just going to move it all again?”

He accepts the drink and studies my face for a second, brows pinched and mouth in a straight line, then nods slowly.

“Have you met the team?” he asks.

“Some of them. I went by the stadium earlier today and threw a few pitches with JT Ryan.”

“Oh yeah?” One side of his mouth pulls up into a smile.

None of my brothers have really mentioned my performance in the World Series that caused me to be let go from my team and forced me to spend the next few months clawing for another opportunity. Sure, they’ve offered their support and told me to keep my head up, but they’ve tiptoed around my shitty pitching.

Now, though, I can see he’s thrilled at the thought of me being back out there and of things going well. Having four older brothers is like having a whole bunch of parents, except they’re more overbearing and less comforting. Oh, and there’s a lot more ribbing. Or I assume that’s what it’s like since I didn’t grow up with parental figures that weren’t my brothers. Our mom died when I was young, and our dad wasn’t around much.

“What have you been up to since the season ended?” I ask, kicking one foot up onto the coffee table.

“Not much. Sleeping in, working out, helping Sabrina at the dance studio.” At the mention of his fiancée, Archer’s expression goes soft. Helping at a dance studio for kids doesn’t sound like the most exciting way to spend his months away from the rigorous schedule of professional football, but if it makes him happy, I guess that’s all that matters.

“Speaking of Sabrina.” He gives me a sideways glance that makes me want to squirm in my seat. It’s the classic big brother look, the one that says I’m about to get up in your personal business whether you like it or not. “You didn’t tell me that you saw Olivia in New York.”

There’s no question in his statement, but I know at least a dozen are swimming in his head.

“I didn’t know it was her,” I say.

He gives me the same disbelieving look she had. Am I absolutely kicking myself that I didn’t take one look at her and instantly place her? One thousand percent. But two months and thousands of miles separated the first time I saw her to the second. I wasn’t expecting her.

“I’m serious.”

“All right.” His voice lifts an octave.

“How does Sabrina know her?”

“They worked together at Lilac Lounge when Sabrina danced there,” Archer says.

I’m still filing away that information when my brother bumps my knee with his.

“So, what happened?” he asks.

“Eh…” I run one hand over my jaw.

Archer groans. “Please tell me you didn’t hook up with her.”

“What if I had?”

“She’s Sabrina’s best friend.”

“O-kay.” I don’t see how that changes anything.

“I love you like a brother, but⁠—”

“I am your brother,” I interject.

Grinning, he continues, “You’re young and having fun and I totally get it, no judgment here, but she isn’t the kind of girl you hook up with and then ghost.”

“First of all, ouch.” I level him with a glare. “I don’t do that.”

That disbelieving stare is back again.

“And second, I would never ghost Olivia. She’s…” My words trail off as I try to come up with an adjective to describe her. Stunning. Feisty. She doesn’t hold back her emotions or thoughts, and I find that incredibly sexy.

My brother is still looking at me like he thinks I’m full of shit.

“Fine, yes, I’ve hooked up with women and never texted them back for a repeat, but I never make promises that it’s anything more than a one-night thing. I don’t know where I’m going to be in six months or a year, so it’s nicer than stringing them along for months and then hopping town.”

“Yeah? Is that how you’re selling it?” He arches a brow. “How nice of you.”

“Fuck off.” I laugh, relaxing into the couch and feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “It doesn’t matter. That isn’t what happened with Olivia. I met her by chance at the hotel and we stayed up all night talking.”

“Just talking?”

“Mostly talking.”

He groans again. I could put him out of his misery and tell him I didn’t hook up with her, but this is more fun.

“Lighten up.” I elbow him.

“Just promise me you won’t do anything that I’m going to have to apologize for later. Sabrina likes you, but she will still plot your death if you hurt her best friend.”

“I will be a perfect gentleman. Just like my big brothers taught me.”

This time when he lets out a low groan, I laugh. Making your older siblings sweat is one of the few perks of being the youngest.