To Be, Or Not (Class of 85)

by Margo Hoornstra

  “Poor baby,” Blonde and bold murmured, reaching out.

  Barry took a subtle step out of range and kept talking. “I’ve been lucky. The medical facility in Baltimore is one of the country’s best. Plenty of doctors who can fix most anything.”

  Except irreparable nerve damage after a fifth compound fracture.

  Lowering his injured hand, he flexed fingers that had lost the ability to grip a baseball like a pro. Forget about letting one fly at nearly a hundred miles an hour.

  “We saw you running a minute ago.” One of the girls, he wasn’t sure which, spoke up. “Can’t blame you for wanting to maintain that fabulous physique of yours.”

  “Not my reason,” he smiled. “Just trying to keep from littering our beautiful shores.” He lifted the crumbled invitation as proof he shoved back in his pocket. “Keep the area trash free.”

  “You sure did manage to keep fit,” the same feminine voice noted. “I’ll bet there’s a stunning six pack under there even when you haven’t played for a year.”

  Fingernails coated in blue polish flecked with golden glitter moved in to lift up his shirt.

  “It’s been two years,” Barry corrected, making a quick dodge before the hand made contact. “And there never was much of a six pack.”

  “It’s so nice to have a celebrity here to brighten up this drab little burg,” she told him, lowering her hand.

  On another requisite smile, Barry nodded, relieved to have the conversation move away from detailing his physical attributes, real or imagined. Before he could think up a reply, one of the boys posed a question. “Do you miss being a star?”

  “Do I miss it?”

  His mind backtracked over forgettable hotel rooms in dozens of cities, women he’d bedded, faces and bodies a fuzzy blend of pleasure then release, but little more. “Not really.”

  The third boy spoke up, “So you’re here to coach The Hornets, huh? Gonna help them win for a change?”

  “I’m gonna try.”

  “I don’t have any paper. Tracy. Give me your pen.” As another female body pushed into him, Barry pulled an equal space back. “Sign my tank top and I’ll never wash it again.”

  Fearing she’d doff the garment on the spot and hand it over, he hastened to sign a place near her shoulder.

  “Are you home for good?”

  “That’s up to the Hornets management.” He made a pass at smiling while he recited the half truth.

  And whether some issues from my past can survive into my future.

  Chapter Two

  “Poor management decisions have scuttled this team’s ranking lower than sea bottom in minor league baseball. I plan to bring the Hornets back to the game winning, pennant scoring glory days of the eighties and nineties.”

  From behind her desk in the Hornets’ administrative offices, Amanda Marsh lifted a gaze over the piles of assorted papers and materials stacked on and around both sides of her In Box. Roger Donaldson, Hornets General Manager, and maybe one of the last true friends she had, stood in the doorway. A spot he hadn’t moved from since sticking his head in ten minutes ago.

  “Our team is finally in a position to overcome all foes and take no prisoners, soar like ace fighter pilots on crucial search and destroy missions.” He looked up from the piece of paper in his hand. “It’s the start of my speech to the local Rotary Club next Tuesday. What do you think?”

  She paused a moment before speaking. In truth, Roger’s word choices were a bit dramatic for her tastes. But, it was his passion and determination to lead a once failing team to rankings success that had convinced her to take this position as Marketing Director when he offered a few months before.

  After her world fell apart and she was desperate to get out of New York City and go anywhere.

  “That bad, huh?” he said when she didn’t respond.

  “Not at all.” If it worked for him, why not? Despite a rough exterior, most notably the buzzed haircut and coarse features of an angry drill sergeant, Roger Donaldson possessed a heart of gold. She had no intention to hurt his feelings. “It sounds good.”

  He hunkered a large head into broad shoulders as tentative eyes raised to slide a suspicious look at her. “How good? Good like a man dedicated to make major changes, or one who’s blowing the same hot air of his predecessors?”

  She considered how badly she wanted to say, ‘Both.’ “The first one. You sound dedicated.”

  “Punch it up for me, would you? Work your magic on it.” He made a hocus-pocus hand motion as he walked toward her desk. “Make me sound real good.”

  “I have a lot to get done here.” She gave the quick response without thinking, then immediately regretted her lack of loyalty. As hectic and demanding as her new job was, being back home in Summerville was better than the high powered career and philandering ex-husband she left behind on Madison Avenue.

  A strict and overbearing father had nothing on the selfish man it had been her distinct misfortune to live with for fifteen years and marry for two. If Roger needed her help, he had it, no questions asked.

  “Tell you what.” He set the sheet at the top of a towering stack of papers on one corner of the table. “Do this for me and I’ll get a sign with your name and title for the door.”

  “Tell you what,” she shot back. “I’ll do this for you and you leave my door alone. Being anonymous gives me a better chance to get done what I need to do each day.”

  “And don’t think I don’t appreciate all that you do for us.”

  She transferred the speech to a pile on her left. “Those are completed player biographies,” she said. “I want to get the press kits ready within the next few days to send any media outfits that will have them.”

  Without turning, he took a backward step, then another. “Just be damned sure you’re careful with what’s put in those player bios and the stuff you write is accurate.”

  “I know how to do this, Roger,” she answered calmly when what she wanted to say was ‘get out of my office and close the door so I can get them finished.’

  Well aware accuracy in what went public was important, and given the number of critics the Hornets had amassed over the years, Amanda understood his need to micromanage every aspect of the team’s season.

  Even if she didn’t need it today.

  Swiveling into position in front of her computer, she was about to mouse click into the mainframe archives of the Orioles organization when Donaldson said, “Make sure you fact check everything you put in those press kits, too.”

  “Roger!” she said with such force, they both jumped. “I know what I’m doing here.”

  Nineteen years with the top ad agency in the country was ample training for the requirements of her current position. Eager to shed the ice queen label unfairly foisted on her in high school, she set out for the Big Apple shortly after graduation and met Jaime. A man who knew everything about life she didn’t.

  Having her heart broken once before should have taught her to be stingy in handing over her trust.

  Roger’s response broke into her thoughts. “I just don’t want some two-bit sports columnist or fly by night blogger looking to score a spot on ESPN by using one of my players.”

  Chin in her palm, appearing to hang on every word, she wondered if the man had a clue how many euphemisms he used. The first things she planned to edit out of his speech.

  “On second thought.” Coming back to her desk, he retrieved the draft of his speech. “Maybe I should do a little more work on this myself. Personalize the message.”

  “Let me know when you want me to look at it.” She sat straighter in anticipation of being able to get back to work, then glanced over at him as he walked out. “And if I have questions about anything at all, I’ll call you first.”

  “Only if it’s important,” he countered with a wink as he closed her door.

  “Finally.”

  Eager to finish this project so she could get on to the next of many, she brought up the coaches roster, then o
pened it. Taking a cursory glance at the screen, her breath caught when the first document loaded.

  Wearing the same cockeyed grin she remembered from high school, Barry Carlson, larger then life and handsome as ever, looked directly at her. Thank God his features were merely captured in millions of perfectly arranged pixels. Now, as always, the same amused speculation in those crystal blue orbs made her blush.

  Adonis. It was the only term she could come up with to describe those heart stopping looks she’d never forget. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a mouth that defined sensuous.

  The name of the handsome mythical god had slipped into her mind the first time she looked up in the crowded cafeteria to find the most popular jock at Summerville High watching her. On a devastating smile, he began to talk the second she’d caught him staring.

  “What classes are you taking? Do you have plans for after graduation?” Not seeking her permission, he placed his food beside hers on the tray he took to carry. “What kind of music do you like? Who’s your favorite actor?”

  The easy conversation and flawless actions were so smooth, she wasn’t sure what happened. All gallantry and charm, he led and she followed to an empty table where he pulled a chair out for her, set the tray down then took a seat directly across, still posing questions in a way that convinced her his only goal in life was to learn all about Amanda Marsh. Along the way, he made her believe she was the center of his universe. Though she wouldn’t dream of telling him, Barry Carlson long ago became the center of hers.

  Gaze riveted to his face, she leaned toward the computer and traced a finger over the outline of his lips. She had no idea how he did it but one simple smile sent warm tingles down to her toes.

  Trudy Van Aulken, fellow Hornets staffer, stuck her head in the door. “I’m going to lunch. Care to join me?”

  Amanda swung to face her closest friend since third grade. “I can’t today.” With a gesture toward the chaos of her desk, she said, “Pre-season rush. I might not get everything done before our first game in a few weeks.”

  Leaving the door open, Trudy made her way into the office. “I can see work’s getting a little intense for you right now. Judging by the way you were so focused on that computer screen.”

  “Like I said, this is a busy time of year for me.” Head bent over the clutter, she lifted her gaze hopeful any leftover emotional disarray wasn’t broadcast on her face.

  “Can you believe it? Our twenty-fifth high school reunion is coming up.” Trudy talked too fast to notice Amanda’s unease. “I got my invitation yesterday. And Summerville’s own super hero Barry Carlson comes back to town just in time to be a part of it. Imagine we now work for the same people he does.”

  “Imagine,” Amanda mimicked with less enthusiasm.

  She was well aware of the man’s return as well as the position he was about to assume in their organization. So why had she been knocked for a loop when his picture popped into her day?

  Because you never got over that silly crush.

  Which was totally irrelevant. Baseball was so much more than a three season sport to Barry, always would be. It was his ticket out of Summerville and away from a ho-hum job at Eastman Industries like his father and hers toiled at from high school through retirement.

  “I wonder if the reunion committee plans to make a special presentation of some kind to him,” Trudy mused. “I mean besides the one being given out at the Friday night banquet. The Eastman Award.”

  “You’re not suggesting a slew of stupid reunion-type awards, are you? Longest married, most grandchildren?” Graduate who avoided coming home until he absolutely had to. “I would hope we’d be beyond that. Anyway, there were almost three hundred of us,” Amanda noted blandly. “He wasn’t the only one to go on to become a world-wide success. Singing sensation Tyler North, national news anchor Tyler Jackson, Sam Allspaugh turned Justiss, action movie hero.”

  “Some as successful, but none as sexy. In fact, not one of those guys is half as handsome, appealing or desirable as sports super star Barry Carlson. At least in my opinion.”

  “Your opinion.” Amanda’s try for casual fell short as an irritating heat crawled in and brought a fresh blush to her cheeks. “Plus, Donaldson just gave me an extra task. I may not get lunch today at all.”

  “Tell you what, being in the accounting department, I’m not as buried in work as you are—yet. I’ll run over to Sips and pick us up a couple of salads and iced teas.”

  “That sound’s great,” Amanda said. “I’ll get you the money for mine.” Leaning down, she pulled her purse out of a bottom drawer, confident discussions about past classmates were behind her. “I’d love one of their chef salads.”

  “You like tomato but not onions.” Returned to the here and now, Trudy somehow found a blank piece of paper on Amanda’s desk. “I should write this down. How about black olives? Peppers?”

  Amanda ran down her list of preferred toppings as Trudy continued to hunt for a pencil. “How about we go the other way?” she suggested. “You want everything but what?”

  “Just use your judgment,” Amanda said at last, handing over a ten dollar bill. “And an iced sweet tea would be great.”

  “That I can remember,” her colleague replied as she tucked the money in her pocket.

  “Fat free Ranch dressing, if they have it.”

  Trudy started to leave, then turned back. “If they don’t?”

  “Regular is fine.” Amanda patted the stomach of her size ten frame. “I’ll do a few extra minutes on one of the stair machines in the basement.”

  “Like you need to. I swear you haven’t gained an ounce since high school.”

  “I only wish that were true,” she replied with a small laugh. “So much has changed since high school.” Or had it?

  It wasn’t until she was alone that Amanda cautiously reopened the image on her screen she proceeded to scrutinize.

  Talk about lack of change. If this picture was to be believed, Barry Carlson hadn’t changed one iota in twenty-five years. Okay, she could be wrong. She scanned his face more closely. He’d gotten better looking with age. On the outside.

  Relief from further reminiscing came in the form of a shrill jangling desk phone. Eyes on the screen, she reached behind to pick up. “Amanda Marsh.”

  “It’s Roger. I had some ideas to run by you for my speech.”

  Tipping her head to balance the receiver against her shoulder, she sought paper and pen but came up empty. “What are they?”

  “For the last part, the ending, how does this grab you?” The sound of paper rustling came over the line. “We have no intention of letting grass grow under our feet or to leave any stone unturned in our quest for dominance of the International League.”

  “That’s quite a few euphemisms in one short paragraph, Roger.”

  “No it isn’t. Or is it?” Another paper rustle, and she imagined he was setting the sheet down. “Tell you what. I’ll think on it some more, then bring what I come up with to you so we can work on this together.”

  “I’ll be here,” she replied, scanning the piles on her desk. “I’ll be here.”

  A short time later, her office door creaked open. She relaxed her shoulders, oddly grateful that Roger and his ideas had arrived to divert her attention.

  “Look,” she began without turning around. “If what you have brought to me isn’t exactly how you want it to end up, I’m sure working together, we can make it right.”

  “Okay.” A hesitant, yet decidedly masculine voice made the reply. A voice which didn’t sound at all like Roger’s.

  Head twisted over one shoulder; she slowly swung the rest of her body around. All the while staring into crystal blue eyes.

  Mouth open, apparently as stunned and speechless as she was, Barry’s expression softened immediately. And made her believe he was actually pleased to see her again.

  She shunted the wild notion out of her mind.

  Desperate to appear busy, she casually opened a file folder she’
d pulled off the top of one of many piles, then made a strangled sound as her breath staggered. Unfortunately, her random choice contained eight by ten glossies of Barry to be used at various autograph sessions through out the playing season. From in front and below, Adonis stared back at her.

  Slamming the folder shut, she pulled in a breath before she could look up at the one of flesh and blood and forced a calm into her voice she did not feel. “What do you need, Barry?”

  “I was told to come up and fill out paperwork as a new employee.”

  “This is Marketing. Personnel is two doors down to your right as you leave.” She hoped he’d take the hint.

  “How have you been, Amanda?

  Warmth started in the pit of her stomach and rose to surround her heart. “It’s been a long time.”

  Life could be so unfair. Uprooted from an existence and career she’d, if not loved, at least became accustomed to, her emotions were too raw yet to cope with ghosts from the past.

  “Yeah it has.” Clad in jeans and a worn Orioles T-shirt, body well muscled and trim, Barry moved closer until she was sure he’d hear the rat-a-tat of her pulse. “You haven’t changed, Amanda.”

  Clenched fingers pushed into action, she waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t kid yourself. We’ve all changed.”

  He seemed entranced with studying her. “I mean it. You look the same as I remember.”

  Taking in his tone, low and sexy, her imagination soared. He’d thought about her many times over the years and any moment he’d hit one knee and beg her to put an end to his suffering, agree to love him the same way he’d always loved her.

  She shook her head to dispel the ridiculous one-sided fantasy. Barry Carlson had a limitless supply of women to choose from, why would he want a used up loser like her?

  “You had a pretty impressive career.”

  “It was okay.”

  “Okay? You’re kidding, right?” she exclaimed, then proceeded to quote his year by year statistics. “Not to mention five All Star teams,” she finished then stopped as if she’d committed some unforgivable sin. “Listen to me,” she said than lowered her eyes. “Going on like some star struck groupie.”