by Mindy Klasky
DJ threw a towel at the catcher’s head. “Okay, so they caught us. But it was the bullshit rules of that beauty pageant that got her fired.”
Ormond shrugged elaborately. “If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”
“This isn’t about getting her fired, anyway,” DJ muttered, leaning forward to pull his clothes out of the locker.
“The hell it isn’t,” Ormond said amiably.
“This is about her telling me how to raise my own son. It’s about her thinking she knows what it takes to make it in the majors. It’s about her daring to—” DJ realized he was shouting. He lowered his head into his hands.
Ormond tugged off his stinking jersey and tossed it onto the floor. He stood up slowly, clearly favoring his right knee, and he started to strip off his uniform pants.
DJ couldn’t be certain, but the guy seemed to taking his time. It was almost like Ormond was daring him to continue the conversation, like the catcher was asking for DJ to reduce all the tangled thoughts in his head to a few coherent words.
Like Ormond would ever understand. Like DJ could ever explain.
“Look,” the catcher said when he was finally buck naked and heading for the shower. “You’re the one who can make this right. It isn’t about Trey, and it isn’t about your playing in the majors. It isn’t even about your totally torqued relationship with your father. You said things that hurt her.”
“How do you know that?” DJ answered defensively.
The catcher leveled dark eyes at him, the same penetrating gaze he broadcast from behind the plate when he was calling a game. Zach Ormond saw things. That was his job. He knew the truth about the world around him. It made him a great ballplayer and one hell of an annoying friend.
“Figure out what matters to her, DJ. Make this right.” The catcher stalked off to the showers.
Make this right. DJ slumped on the rocking bench. He would make it right, if he had the faintest idea of what “this” was. Samantha Winger was an amazing woman.
No.
She wasn’t just “an amazing woman.” She was the woman. The one who had listened to him talk, the one who had heard the words he didn’t say. She was fun—God was she fun. If he listened to his cock, he’d never spend a second thinking about any other woman again.
But it wasn’t just the sex. It was the rest of it. She talked to him. She told him what she was thinking, and she listened to his reply. She heard him admit that he wasn’t perfect, that he had doubts about himself, about his being a father, about his being a son. She was there for all of that and more. She was there for everything.
And he’d blown it all because he couldn’t imagine a life where baseball wasn’t the single most important thing in the world. He couldn’t imagine putting someone else’s needs before his own overpowering desire to match Iron Dan’s career.
Make this right.
Yeah, like DJ had the first idea how to do that.
But what else had Ormond said? Figure out what matters to her.
Musicall mattered to Sam. Bringing the power of music to all those kids. And that was the one thing he’d taken from her, without a second thought, without even an apology.
He slammed his right hand down on the bench, hard enough to make himself wince. Listening to Ormond’s advice or not, DJ was no closer to a solution. But he knew he had to find one, because this hell couldn’t go on.
* * *
Sam crouched in the middle of the back row of the Wake County Auditorium. She’d dressed to fit in with the crowd—jeans, a bright green T-shirt that said Wake County Summer Fair, comfortable sandals. In an effort to avoid being recognized, she’d braided her hair, and she’d skipped all her makeup.
So far, no one had realized she was the former Summer Queen. So far, no one had asked why she was hiding in the back of an over-air-conditioned auditorium instead of standing on stage, wearing an evening gown, holding a bouquet of roses and preparing to hand over her tiara to the next reigning queen.
The contestants had just finished their presentations. All five judges, led by Judith Burroughs, had ostentatiously left their seats, heading back to the sound-proof room where they would assign their final scores, calculate their totals, and designate the next year’s Summer Queen.
Sam knew exactly what the contestants were doing as they waited in the wings. Some chatted nervously with their colleagues. Others paced with tight, tiny steps, mincing in their high heels. A few had their heads bowed as they prayed to be chosen.
The current Summer Queen stood on the other side of the auditorium, just offstage. She was alone, left to think about the wonder that had been her year of power and prestige, her reign. Of course, the current Summer Queen hadn’t had an entire year to reign. She’d had one month since she’d taken over for the disgraced Samantha Winger.
But Sam had to admit, no matter how hard her heart clenched when she thought about it now, she wouldn’t do anything differently.
She had gone to DJ because he was hurting. Because he had to know she loved him. Sure, nothing had worked out the way she’d intended—the cameras had caught them, and they’d fought, and she’d been fired from the one job where she’d truly believed she was making a difference.
But the alternative would have been to stay silent. To never let DJ know that someone had his back.
Sam closed her eyes, slouching deeper into her chair. This past month had been a nightmare. She had tried to focus on Musicall, tried to resurrect the program without the pageant’s support. Over and over again, she heard the same message—school officials loved her plans, and they supported her mission. But they simply did not have the funds to offer the program as a summer camp, much less in the next academic year. Without money, everything ground to a halt.
She’d tried to find a sponsor. She’d reached out to dozens of Wake County small businesses, to the Mom and Pop stores she’d helped as Summer Queen. Mr. Marx, the owner of the organic grocery store, though, had spoken for all when he said, “Maybe, if we had more time, to build it into our budget. Check back next year.”
There wouldn’t be a next year.
Sam had to get her life back on track. She had to set aside the dream of Musicall once and for all. She had to find a paying job, get on with the business of living her life.
A life without DJ Thomas. She couldn’t believe how much she missed him. Even now, four weeks since they’d spoken, she hoped to see his name every time her phone buzzed. She expected to laugh at his texts. She started to call him with her own amusing tales, quick little stories about how her day had gone. Four separate times, she’d driven to his house, but she’d never had the nerve to get out of her car.
The audience’s rumble grew louder, as people waited for the judges to make their decision. Sam barely heard the person next to her ask, “Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
She shook her head, automatically pasting on a smile before she opened her eyes.
“DJ!” She almost choked on her harsh whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might want company when they choose the next Summer Queen. You shouldn’t be alone today.”
“Hush!” she said, automatically looking around at the crowd. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to overhear him. It was bad enough she was watching the selection; she couldn’t bear to be the center of attention if anyone recognized her. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“You’re the one who told me about watching from the back row.”
She had told him that, about ice cream and movies and her mother. He didn’t have to grin like that when he reminded her, though. He didn’t have to look so damn gorgeous, either. Those jeans looked like they’d been sculpted just for him, and that black T-shirt was tight enough that she didn’t have to use her imagination to picture the muscles across his chest. Her imagination, or her memory…
As she tried to think of a witty reply, the contestants filed on stage, taking their places in a precise arc. Sam knew they’d practiced
the formation half a dozen times in the preceding week. She could remember the butterflies she’d had in her own stomach when she’d stood up there, the frantic, desperate uncertainty as she’d watched the judges resume their seats. Upping the ante, there were three separate cameramen from the local news. Bill Morton himself waited to interview the new queen on behalf of Wake Up Wake County.
Trying to distract herself from the competition, from the wave of nerves that threatened to overwhelm her even now, she said to DJ, “I’m fine. You didn’t have to come here. I don’t need you to hold my hand.” As if to prove her point, she moved her elbow off the armrest they shared.
“Holding your hand wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, sweetheart.”
His arch words lashed through her. He could have said them in any of their phone conversations, any one of those long nights they’d talked till dawn. “That’s it?” she said. “You break my heart, and then you think a little flirting will make everything all right?”
As if to give her a credible distraction, Judith Burroughs stepped up to the lectern. The grande dame was in her element, clearly relishing the attention on her pageant, on her contestants. She brandished an envelope sealed with a green ribbon.
DJ ignored the stage. Instead, he set his hand along the line of Sam’s jaw. His touch was soft, tender, and his palm brushed against her lips. Unwilling, she breathed in the familiar cedar scent of him, and she bit her lower lip as her belly swooped past her knees. “I never meant to break your heart,” he said. “I was an idiot.”
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now. Not when Judith Burroughs was clearing her throat, about to announce the new Summer Queen.
There. The familiar whiskey-and-cigarette rumble was projected through the sound system: “The Wake County Summer Fair has a long tradition of…”
When she opened her eyes, DJ’s hand still hovered by her face. “Please,” she said, but she didn’t pull away.
“Hush!” Two people turned around in front of her, holding fingers to their lips and nodding angrily toward the stage.
“Sam, I said things to you I never should have said. I was angry—with myself for screwing up the game, with my father for…being my father. I never should have taken my frustration out on you. You never deserved that.”
“Be quiet!” snapped someone two rows away.
“DJ,” Sam said, taking his hand in hers, trying to stop him, trying to disappear beneath the angry glares of the Summer Fair patrons. She couldn’t believe what he was saying. The apology she’d longed for, the confession she’d craved. But how could this be happening here, in the Wake County Auditorium, with thousands of curious eyes, all beginning to turn toward her?
A man near the aisle ordered, “Shut up!” As if to emphasize the command, Judith leaned closer to the microphone, raising her voice as she said, “The Summer Queen represents everything that is good and pure and true about our community.”
But Sam wasn’t feeling good or pure or true as DJ’s fingers clutched hers. The last thing she was thinking about was community as he said, “I get it now. I really do. You were only trying to make me see what was best for Daniel.”
Daniel. That was the first time she’d ever heard DJ call his son anything other than Trey. That was the first time DJ had acknowledged, even tacitly, that his son might break free from the baseball dynasty that had brought him so many mixed emotions. Her heart swelled, and she had trouble drawing a full breath.
DJ shook his head as if she’d made some protest out loud. “It’s not right Sam. This is all my fault. You shouldn’t be abandoned in the back row of a theater, while someone takes your place on stage.”
He was speaking at full volume, and a dozen people turned to stare. His hand clutched hers, as if he could force her to understand him, as if he could pour all of his emotions into her. His strength surrounded her like a tangible aura, the sheer certainty that had led a team of men to victory, game after game. She rose when he did; she let him guide her past the knees of the other people in their row.
“Come on, DJ,” she whispered urgently. “We can talk in the lobby.” She tugged him toward the auditorium doors.
But there was no moving DJ Thomas when he didn’t want to be moved. He stood a head taller than she did. His shoulders were broad enough to block her view of the contestants. His fingers tightened on hers, pulling her close. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Samantha Winger,” he said fiercely. “You never did anything wrong.”
Up on the stage, Judith put a hand to her brow, trying to peer past the lights to determine what inconsiderate lout was interrupting her award ceremony. Two of the other judges stood, craning their necks to make out what was going on.
DJ had obviously intended her name to be heard. The audience began to whisper, and several people turned around, jostling each other for a better view. One of the cameramen trotted down the aisle, shouldering his equipment as he crouched before them.
“DJ, we can’t do this here,” Sam said. But no one had ever told DJ Thomas what to do and when to do it. Not if he didn’t already want to be told. “Not in public.”
“We have to do this here,” he contradicted, projecting his voice toward the stage, and the apoplectic Judith Burroughs. “My being stupid in public cost you your crown. This is the only way I can try to make it up to you.”
Sam saw the red light on the camera. Her reply was being captured, live. She knew she should be embarrassed. Shocked. But the only thing she felt was an overwhelming happiness that she was finally talking to DJ again, that he had found her and apologized to her. Even if he was turning things into a spectacle. “DJ, you don’t have to make it up to me.”
For a reply, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He produced a slip of paper, which he unfolded and displayed above his head. “This is for you, Sam. For Musicall.”
He was a ballplayer. He lived his life in front of crowds, in front of cameras. He knew precisely how to manage the attention of thousands, how to capture their imagination, their hopes, their dreams.
He let the camera focus on the paper, held it steady for a count of five. And then he handed the thing to Sam.
It was a check. A large one, printed by a bank, drawn on the account of the Daniel Thomas Junior Foundation. On the Memo line, in capital letters, it said, “FOR THE CREATION AND FUNDING OF MUSICALL.” And there were enough zeroes that her heart skipped a beat.
“DJ, you can’t do this.”
“I already have.”
“Why?” It was the only question she could ask. The only one where the answer mattered more than anything else had mattered in her entire life.
“I know one student, Daniel, who will be heartbroken if he can’t go to Musicall camp for the summer. And he’ll never forgive me if there isn’t an after-school program next year.”
“But Musicall is my project,” she insisted. “I’m the one responsible for funding it.”
“Can’t it be ours?” he asked. And before the words were fully out of his mouth, he sank to one knee.
He moved with the grace of an athlete, of a man fully in control of every muscle in his body. His back was straight. His head was tilted at a precise angle. He caught her free hand in one of his and produced a black velvet box from his pocket.
One flick of his thumb, and she was staring at the most gorgeous diamond ring she had ever seen—a platinum band, with an emerald-cut stone that captured all the light in the auditorium. “Samantha Winger,” he said, in a voice that echoed in the suddenly dead-silent room. “Will you marry me?”
She was laughing. She was crying. She was trembling, as if her knees were about to give out and she might sink to the floor and never rise again. She knew that every single person in the Wake County Auditorium was staring at her—at them—and yet the only thing she saw was the man who knelt before her.
DJ measured her with the precision stare of a man used to taking signals from the plate. She saw his eyes flick to her hand, safe inside his.
He glanced at her throat as she swallowed. He followed the flick of her tongue as she wet her lips.
But his gaze settled on hers—patient. Kind. Loving.
“Yes,” she said, and the clutch of his fingers around hers was the only thing that kept her standing. “Yes, DJ Thomas. I’ll marry you.”
He hurtled from his knees and slipped the ring on her finger before he pulled her close. She felt his laughter deep in his chest, the vibration sparking along every nerve of her body. His right hand tightened on her hip, telegraphing an entire playbook of need. His left hand cupped the back of her neck, tilting her head to the perfect angle. His lips on hers were chaste, but only for a heartbeat. He deepened the kiss, asking, answering, and she knew it would take decades for them to complete the conversation.
But for now, the cameras were rolling; they were being broadcast live from the Summer Fair. Bill Morton was pushing forward, microphone at the ready. Audience members were pressing close, raising their phones to snatch so many photos that Sam saw stars.
Or maybe that was just the effect of standing in DJ’s arms.
Realizing that she needed to restore the slightest remnant of decorum, Sam took a half step away. But she laced her fingers between DJ’s, determined to keep him close as they faced the press together. Questions began to fly, with Bill Morton taking the lead.
She found the red light of the closest camera, and she raised her hand so that her engagement ring sparkled. Tossing back her hair, she moistened her lips and offered up her first answer. “Yes, Bill,” she said. “Thank you for asking. I’ve known DJ Thomas for a couple of months now. Ever since he compared his great pitching to the hard work of being the Summer Queen.”
The crowd laughed. They were all in on the joke. They knew her past with DJ.
Sam settled closer to the man she loved as she answered a flurry of questions about their future, about the life they intended to share together, forever. Somehow, she suspected it would be a long time before the ceremony got back on track and the next Summer Queen was crowned.
