by Mindy Klasky
“Ms. Carter? Are you ready to make your closing argument?” She heard a little dread in the judge’s voice. He sounded as if he longed for a cup of coffee, a gallon of Red Bull, anything that would help him stay awake for the next few hours.
“Yes, your honor.”
Maybe it was because she’d just been thinking about her mother. Maybe it was because she was worried about her nephew, the boy she’d last seen in the close little kitchen of the house where she’d grown up. Maybe it was because she’d thought of Kyle, of the way he’d wanted her to be at the ballpark, of the power and support he said she gave him, game after game, for the better part of the baseball season.
But Amanda pressed her hand flat against the table. She flexed her fingers three times, lifting her wrist and dropping it, like she was completing warm-up exercises for piano. Once, for all the things she’d learned. Again, for all the things she was going to teach others. And one last time, for fun.
It was a ritual. A rite she’d completed before every public presentation she’d ever made in school—from her welcoming speech at Parents’ Day in fourth grade, to her science fair demonstration in seventh, to her valedictorian address as a senior. She’d flexed her wrist and counted to three before she started every lab in college, before she started moot court in law school.
Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten the game. Somewhere she’d told herself she was wasting her time, distracting herself from the true core of whatever she hoped to accomplish.
But the second she flexed her hand, a steady flow of confidence opened in her body. She knew this case, inside out. She understood her arguments with every fiber of her being. She could convince the judge. She could tell him why UPA was right, why it deserved to win.
“Your honor,” she began. “We’ve spent the past week talking about facts and figures. I’ve recited metabolism rates and I’ve presented statistics. But this case isn’t just about numbers. This case is about people.”
The judge looked up, apparently surprised by her new line of argument. The spark of interest on his face gave Amanda the courage to continue, to improvise. She explained, “We’re here today to preserve the spirit of creativity that is the heartblood of American business. We’re here to protect the drive of individuals to create new things, of people to innovate in their chosen fields of endeavor.”
The words were right. They were powerful. Amanda felt emotion swell inside her chest—pride and satisfaction and the humming thrill of accomplishment. She gave herself over to that power, that energy. “Your honor, UPA’s scientists had the vision, the inventiveness to see new ways to save lives. And you alone have the ability to reward that effort, to preserve their patent.”
The judge leaned forward, clearly intrigued by Amanda’s emotional appeal. She left her notes on the table—all the facts, all the numbers, all the cold, hard, logical justifications—and she stepped forward to complete the most important argument of her career.
~~~
Four days later, Amanda stood in Harvey’s office. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she said.
But she wasn’t ready. She couldn’t watch him click on the file from the clerk of court. She couldn’t listen as he sucked in his breath. She couldn’t swallow past the pounding of her heart, couldn’t fill her lungs. But somehow, she managed to ask, “What does it say?”
And Harvey read from the screen: “In the matter of United Pharmaceutical Alliance versus Axtor Pharmacies, the Court finds in favor of UPA and awards statutory damages in the amount of…”
She’d won.
After all those months, after all the late nights of plotting and planning, after all the endless days of reading documents, of organizing data, she’d won. Statutory damages. Compensatory damages. Punitive damages. More money than she’d ever garnered for a client before, more money than she’d ever dreamed of bringing in to the firm.
She made the calculations automatically, measuring the percentage she’d split with her partners. There’d be enough to give all the staff a bonus. Enough to make the DC office viable for years to come.
And UPA would continue its business for those same years—maybe for decades.
She should feel thrilled. She should be overjoyed with the news. She should be shaking Harvey’s hand, leading the troops out to the high-end bar on the ground floor of their office building. She should buy drinks for everyone who’d had a hand in the victory, accept drinks from everyone in the firm.
But Link Oster wasn’t where she wanted to be. She didn’t want to share her victory with Harvey, with the associates and paralegals who had slaved beside her, with her long-suffering assistant Shay. Winning a fortune for UPA didn’t feel any better than cashing a check from Kyle. Blackmail, litigation, it was all the same—all a way for her to make arguments, to structure thoughts, to boil facts down to money.
She needed to feel something instead. She turned on her heel.
“Where are you going?” Harvey asked, looking up in astonishment from the opinion he was still reading aloud.
“I have somewhere I’m supposed to be.”
“What are you talking about? This is where you’re supposed to be! Right here, with your partners.”
She shook her head. “Go ahead, Harvey. Share the good news. Call UPA and tell them.”
“But don’t you want to—”
She headed for the door. “No, I don’t. There’s only one thing I want to do.” She was in the elevator before Harvey picked his jaw up off the floor.
She shoved her hand in her pocket, relieved to find some crumpled bills left over from the lunch she’d bought in the little sandwich shop next to the building. She speed-walked down the block to the luxury hotel at the corner. She brushed past the doorman as she headed to the front of the cab line.
“To Rockets Field, please,” she said to the cab driver.
“Traffic’s a mess down there,” he said as he put his car in gear. “Worse than the rest of the Series, but that happens when things get down to the wire. Tonight they make it or break it.”
She made some sort of noise, letting him think she was listening. Really, all she was doing was trying to make the cab go faster. She wished she had superhero powers to clear the streets. She glanced at her watch. Batting practice would start in half an hour.
In the end, the cab couldn’t get within half a mile of the stadium. She paid off the guy, leaving him in the middle of a tirade about how the Rockets needed to be more aggressive on the base paths. She speed-walked to the stadium gates, ignoring the fact that the crowd around her was outfitted in red and blue, wearing the Rockets logo with pride while she slinked by in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit.
She didn’t have a ticket.
The crowd formed messy lines outside the stadium gates. Everyone knew the drill—open up bags for inspection, step up to the turnstile, present a ticket for admission, tumble into the park. As Amanda stared, she was buffeted from side to side, tossed forward and back by eager baseball fans.
On the plaza inside the gates, Rockets Fever crested. This was the night the team’s fate would be decided. This was the night they’d either win the World Series or go back into the pool for another year—more hoping, more working, more praying for success.
Amanda blinked against bright white lights. A camera team was roving through the crowd on the plaza, stopping individual fans, collecting “man on the street” interviews. Amanda could just make out the chestnut curls of Rory Michaels, the sideline reporter who had broadcast her face to the world back at the end of the regular season. Back when everything was right with Kyle.
“Rory!” Amanda wrapped her hands around the iron bars of the fence and screamed. Her voice wasn’t nearly loud enough to carry. But her cry attracted the interest of the crowd around her. Laughing fans turned to stare.
“Please,” she said. “I need to get Rory Michaels’ attention. Help me, please. On the count of three, let’s all call his name.”
They though
t she was crazy. She could tell that—the way they looked at her suit, the way they stared at her face. But she counted to three before they could walk away, and she shouted with all her might, hoping, praying they’d join in.
And enough of them did that Rory looked over his shoulder. Of course he noticed her right away—she stood out like a mortician at a pep rally. Waving to his camera crew, Rory crossed the plaza. “Amanda,” he said, when he was close enough to be heard over the hubbub. “I haven’t seen you in weeks! What are you doing here?”
“I don’t have a ticket, and I need to get inside for batting practice.”
“Amanda, I—”
“Don’t fight me on this,” she snapped, like she was organizing troops to march into battle. “Get me through that gate and keep your cameras close, and you’ll have the best story of the series. Whether the Rockets win or lose, you’ll have the footage forever.”
Rory stared at her like she was speaking in tongues. But he was the best at his game. He crossed over to the woman who trailed him with her heavy video camera, muttering something in her ear. He reached out to clasp the woman’s hand in a hearty handshake, and Amanda only saw a plastic card slip between them because she was looking for it.
Rory came back to the fence, shaking his head like she’d just told him the saddest story he’d ever heard. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I wish I could help.”
But he reached out to shake her hand. And as her fingers closed over his, he passed her a piece of plastic.
She wasted no time shaking out the lanyard of the press pass. She pulled it over her head and pushed her way to the front of the line. “Press,” she said when the ticket taker threw up an annoyed hand. “I have to meet up with my broadcast team. Here’s my press pass.”
She repeated those two lines until the guy waved at the turnstile. By then, Rory Michaels was close on her heels. She glanced at the scoreboard clock, and she set out for the right field seats at a dead run.
~~~
Kyle stood in the dugout, listening the chatter of the guys behind him. Each player handled tension his own way. Some got quiet, like they were marching to their death. Others told jokes, the raunchier the better. A few drummed on the railing, waiting for the nod from Skip, eager to take the field and hit a few balls before the real game began. Kyle ran his fingers through his short hair, scratched absent-mindedly at his bare chin.
He could feel the energy in the stands. This was it. This was the night the Rockets either brought one home for Mr. Benson or let the dream die forever. Kyle took a deep breath, and he started the long trot to right field.
The stadium held almost forty thousand people, and nearly every seat was filled, even though first pitch wouldn’t be for an hour and a half. The crowd blurred into a mass of red, a living, breathing bank of bodies. It was incredible to feel that level of support from fans, amazing to see them dressed out, waving caps in support, cheering their team to hoped-for victory.
Out of habit, Kyle started to look toward Amanda’s seat when he got to his spot. That was stupid, though. She wasn’t there. She hadn’t been there since he’d called her a whore, since he’d broken the only good thing he’d ever built in his life.
Dammit, he should look at her seat. He should remind himself of everything he’d ruined. He should make sure he remembered what the season had cost him, why he had to win tonight if he wanted even a prayer of making the game the least bit worthwhile.
Not everyone in the crowd wore red. One person wore black, sober as a judge.
Kyle blinked and looked again. No, that wasn’t a judge. It was a lawyer. And the fabric wasn’t black. It was charcoal grey, with cream-colored pinstripes.
His fingers tensed, remembering what it had felt like to run his hands down those pinstripes. His belly swooped as the entire world shifted off its axis. Amanda was here. Amanda was waiting for him.
He stopped at the bottom of the fence, raising one hand to shield his eyes from the bright white lights of TV cameras. What the hell were they filming up there? And more to the point, why were they filming it?
But that was a stupid question. They were filming Amanda. They were filming Amanda and him.
What the fuck was he supposed to say? How could he apologize to her here, in front of all of Raleigh? Hell, this was the seventh game of the World Series; the feed would go out nationally. They’d said too many things to each other, cut each other too deep.
So he said the only thing he could, under the circumstances. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called.
He watched her step up to the railing. This wasn’t the Amanda he’d met during that afternoon game months before. This wasn’t the woman he’d taken to dinner, the woman he’d taken to bed. This wasn’t the Amanda he’d fallen in love with.
Because this Amanda looked frightened. Terrified. She looked like she didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to answer him. So he smiled and recited his next line. “If you really want to thank me, let me wear your glasses!”
She shook her head, the same way she had that first day. She curved her hand in to point at her chest. He couldn’t think about her chest. He couldn’t think about the way she’d arched against him, the way she’d trusted him with her body when she wasn’t willing to trust anyone, anywhere else in the world. He couldn’t think about the way he loved her—loved her for coming to his condo, loved her for telling him the truth, loved her for coming here, to Rockets Field, tonight.
As he watched, she took off her black-rimmed glasses. She stared at them like she’d never seen them before, like she couldn’t imagine why she was holding them.
Wearing the glasses, she rocked the whole sexy librarian thing. Without them, without the lie, she was gorgeous.
“Go ahead,” he shouted, slipping off his glove. “I’ll catch them.”
“Sure,” she called, and he heard the laughter in her voice. He heard the memory of her sarcasm, the joke at his expense.
“It’s my job!” he called, completing the record, filling in all the words from the past, all the words they needed here in the present.
She held out her hand. He cupped his into a V. She held the glasses by their eyepiece, dangling them like she was making a decision. And then she dropped them.
He caught them cleanly, holding them at the same level as his heart. He stared up at her, wanting to tell her he’d been an ass. He wanted to apologize, to beg her to forgive him. He wanted to tell her she’d been right all along. He hadn’t needed his superstitions; he’d just needed to get his head in the right place, to play the game the way it needed to be played.
But there wasn’t time for words. Not with the cameras rolling. Not with the crowds surging closer to the railing, chanting his name, clapping in rhythm.
“Go,” she mouthed, and he could make out the word perfectly. “Win. I’ll be here.”
~~~
At least, Amanda planned on being there. Unfortunately, there was no place for her to stand. Her usual seat was occupied by an enthusiastic fan, and she couldn’t stay in the aisle, blocking the view. Her heart sank as she started the long climb up the steps to the concourse, realizing that she wouldn’t be able to watch this most important of Kyle’s games.
“Ms. Carter?” A uniformed usher waited for her at the top of the steps. The young man extended a note toward her.
Mystified, Amanda took the slip of paper. She unfolded it carefully and read: “Ms. Carter: My grandfather and I would be honored if you would join us in the owners’ suite to watch the game. Anna Benson.”
Of course she’d read about Anna Benson. The woman had been profiled in newspapers and magazines as one of Raleigh’s most successful young businesspeople. Everyone knew Anna was running the team under her elderly grandfather’s watchful eye. Everyone knew she wanted a championship more than anyone else in the Rockets family, except maybe the old man himself.
The usher still stood there. “Ms. Benson asked me to show you the way, if you’re interested.”
“Of course I’m
interested!” Amanda said, and she fell into step beside the smiling stadium employee.
So. This is how the other half lives.
Amanda had expected luxury chairs and top-rail liquor, with gourmet food and the largest television screen a fortune could buy. Instead, the owners’ suite looked like a cross between a college dorm room and a locker room. A long table ran along one wall. It was covered with papers, all the pages surrounding a beat-up laptop that was plugged into the wall. A rainbow of pens, pencils, and highlighters sprayed out of coffee cans that were scattered around the room.
Before Amanda could recover from her surprise, she found herself shaking Anna Benson’s hand, meeting the woman’s grandfather, introducing herself to the other team officials who crowded the box. Anna slipped an ice-cold Coca-Cola into Amanda’s hand, gesturing for her to pop the top just as the children’s Musicall choir began to sing The Star-Spangled Banner. Everyone in the box joined in.
And that was the last conscious noise Amanda made for three and a half hours.
The game was intense. DJ Thomas had a perfect game going into the seventh, matching the Los Angeles pitcher, out for out. The Rockets finally drew first blood with a towering home run Tyler Brock hit over the left field fence. LA answered with a hard-fought eighth inning, playing small ball, walking their lead-off hitter, bunting him over, scraping together four more hits to lead by a run.
Tension twisted through the owners’ suite in the bottom of the eighth. The Rockets struck out in rapid succession. The catcher launched a fly ball to right. Ryan Green sent a line drive straight to the second baseman. Drew Marshall grounded out to the shortstop.
The Rockets brought in their closer to pitch the ninth. It wasn’t a save situation, but this was the most crucial inning of the season, the make-it-or-break-it point after all the games they’d played. The veteran sat down all three batters he faced.
And that left the bottom of the ninth.
