The Masks of October
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
October 20
October 21 – October 25
October 25
October 26
October 27
October 28
October 29
October 30
October 31
November 1
November 2
Loose Id Titles by MJ Compton
MJ Compton
THE MASKS OF OCTOBER
MJ Compton
www.loose-id.com
The Masks of October
Copyright © October 2016 by MJ Compton
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eISBN 9781682522394
Editor: Heather L. Bosch
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Published in the United States of America
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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
To the Purples: Gayle Callen, Kris Fletcher, Carol Lombardo, and Christine Wenger, who are the best friends a writer could have. If not for their support, this novella would not have been written.
Acknowledgment
Micaela Compton, for her endless patience in answering restaurant/cooking questions.
Matthew Healy, brainstorming at the water cooler.
Elisa Konieczko, PhD, Full Professor of Biology, Gannon University (and fellow baseball fan) for help defining Tag’s injury.
John Burt for insight into his wife Jessica’s work as a doctor of physical therapy.
TV Stevie for answering bizarre baseball questions.
October 20
Game 7, National League Championship Series
Tucker Alexander Gentry, known throughout the baseball universe as Tag, squatted behind home plate. His thigh muscles burned. He glared at the pitcher on the mound.
The entire season had come down to this moment. Game seven of the National League Championship Series. Top of the ninth inning. Two outs. The Columbia Gems were up by one, and Tag meant to keep the score that way. The tying run was on second base—some cocky wiseass New York had recently called up from Triple-A for the postseason. The go-ahead run was on first.
And Adam Chrestler, the Gems’ closing pitcher, was shaking off Tag’s signals. The oversize digital scoreboard played stupid cartoon graphics behind Chrestler’s head. The ballpark was so silent Tag thought he heard the hot dog vendor on the third-base side of the stadium scouring his grill.
Tag thrust his hand between his splayed thighs and flashed the sign for a slider. Do not pitch a fastball. Chrestler’s slider was working. And the batter at the plate could knock a fastball out of the park.
If that happened, the Gems would hang up their cleats until spring. If not, the team would go to the World Series. Only one out away.
Don’t think ahead. One game at a time.
If Chrestler threw a fastball, Tag would personally break a couple of the pitcher’s fingers.
Chrestler released the ball. The hitter swung. The bat met the ball—loud as a firecracker—but not with the distinctive sound only made by the sweet spot on a maple bat connecting with cowhide. The batter had gotten under the pitch. Long fly ball. Leisurely sailing toward right field. The sole shooting star against the black backdrop of the nighttime sky.
The right fielder adjusted his cup and positioned his body for the catch. The play should have resulted in an easy out, but the ball smacked his glove before it bobbled to the grass.
The fans groaned, but Tag barely heard them. He focused on the punk who tagged up at second and headed for third. Tag threw off his mask and readied himself to protect home plate. Yep. The New York third-base coach was waving the punk home.
Shit, he was fast.
Tag stood directly behind the plate, silently cursing the rule change that prevented him from blocking the base. He wasn’t taking any chances the out would be overturned because he’d messed up. Because he was going to make the out. Ensure his team would go to the World Series.
The ball rocketed in from right field. Punk’s teeth flashed in a cocky grin the second before he went into his slide
Tag stretched himself to catch the ball that was zooming toward him. The punk was sliding. Dust and chalk from the base path were like a jet contrail pluming behind him.
The ball landed in Tag’s mitt, stinging his palm ever so slightly. He lunged forward, twisted ever so slightly, and tagged Punk’s foot before it touched the base. The ump called the out.
Punk’s cleats connected with the back of Tag’s right knee where his leg guards didn’t cover. Retracted ever so slightly, and then slammed the spot anew with the full force of Punk’s body behind it.
It didn’t matter. The game was over. The Columbia Gems had won the National League Pennant and were World Series bound.
Tag’s teammates burst from the dugout and jumped him. Pounded his back. Danced around home plate. Fireworks exploded in the no-man’s land behind the scoreboard, and a sulfuric stench from the gunpowder wafted into the stadium.
Tag’s throat was dry from the billowing dust and all the whooping. He couldn’t wait to get into the clubhouse and pop open the champagne management had on ice for just this occasion. It was sure going to taste mighty fine.
His teammates finally decided to let him up. He tried to stand.
His first clue something was wrong was the way his right leg wouldn’t support him. The second indication was the pain that stole his breath and a sense of wetness. He hadn’t been doused with the water bucket—that honor was reserved for the manager—so he looked down. And nearly puked.
* * * *
Celeste Schuyler, Skye to her friends, wiped her brow with the back of her hand as she caught the end of the game on one of the many clubhouse monitors. The Gems winning the pennant was too good to be true. Skye’s the Limit had a contract to cater the pregame clubhouse meals through the postseason. And she provided food to the luxury boxes, which would definitely be full for the World Series. Nobody had believed the Gems would go as far as they had, so she hadn’t figured any postseason work into her schedule.
Tag Gentry’s spectacular play had just guaranteed her at
least two more jobs with the Gems this season. Work she needed to make the balloon payment due on her mortgage.
Not that Tag had won the game for her. Okay, so she had a little crush on him. Just a tiny one. Mostly because he flirted with her. She didn’t read anything into his charming ways. She’d been feeding him before every home game since April, and he didn’t even know her name.
“How about a kiss for luck, Red?” he’d ask before taking the field. Nope. He hadn’t won this baseball game for her. He had no idea how desperately she needed the cash the additional games would bring.
She couldn’t tear her attention from the silent monitor when she should have been scrubbing the steam table pans. The final out was being replayed. Skye was certain Tag’s heroics would be analyzed to death over the next couple of days.
“Holy shit,” someone said. “Tag Gentry is hurt.”
Someone turned up the audio. Skye could see an amoeba stain of brilliant red oozing over the white uniform. None of the players bouncing on Tag seemed to notice until they decided to let him up.
Tag tried to stand. Most of the blood was coming from his knee.
“Oh!” Skye couldn’t help the exclamation. Because there was more than a bloody knee wrong with Tag Gentry. Someone had ripped off his leg guards, revealing something like a tent pole bursting from his leg …
Although her first instinct was to gag, Skye dropped her scouring pad into the pan and hurried to the lobby of the clubhouse, along with almost everyone else who wasn’t on the field.
The standby ambulance team rushed through with a gurney. The monitors in the lobby showed the Gems falling away from Tag’s supine body. Then the camera zoomed in as close as it could while the announcers spewed rampant speculation about the extent of Tag’s injuries.
Skye turned away from the monitor to stare at the tunnel to the field. She cupped her right elbow in her left hand and chewed on her right thumbnail. Deep breaths didn’t ease the tightness in her chest.
Security started clearing the lobby. Of course. The gurney carrying Tag would need unimpeded access to the ambulance.
Skye knew she should return to her cleaning up. Get back to her office and figure out what she’d need by way of supplies for the first two games of the World Series and how much closer to her dollar goal those two games would bring her.
The EMTs rushed through the tunnel. The rumble of the gurney wheels on the uneven concrete floor stopped Skye from returning to her task.
She couldn’t help herself. She moved forward, wanting a better look at Tag.
His face was as white as the sheets concealing the hideous rearrangement of his leg. His eyes were closed, and his black lashes were stark against his skin.
Skye must have made some sort of sound, because Tag opened his eyes. Homed in on her.
“Hey, Red. How about a kiss for luck?”
The EMTs rushed toward the ambulance.
“Hey guys, slow down,” she heard him say as he whisked past her. “I need my good-luck kiss.”
All season, Skye had ignored Tag’s flirtatious invitation. He hadn’t needed luck. The Gems had a phenomenal season and a miracle postseason.
“Hey, Red,” Tag called as the gurney left the stadium. “You owe me one.”
“I didn’t realize you were…intimate with Gentry.”
Skye turned to find Drake Dixon, majority shareholder of the Columbia Gems, standing behind her.
“I’m not. He likes to flirt.” She didn’t want Mr. Dixon to get the wrong idea. He had a huge say in whether or not her contract with the Gems would be renewed the following season. She knew he liked her food. He’d hired her to cater his upcoming Halloween party. But that didn’t guarantee another contract with the Gems.
Mr. Dixon stepped closer. Too close. The miasma of his musk-laden cologne roiled in her stomach.
“Are the extra games going to create a problem for you?” he asked.
Skye forced a smile. “I’ll make it work.”
Some women might find Mr. Dixon attractive. Skye did not number among them. His eyes were too blue, his hair too golden, and his manner too suavely self-assured. His hands wandered too much. Like now. Reaching for her hand.
“Glad to know you’re a team player.”
October 21 – October 25
A compound tibial shaft fracture. That was just the bone problem. The least of Tag’s injuries. The New York punk had used his cleats to mangle some other stuff. Tag vaguely remembered hearing “common fibular nerve, sural fascia, gastrocnemius” and a couple of other anatomical terms. All he knew was his leg was messed up bad, and even though his play put his team in the World Series, he was staying home. He might get a championship ring out of ruining his leg. Some might say what he’d done was enough to earn one. But it wasn’t the same thing. He’d been so close to the World Series. Yogi Berra was the only man in the history of baseball to catch a perfect World Series game, and Tag desperately wanted to be the second.
Fucking New York punk.
Just thinking about having to watch the Series from a hospital bed was enough to make Tag want to punch something. Like maybe one of the incessantly beeping monitors to which he was connected. He had money. His agent could negotiate with the team for home care. His penthouse was plenty big enough for whatever was needed.
* * * *
Skye went over her ledger. If the Gems took the World Series to seven games—as they’d done with the championship series—she would be short only a few hundred dollars on her mortgage payment. There was one little problem: games six and seven would be played after the November first due date.
There was still Drake Dixon’s Halloween party between now and her deadline, but as much as Dixon was paying her, it still wouldn’t be quite enough.
If only there was a way to add another week or two to the calendar. Or at least to her grace period.
The only thing in life she ever wanted was a permanent home. Purchasing the old restaurant for her catering business had made sense at the time. So had the mortgage. But she must have been blinded by the stars in her eyes, because when the bank sent a reminder about the balloon payment, she’d been shocked.
Her cell phone buzzed at her elbow. The Gems’ front office was calling, probably wanting to confirm the dates and times of the first two games of the World Series.
“Skye’s the Limit. Skye speaking.”
She listened. She doodled. She listened some more.
Tag Gentry was home from the hospital and needed someone to provide meals for him. The team wanted to hire her to feed him. And someone was going to pay her a whole lot of money to do so.
How could she turn down the job?
She couldn’t. The player being Tag Gentry meant nothing. She was professional enough not to let her little crush interfere with doing the job.
Maybe she’d just been granted a miracle.
* * * *
Thank God he wasn’t stuck in a rehab center.
Team management wanted Tag in a professional facility. Tag even understood why. But he had most of the equipment he’d needed right in his workout room in his penthouse. The physical therapist could damned well come to him. He was the hero of the moment. A little gratitude was in order.
Either way, he was going to go nuts. He called his current lady friend, but she was out of the country. Terra Baldwin was a reporter for a cable news network and was always running off to the far corners of the globe in search of a story.
“I’m in Wheretheheckistan,” she’d told him. “I heard rumors the government was going to test a nuclear weapon.”
That was his Terra. Always on an adventure. No wonder they got along so well. When they saw each other. It had been a while. He could have used a little female company while he was grounded.
His chest was so tight it hurt to breathe. He should be at the stadium, taking batting practice, working with the bullpen. He needed to be with his team. The backup catcher was okay, but he wasn’t World Series ready.
T
he Gems were so fucked.
He said as much to his agent when Marty called.
“They know that. And you’re fucked anyway, so quit stressing.” Marty Fiscoe was not a coddler. “Your physical therapist is coming to your place. Any equipment you don’t have, they’ll order in.”
“The team’s paying, right?”
“I’m still working on that. The team would have paid for the rehab facility. Moving the facility to your place might be a different song. You’ve got a day nurse and night nurse coming in, and your meals will be brought in by the team caterer.”
Tag didn’t need taking care of. He needed something to do.
Or so he thought, until his physical therapist, a Bluto clone, showed up. The guy was a sadist. Tag reminded him about the tibial whatever bone sticking out through his skin, but Bluto didn’t seem to give a shit.
Neither did the day nurse. A guy. Who looked vaguely familiar. Like Hans, from old seasons of Saturday Night Live. And so Tag dubbed the male night nurse Franz.
When did men start being nurses? Tag had been hoping for a busty blonde, but the way his luck had been going, Tag could have gotten stuck with Nurse Ratched.
He tried to convince himself the testosterone was good for his recovery. There were only four months until pitchers and catchers had to report for spring training, and Dr. Jekyll, also known as Dr. Jackson, had warned Tag he might not be ready. His injuries were too severe.
Concentrate on getting better. Don’t get distracted.
Franz opened the door for the caterer.
Red. Tag’s pulse jumpstarted. “You here to give me that kiss for luck you owe me?”
She smiled. “Nope. I’m here to feed you.”
“Man food, I hope.”
“Healing food,” Red replied.
He’d never paid much attention to the team caterer, other than her hair and asking her for a kiss before every home game. It was just something he did. Completely harmless.
He stopped his wheelchair in the door of the kitchen and watched her unload packages onto his counter.