Double Play

by Jennifer Bernard

  She gave him a cautious glance. Was there a catch here? Some hidden agenda? “Why?”

  His lightning shift of expression was so quick, she nearly missed it. “I’m curious. How did you end up working for the Catfish?”

  Something told her that wasn’t what he’d intended to ask. She decided to parry the question, put him to the test. “What about you? How did you end up working for the Catfish?”

  He laughed. “I only work for them temporarily. It should have been a lot more temporarily, if you know what I mean, but that’s baseball.”

  He meant that he should be a Friar by now; she didn’t want to touch that one. “How did you get into baseball to begin with?”

  “I grew up in the suburbs of St. Louis. Nice middle-class neighborhood with Little League and soccer and tennis. I played all of those. I got pretty good grades in high school, but I still figured sports was my best chance at a scholarship. Baseball isn’t as hard on your body as soccer, so I chose baseball. It got me into college. In college, I put on some muscle and started to hit the ball better than ever. Then I got drafted by the Friars. I realized, hell, I could maybe make a career out of this. A short-term career, mind. I have other things I want to do after this.”

  “Like what?” She toyed with an olive, completely fascinated by his story.

  “I’m pretty good with people. I don’t mind news cameras. I thought about being on TV.”

  “Sports commentator, ESPN, that sort of thing?” For some reason, she found that disappointing. She’d watched endless hours of sports coverage during some of her hospital stays and found most of it overhyped.

  “Maybe. I’ve also thought about…” He hesitated, almost as if he was embarrassed to continue. For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed less than confident.

  “Thought about what?”

  He shifted again. “I don’t know. I like making kids laugh. Brightening up a day.” His half smile held a self-deprecating edge.

  She remembered the way the kids lit up around Dwight at the hospital. He definitely had a knack for lifting spirits. “I would have loved seeing someone like you come to my hospital. The Red Sox sent some players once, but I missed them. It’s probably a good thing, because I have to be alert for syncope.”

  “Syncope?”

  “Fainting.”

  He laughed, then wiped the smile from his face. “Wait—was that actually a joke?”

  She twinkled at him. “Well, I do have a higher risk of syncope, but I doubt a ballplayer could cause it, so yes, it was a joke.”

  He leaned closer to her. She caught a whiff of his aftershave, something light and classic that made her think of the Rat Pack and waltzing across a ballroom floor. “How many ballplayers have you met?”

  Her throat tightened. His nearness made the little hairs on her arms rise up, almost like static electricity.

  “You’re the fifth, counting Crush.”

  “How many baseball games have you seen?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, unsure where he was going with this. “In person or on TV?” she asked cautiously.

  “Both. Either or.”

  “I’ve watched thousands on TV. But I’ve only watched two Catfish games.” She didn’t mention that she’d watched only a few innings of each because of the heat. When she licked her lips nervously, his gaze dropped to her mouth, then skipped away.

  “Have you ever played yourself? Softball in the park? Tossed a ball around with your dad?”

  “No, no, and no. My father is not a ball-tosser. I don’t engage in sports. I don’t play the game. I watch the game. I analyze the game.”

  “You analyze it. With your computer program.”

  She leaned forward, so they were chin to chin. “That computer program took two years of my life. And required mammoth amounts of data input and parameter tweaking. I’ve read a hundred and five baseball books, including most of the Baseball Almanac. I’ve seen every baseball movie ever made—or at least every baseball movie available on Netflix.”

  “And all that proves what? You’re the ultimate armchair baseball fan.”

  She popped a salted almond into her mouth. “I bet I love the game more than you do.”

  “Say what?” He sat back, his collar coming open enough so she saw the hard definition of his neck. What was she doing, arguing with a centerfielder about baseball? But she’d gotten herself into this and wasn’t about to stop now.

  “You don’t love it, Dwight Conner. It’s a springboard for you. A stepping stone. You said it yourself. You picked the sport that would be least damaging to your body.”

  His body. Now why had she mentioned his body? Awareness of his chiseled, powerful form now filled her consciousness—along with the shocked expression on his face.

  “Me, I love baseball. I watched so many games when I was stuck inside. I’d listen to the announcers on the radio, and I felt as if I was there on the field with them. I researched all the players, I knew everything about them. I even wrote fan letters. Then, when I was in graduate school looking for a thesis topic in statistics, everyone wanted me to choose something serious, like reproductive health or climate change. I chose baseball. Because the idea of thinking about baseball all day long made me happy.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and lifted her chin at him. “So, you tell me—who loves the game more, me or you?”

  4

  Dwight’s jaw was literally hanging open as he absorbed Maggie’s speech. Apparently, he’d hit a sore spot. He hadn’t intended to; he just wanted to know more about her. He definitely knew more now. He knew that when she got riled up about a topic, her entire face lit up like fireworks. He knew that she had a real passion for baseball. He knew that she turned him on. That she was sexy as hell.

  And that she was right.

  “You win.” He threw up his hands in surrender. “You win the prize.”

  “The prize?” She blinked, as if surprised to find herself so carried away. “There’s a prize?”

  “Yup. Have you ever been to Los Feliz Park?”

  She shook her head. He wondered if she’d been anywhere other than her office since she’d gotten to Kilby. “The park has a batting cage and we’re going to hit some balls. You’re going to.”

  The head-shaking continued, along with some eye-rolling. “Oh no. I can’t hit balls. I told you, I have a heart condition and I don’t do strenuous exercise.”

  “Hitting a ball isn’t all that strenuous. You won’t have to run the bases because you probably won’t even get a hit.” He winked at her.

  “I could definitely get a hit. I’m great at Ping-Pong.”

  “There’s only one way to find out. Don’t you think if you’re going to work in baseball, you should at least try to hit a baseball?”

  “Honestly, I don’t see the relevance, but I have no doubt that I could if I wanted to.” A competitive gleam blazed in her eyes—just what he wanted to see. It got under his skin that she was making decisions about people’s dreams and futures when she’d barely even seen a live game.

  “Do you want to call your doctor to check if it’s okay? I can wait.” He sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

  “What—you mean now?”

  “Sure, now. You don’t drink, so what are we doing in a wine bar? Let’s get some fresh air and hit a couple of baseballs. Smell the grass. Get a little dirty.”

  She stared at him but made no move toward her phone. He noticed that her eyes were an unusually light shade of hazel brown, almost gold against her dark eyelashes. He couldn’t make out her ethnicity, though he figured she was mostly white, with maybe something extra somewhere in her background. He’d been with women of various races, but he didn’t know how she felt about such things.

  Not that it mattered, since he wasn’t talking about sleeping with her. He wanted to spend more time with her, that was all. She intrigued him, with her intelligence and sly sense of humor.

  “After all the times you watched ballpla
yers on TV doing their thing, don’t you want to see what it feels like to hit a baseball with a bat? Or throw a baseball? This is your chance. I’ll teach you everything I know about hitting the deuce.”

  She broke into a smile. “So you can throw a curve?”

  “Didn’t I just do exactly that—metaphorically?” There, take that, Ms. Vocabulary.

  “Yes, I guess you did. Okay, I’ll go to the batting cage with you. After all, you could probably use some practice, judging by your last game.”

  After a quick double-take, he realized she was tweaking him. “You sure know how to boost a player’s ego, girl. Man, remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  “Sorry. No offense meant.” But she looked more delighted with her jab than anything else. At first she’d seemed a little nervous, but now that they’d gotten into a groove, she was all smiles and spark and spunk. Not that she was flirting, in the traditional sense that he was used to. But an undercurrent of attraction ran through everything either of them said, which made it feel like a flirtation.

  “So, you ready?” He pulled some bills from his wallet and tossed them on the table.

  “Wait—I just realized it’s dark out.”

  “The park has lights and it’s cooler at night. What, are you scared? Backing out?”

  “What about Nina and Jim?”

  “Hopefully they’re shacked up in a hotel room by now.”

  She blinked a few times, maybe blushed. “Oh. You really think so?”

  “No, I don’t. Maybe in ten years, at the rate Lieberman’s moving. Don’t worry about them. They’re grownups. Barely.”

  He put out his hand to help her off her stool. She accepted it, but her foot couldn’t quite reach the floor and she nearly crashed the whole thing backwards. He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her the rest of the way down, keeping his grip a tiny bit longer than necessary after her feet touched the floor. She felt good in his hands. Light as cotton candy, sweet-smelling, curved just right. He stole a whiff of her shampoo. Nothing fancy, nothing fruity, just clean and light, like sunshine on a laundry line.

  They drove to Los Feliz Park in his Audi, which he’d bought used from a pitcher who’d gotten called up last year. He was no closer to getting any clues about his call-up or lack thereof. He couldn’t figure out how to ask Maggie about it without being rude.

  And what about her point that she loved baseball more than he did? Pretty ballsy, for someone who had never even touched a baseball bat. But what if she was right? How did he feel about baseball? It had been part of his life as long as he could remember, like an irritating older brother. Baseball gave him great opportunities like scholarships, and it also frustrated the hell out of him.

  And sometimes, to be totally honest, it bored him. The season was long, the bus trips were painful, and he still hadn’t seen the inside of Friars Stadium except as a fan. Fuck baseball.

  Except he only felt that way some of the time. The rest of the time, playing ball on a summer day was a lot better than anything else he could be doing. And if—when—he made the majors, that would open up a whole new level of opportunity. Yes, he was ambitious and baseball was a stepping stone. But he still loved the game.

  Baseball was…family, not just a springboard.

  But first—he had to get that fucking Call. And he needed to know why it hadn’t happened yet.

  The diamond with the batting cage was nearly empty, with only a few high school kids hitting grounders under the lights. In the haze of illumination pooling around the batting cage, insects flitted past their faces. The scent of warm earth and grass surrounded them.

  Yeah, he loved baseball. Especially on a warm summer night next to a pretty girl.

  Tutoring Maggie in how to hit a baseball turned out to be the most fun he’d had since winning the Triple-A Championship. He got to see her feisty competitive spirit in action. Even though he tossed the ball to her underhand, she missed every time.

  But she still swung with one hundred percent effort, even though sometimes she ended up in the dirt. Her cheeks turned pink, her hair stuck to her face in damp strands, and still she swung with all her might.

  “This isn’t getting too strenuous, is it?” he asked after about twenty pitches.

  She stilled for a moment, as if listening to her own heart rate and breathing. “Nope. I’m good. You were right, night is better for this, though it might help to be able to see the ball.”

  “You think I can see a ninety-five mile an hour fastball? That’s all instinct. Try again.”

  Finally, on pitch number thirty-two, she connected. The ball dribbled off her bat and rolled about three feet down the right foul line. Shrieking, she jumped up and down next to it as it inched anemically across the grass.

  “I did it! I hit a baseball!”

  “Yeah you did.” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead as he joined her next to the baseball. “You pounded the hell out of that thing. That’s a home run in ant world.”

  She giggled, then slumped onto the grass, resting her hands behind her. Her arms were so slim, he wondered how she had the stamina for thirty-two swings of the bat. “So what’s my batting average now, about point zero zero two?”

  “You’re the math whiz, not me.” He dropped to the ground a few feet away from her. He bent one knee up and rested his arm on it. The damn thing actually hurt from tossing so many pitches in a row. Stupid—he needed to save his throwing arm for actual games. But if he didn’t find out what was going on with the Friars, there was no point in any more games anyway.

  “Thanks for bringing me out here, Dwight Conner.” He took a clean towel from his gym bag and tossed it to her. She patted the sweat from her face. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had doing something physical.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, her eyes went wide. “I mean, something athletic. Not physical. Athletic.”

  Dwight chuckled at her embarrassment. He plucked a blade of grass and worried it into a knot, something he used to do while waiting his turn to bat in Little League. This was the time to pin her down. Right now, when she was relaxed and comfortable with him. “You keep working and you might even get to first base.” At her smothered snort, he added, “Not a double entendre, by the way. I’m a ballplayer, I’m entitled to use the term first base without it meaning anything except getting on base.”

  “That’s fine, but I have about as much chance of getting to first base as this ant.” She brushed an insect off her track suit. “I’m better suited to the front office, clearly.”

  This really was it. No avoiding it any longer. He drew a deep breath for courage and launched into his question. “So you got me curious. How does that computer program of yours work?”

  All the laugher and joy vanished from her face as if a vacuum cleaner had come through. “I can’t talk about my work with you, Dwight.”

  Damn. How fucking clumsy could he be? His jaw went tight. “The players are talking about it. Not much stays secret in baseball.”

  “What have you heard, exactly?”

  “I heard that you’re the one who recommended McFarrin based on a model you developed that predicts who’s going to perform well if they get called up.”

  She gnawed at her thumbnail. Obviously he was making her nervous. “My research is proprietary. I can’t tell you anything about it.”

  “That’s cool. That’s cool. I’m just curious how it works. Is it based only on stats? Is it about personality? Psychological history? Zodiac sign?”

  With a quick movement, she shifted onto her knees. “You’re making fun of my work, aren’t you?”

  “No.” Honesty got the better of him. “Maybe a little. I know all about Moneyball, all the different ways they use stats in baseball. But if it was just about stats, I’d be wearing Friar blue by now. If there really was a crystal ball that said, yeah, you’re a future star, Dwight, or you should go finish that neurology degree, Lieberman, it might be nice. I can see why they’d want that. It wou
ld save everyone a lot of time, especially us players. I’ve been in the minors three years now.”

  “Three years? There are guys who’ve been playing in the minors for a lot longer than that.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. But they aren’t named Dwight Conner. I have plans, I have dreams, I want more than Albuquerque and Salt Lake City. Bus rides that suck the life out of you. I’m meant for more in this life, I know it. I feel it in here.” He put a fist against his heart. “Sometimes I think there’s a clock in here going faster and faster. Time just keeps flying by and I’m still here in Kilby. Fuck, Lieberman will probably get called up before me.”

  “He might. Is that a problem? I thought he was a friend.”

  Dwight’s heart sank right into his cleats. Maybe Maggie really did have a crystal ball. “Yeah, he’s a friend. But I’m ten times the player he is.”

  “No, it’s more like zero point seven times,” Maggie murmured.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Statistically speaking. Looking only at the numbers.”

  “But that’s what you do, right? You look at the numbers, that’s it. All the mystery and magic, none of that matters.”

  She jumped to her feet and brushed grass off her pants. “You sound like Crush Taylor right now. He’s skeptical too. But you don’t even know what’s in my program. Maybe it’s all about the mystery. Maybe I’m trying to look past the numbers at the passion. All you care about is how my model affects you. Which kind of proves my point.”

  Stunned, it took him a moment to realize she was storming off toward the parking lot. He scrambled after her. “Wait. Maggie. What are you talking about? What point?”

  She whirled around to face him. “That I love baseball more than you do.” With her index finger against his chest, she emphasized each word. “The Minor Leagues are baseball, too. But for you it’s not about baseball, it’s about fulfilling your ambition.”

  “What’s wrong with ambition?”

  “Nothing. I’m just saying that your love for baseball isn’t pure.”