Stef Ann Holm by Lucy Back (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

shrugged, painting a portrait of a ballplayer who hadn’t taken his books very seriously. “Why let school interfere with my education?” He laughed, trying to see humor. “I barely passed my classes, but I got a diploma. I went straight from Alhambra High into the bush leagues. I had a natural talent and had played most of my childhood. T-Ball. Little League. About the only thing my dad ever encouraged me to do was hit baseballs.”

Drew rested his forearms on his thighs and knitted his fingers together. He let his mind go, and it was as if he could see his past in front of him. He saw himself as a little kid in the front yard of their rambler with its single car garage, his dad pitching a plastic baseball for him to hit with a plastic bat.

“My dad wasn’t good at anything. He changed jobs a lot, was never content with one thing. It drove my mother nuts—literally. I don’t think they ever loved each other. One day she just left. It hit me pretty hard. But I got over it.” Pausing in reflection, Drew said aloud, “You know, out of all the people in Mackenzie’s life, I probably know best how she feels. My mom left me and I had to cope without her. Just like my daughter’s had to cope without me. Weird. But she doesn’t know that about me. I haven’t told her.”

Shaking off those thoughts, he went on. “I moved through the minors fairly quickly, doing a lot of partying. I’m not proud of it, but that was just the way it was. Shit happened. You get caught up in a different world. Women are always available. Drinks are always in your hand. You don’t pay for anything and life is good. Then when the Cincinnati Reds stroked me a check for some serious money, I thought I was really something.”

Lucy bit her lower lip.

“I had some good years. When we were heading for the play-offs there was one game riding on me, and I remember standing on the bump. Sun in my eyes blinding me. My knees were shaking, palms sweating, and my stomach was in knots. I knew I couldn’t let the team down. I got us out of the inning with only one hit, and we won the game.” Drew’s memories rose at once, and he relived all those glory days. “If it hadn’t been for sports, I don’t know where I would have ended up.”

“You would have done something useful with your life,” she said optimistically.

He wanted to share her faith, but he couldn’t. He knew himself too well. “In ’87, I had my agent get me out of that Cincinnati deal so I could come home to L.A. The Dodgers signed me on, and the next year, we won the Series. It was sweet. I was on the top of my game, the winning pitcher, an MVP nod. Life just didn’t get any better than that. Unless it was at the bottom of a Patrón bottle.”

In his mind, he tried to conjure the taste of tequila, the burn of it against his tongue, the heat in his mouth, the way it went down his throat. He couldn’t really remember. And he was glad. Every once in a while, he thought about having a drink, but he knew it only took one. He’d already had a half-dozen chances—and that part he recalled very clearly.

His life had changed for the better since becoming sober. He lived well, lived healthy. He lived for the moment, rather than the glory. The blackouts were gone, the mindless sex with women he couldn’t remember, the lifestyle that was too large, the way he felt like death in the morning.

Being who he was now actually took less effort. He liked who he’d become, but even so, he knew he could bring back a little of the old Drew Tolman anytime he wanted. That bad boy, the dude who could make anyone smile. He sort of liked that ability. It was flattering when women stopped, when they smiled. It was like living la vida loca, but without a hangover.

“Remember that show MacGyver?” he asked, gazing at the lake, watching ripples of water glistening in the starlight. “I was asked to have a guest role on it, but I showed up drunk, got in a fistfight with one of the cameramen and was escorted off the set.”

Lucy’s brows rose as she digested that news.

Drew exhaled, wondering if she’d ever talk to him again after tonight.

“I was paid big money to be a certain kind of man. A public figure. A sports star. I wasn’t a robot. I was a man who had warm blood, and sometimes it got hot in there running through my veins. So I started drinking. A lot.

“The alcohol kicked my ass and I never minded sleeping on other people’s floors. I woke up, didn’t know where I was. The drinking started to affect my performance. I couldn’t accept it was my own destructive behavior that was doing it. Denial. You learn that in AA.”

Her eyes remained on his, dark pools of emotion, and if he wasn’t mistaken, empathy. He didn’t deserve hers, but he appreciated it.

“I was officially in a slump. Drinking daily. I over-analyzed every pitch. I started getting a little nervous entering a game. I got no velocity on my pitches, and hitters started hammering on me. I was brought into the front office, reamed out by my manager, by the bean counters, by everyone associated with the club. Being taken down verbally like that sucked. But I didn’t quit drinking.

“That fall, my girlfriend called me an alcoholic and I told her she was full of it. She quit seeing me, and I drank more to put her out of my mind.” Drew rubbed his temple, made a face. “It was almost spring training and I wasn’t worth a crap physically. I’d lost weight and the trainers called me into the camp