“Bragging on my big dick.” Roland folded his long body onto the cushion next to him. “How you doin’, man? How’s the ankle?” He dropped a hand on Duke’s shoulder. “How’s … everything?”

Duke coughed, to give himself a second. Roland had been with Duke and Mark the night of the shoot-out. Duke’s girlfriend at the time, Regina, had also been there.

They’d been in a Chicago club, after a game. Roland was in the bathroom when a fight broke out between local gangbangers. Suddenly, everybody seemed to be shooting. Duke, standing at the bar, turned to see his girlfriend slide under a table, but then he took a bullet in the ankle before throwing himself behind another table.

Mark, his teammate, was not so lucky. He was shot in the chest, killed in the cross fire.

Roland was lucky, able to slip out a back door when the guns started going off. He didn’t get hurt—and the first baseman managed to stay out of the limelight, with neither the police nor the press knowing he’d been there.

Duke, on the other hand, became part of a publicity nightmare for the Bronx Bolts. They’d lost their catcher in the high-profile crime, and their pitcher was injured, possibly involved in the carnage. Duke was quickly cleared of charges, but the media coverage was intense, and rarely pretty. He fell into a dark depression, dealing with the loss of his friend while also healing physically. The bullet had torn through ligaments and muscles, keeping Duke off his feet. He could do nothing but sit and stew. And drink.

He dwelled on Mark’s death and started partying like it was a job. Which led to a very ugly public breakup with Regina, who refused to discuss what she called “the past.” Her modeling career had jumped tiers and she had no patience for a drunk invalid.

The Bronx Bolts’ manager called Duke to the clubhouse. Skip told him to clean up his act if he wanted to play again. Then the Bronx Bolts management told Duke’s agent he’d best keep an eye on his number one meal ticket or both Duke and Aaron would be out. To drive the point home, the Bronx Bolts drafted another pitcher … Just in case, they said.

Hiding in the corner of the Peacock now, Duke felt it had been long enough. It was time to shake off the darkness and get back to the game. He was tired of being depressed. He wanted his old life back.

“Eh, the ankle’s fine. Good as new. Can’t wait to get to training.” Duke grabbed the tequila shot as it arrived, taking the bottle and putting it in front of him. “And here’s to Mark, may he rest in peace.”

They clinked glasses.

“Hey,” Aaron said, moving the bottle away from Duke. “Did you see they finally found those Chi-town thug-heads guilty?”