by Pamela Aares
Chloe stalked to the press room. It was empty. Maybe she had the location wrong. Since returning from Nebraska that morning, she hadn’t been thinking as clearly as she wanted, as she needed to be thinking. The cooling-off period she’d called into play with Scotty wasn’t in any way comforting. The decision to tell him she wanted a hiatus had made sense as she’d pondered it at the Donovan’s—had made sense but still was a painful move. The look in his eyes as she’d spoken the words could’ve been anger but had looked more like the pain she’d had to overcome just to say them.
She’d been so sure that a month off would calm her and give her time to focus on the business of running the Sabers. In a month she and Scotty could see where they stood. If what they shared was strong enough, surely it could survive a month of separation. But as the day wore on she’d been more distracted by her thoughts and feelings about him, not less. As if all the feelings he’d stirred were being poured into her through a funnel, straight to her heart, bypassing her brain.
But the stadium vote was less than three weeks away. After the vote, she and Scotty could . . . could what?
She waved her hands through the air, wishing she could conjure a private world, a world apart from all the scrutiny. A world where the feelings she had for Scotty—feelings she almost hadn’t dared to believe could be real, hadn’t dared to believe existed except in stories—could flourish. But the one thing she hadn’t been very courageous about, hadn’t felt in any position to explore, was how he felt about her. The prospect of asking him if they had any future, if he wanted them to have any future, loomed more daunting than the stadium vote.
She sat on the stool at the far end of the room, tapping her foot against the lowest rung and cursing the blasted city council for dragging their heels on the stadium vote. Firing Fisher might be the only way to stop him from doing more damage. She’d have to pay out his contract, but that was nothing compared to the cleanup she’d be doing on the team. She’d get rid of his boys first thing. Already she’d seen the rifts they’d caused; they weren’t the right players for the Sabers.
George Ellis had called as she’d worked through lunch. He was willing to come back and finish out the season and help her find someone she trusted to take over after that. But he still needed a few weeks. A few more weeks shouldn’t matter. But the quietly insistent voice deep in her heart would not be so easily silenced into agreement.
The door opened and Amy Peroni walked in.
“Oh, sorry,” Amy said with a wave. “I thought the press conference was in here.”
“That makes two of us.” Chloe was in no mood to be grilled, publicly or privately. Besides, there was no such thing as private when it came to the press.
Amy crossed the room, her shoes clacking on the tile, and rested one hand on the stool next to Chloe’s. “Mind if I have a word with you?”
Chloe did mind, but she shook her head.
“I’ve been a field reporter for five years,” Amy said as she slid onto the stool and clicked her heels onto the lower rung.
Navigating a ball field in four-inch heels like Amy’s was a feat Chloe wasn’t sure she could master. Distracted, Chloe nodded. Her mind was still picking through her options for her strategy to fire Fisher. If only the land the city owned wasn't so damn perfect for the stadium, it wouldn't matter if she ruffled a few feathers by firing him immediately. If they pulled the deal, she could just buy some other property and stop fretting. But that would delay the build-out. She'd have to start all over with approvals and permits and . . . and it wouldn't be the same. The city property was the spot her dad had chosen. She was going to see that his dream became a reality. No matter what Fisher tried to pull.
“You may not want any advice, but I’d like to offer some. I like you.” Amy leaned forward. “And I know something about being a woman in a man’s job.”
Maybe it was the sincerity Chloe heard in Amy’s voice. Maybe it was the way she sat, comfortable, with body language that said she had nothing to hide. Whatever it was that arrested Chloe’s attention, she wanted to hear what the woman had to say.
“That would be very kind,” Chloe said.
“I’ve watched you with the press. They want to like you, you know.”
She didn’t. It sure hadn’t felt that way over the past few weeks.
“They loved your dad. He always had time for them.” Amy slid off the stool and walked a few steps away.
“My dad was a baseball wizard.”
“He had heart, Miss McNalley.”
“Chloe.”
“Chloe,” Amy repeated with a rather genuine smile. “You’ve got a heart for the game too, I can feel it. If you show more of that, you’ll have the press at your feet.”
Chloe stiffened. Showing her heart right now would be very dangerous. If anyone got wind of her relationship with Scotty, there’d be a feeding frenzy. Topping that off with news of Fisher’s antics, she could kiss the new stadium goodbye.
“What I mean is show them you know something about the game. Don’t let Fisher do all your talking. He’s a bad front man for you.”
A couple of network cameramen walked into the room and stopped when they saw Amy and Chloe.
“Press conference in here?” the shorter man asked.
“Why not?” Chloe said with a smile to Amy. She reached for the phone on the wall and punched in the front office press desk. “Tell everyone the conference is in the press room.” The press assistant told her that Fisher was already down on the field. “Then tell him too.”
Chloe let Fisher open the press conference and make his announcement about signing the Rays’ player. But she saw the surprise in his eyes as she stepped up and announced that the stadium committee she’d assembled with the city council and its representatives had chosen the architecture firm for the new stadium. They’d designed the gorgeous ballpark in San Francisco, and she assured the reporters that although they didn’t have sweeping views of the bay, the new Sabers’ stadium would look out to the hills in the west and have the same open feeling. She fielded questions about the design and the public facilities. When the reporters asked about the upcoming vote, she assured them that the benefits to the city would be obvious to the council. Her plan, she said, without looking once at Fisher, was to make the Sabers’ new stadium a showpiece for the community and a facility that served baseball better than any that had ever been built.
Some of the reporters applauded as she stepped down from the dais. Amy Peroni smiled and shot her a thumbs-up. Her enthusiastic approval settled some of the jitters in Chloe’s stomach. Maybe someday she would feel comfortable in front of cameras, but not today.
Two days later Chloe sat in her office at the stadium, tapping her fingers against the dark wood of her dad’s desk. During last night’s game, Scotty’s pitching still hadn’t been up to par. Pitches that should’ve gone exactly where he intended were missing the plate, and he’d walked four hitters in two innings. Chloe thought about texting him, but what she had to say about his pitching mechanics was way too complicated for a text message.
And she didn’t know how he’d take pitching advice from her, even though she knew she was right about what was wrong.
She hadn’t spoken with him since their plane ride back from Nebraska. When she’d seen him in the stadium, he’d turned away. His execution of the cooling-off plan was painfully serious.
Being apart from him was like shutting down a flame in the core of her, snuffing out the spark she craved. But the fire they’d started had grown beyond her ability to control. He was on her mind night and day, and the hole he’d left in her life spread dark and deep. Some days she felt she might fall into that empty space and never come out.
Besides, she’d no doubt projected way ahead of reality. He might like having her in his bed, but there’d been little indication of anything beyond that. They hadn’t dated openly since that would have been improper. But, she reminded herself, sleeping together was even more improper. That it seemed safer was
only a function of not having been caught.
And maybe she’d only been a challenge. Guys liked a challenge.
She slammed her fists to the desk top, not believing her conclusion. There had to have been more between them.
She wished she had a brother. She imagined a brother would be a great help in understanding the minds of men or at least one man in particular.
The night she and Scotty had spent under the stars in Nebraska was more than amazing—it’d felt like a miracle. Never had she laughed with a man while making love. Never had she felt so buoyed and yet so free. And after, as they’d talked cosmology and baseball, life and death and play, and he’d altered her perception about the night sky, their rapport had made her decision to cool their relationship almost impossible to announce.
Though she’d been tempted to get in touch with Scotty since then, she knew that texting him, calling him, any personal contact was a bad idea and wouldn’t be fair to either of them. She’d thought about telling Mullen, the Sabers’ pitching coach, about what she’d noticed in Scotty’s mechanics, but direct interference from her would be out of line. She laughed at the irony—since she’d taken the helm of the team, just about everything she’d done had been out of bounds. She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that visions of Scotty weren’t the only worries keeping her awake into the night and early morning. Her doubts loomed large, as thoughts in the night so often did. Some nights she paced for hours, wondering if she’d made a mistake by keeping the team. Wondering if her dad had made a mistake trusting her.
She didn’t want to let him down.
A phone rang in an office down the hall, reminding her that now was not the time for mooning over a man. Staffers passed her door, going about their business, their feet tapping on the tile floor and for the first time since she'd taken the helm, she felt a vague sense of . . . the feeling wasn't quite fear, but she'd be lying if she didn't admit that her confidence had taken a beating. She'd been comfortable in the world at Stanford, but now her life there didn't seem real. As she sat in her office—overlooking a ballpark, of all things—drumming her fingers on her desk and weighing ways to handle the newest challenges, her sense of humor finally got the best of her. She imagined starting a newsletter for women who owned teams. It'd have a small circulation, but the headlines would raise a few eyebrows in the sports world. Women telling the truth almost always rocked the status quo.
She shook off her thoughts and turned her mind back to the present. She’d called a meeting with Charley Kemp, and he’d be walking through her door in less than five minutes. The best thing would be to tell Charley what she saw in Scotty’s movements and let Charley sort it out. It was his job and he was damn good at it. If he thought she was being ridiculous, at least he wouldn’t tell anyone what she’d told him. And he wouldn’t mock her for simply offering the advice.
“This must be hard for you,” Charley said as he walked into the office and glanced around.
Chloe hadn’t moved any of her dad’s things. She wasn’t ready to replace what was important to him, to change his decisions, and might never be.
“It helps to have his things around me, Charley. It’s like he’s still here.”
“I’m sure he is. He’d be proud of you, how you’ve held up under scrutiny. I wish I could make the transition easier.”
“There is something you could help me with.” She wished she could tell him of her plans to rid them of Fisher, but that wouldn’t be wise. She still needed to line up facts, wait for the vote and get George back so it’d be a swift, clean break.
“Shoot.”
She fiddled with a stack of papers on the desk. Her carefully scripted words became muddled, and suddenly she felt deeply ill at ease.
“Chloe?”
She met his eyes. He was her ally. “I’m not sure how to say this—”
“Best to spit it out. We can untangle any blunders later.”
She hoped he was right. He might be able to help her now, but suddenly she wished he could help her with what was really bothering her. Not Fisher, that she could handle, would handle. If only she could tell Charley the truth about her feelings for Scotty. But she couldn’t. He wouldn’t understand.
“I saw something in Scotty’s mechanics.” She couldn’t tell him where. “When he throws out of the stretch, his lead elbow isn’t lining up, and he’s bending his front knee too much when he plants his foot.” She didn’t have to tell Charley that those two things in combination would affect Scotty’s aim and velocity. “He’s losing torque. It’s a small thing, but I think it’s what’s giving him trouble. But more than that, it’s as though he’s getting ahead of himself. Like he’s reaching forward into time instead of being right there with the pitch.”
Charley stroked his chin and stared at her. When he didn’t respond, she added, “Call it . . . oh, I don’t know.” She let out an exasperated breath. “Call it intuition. I saw it.”
“Strange that Mullen didn’t pick it up. Or me. But he’s had his hands full with the bullpen.” He rubbed at his chin. “I saw that he was losing torque and hitters had more time to read the ball. Yet because his shoulders lined up, I hadn’t noticed his elbow angles. Still, I should’ve seen it. But the timing thing, I saw that. Darnedest thing. Didn’t know how to put it into words.” He crossed his arms. “Leave it to our cosmology professor to nail that one.”
“It’s just a hunch.”
“It’s more than a hunch, Chloe. Don’t downplay what you know. You’ve been around the game almost as long as I have.”
“Not as close.” She felt the color rise in her face. If she hadn’t known Scotty’s body as well as she did—if she hadn’t felt him react and move with her—would she have seen the hitch? “As I said, I just wanted you to check it out.”
Her phone rang. Caller ID said Mike Thomas.
“I need to take this, Charley.”
He donned his cap, tipped it at her and walked out, closing the door behind him.
She’d crossed a line by telling Charley what she’d seen in Scotty’s movements. Another one. She’d crossed many in the past few months, most of which she’d never imagined existed. Calling upon her instincts and wisdom should have felt better than it did, but the nagging tug in her belly told her there’d be a price to pay. She prayed she’d have the courage to pay it.
Chapter Eighteen
Chloe hadn’t been in the Crossroads bookstore since the day she and Scotty had run into each other there. Had it only been three months?
The previous night Scotty had pitched a near perfect game. There’d been no hitch, just fluid, confident pitching. He blew the Rangers’ hitters away, and the Sabers won five to nothing. Scotty had texted her at six that morning, wanting to meet for coffee. Though she knew she shouldn’t, she agreed to meet at ten thirty. So much for resolve. They’d made it exactly ten days.
She’d chosen to meet up in San Francisco, thinking it might feel removed from the turmoil in San Jose.
She was early. Walking the aisles, perusing books, might calm the thudding in her chest. But when she saw Scotty walk through the door, her heart picked up its pace. He tilted his head toward the table in the corner of the bookstore café. Clutching her mocha, she joined him at the still rickety table.
“No cookies?” His smile seemed forced.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Bad sign,” he said.
“Great game last night.”
He ran his tongue to the side of his mouth and nodded. “Charley told me it was you who figured out my hitch.”
A bottomless nothingness yawned beneath her. She gripped her coffee, brought it to her lips and took a sip. She knew then that whatever she’d imagined this reunion to be, it wasn’t going to take the shape she’d expected.
“It was just a hunch. I saw you do it in Nebraska.”
“And on the field.”
“And on the field.” She wouldn’t lie.
“And the timing thing. Charley said I
was reaching into eternity and needed to focus on now.” She couldn’t tell if the expression on his face was a smirk or a puzzled smile.
“I didn’t say it quite like that.”
He didn’t say anything, just pushed back from the table.
She fingered the rim of her cup. “I could bring in that pitching coach you mentioned, the one from the East Coast. Charley likes him. He could work with you. You could—”
“Stop.”
He fisted his hand against the table. He was angry, something she hadn’t expected.
“It’s my life out there. It’s not up to you.”
But it was. And that was the problem.
“The team is my responsibility,” she said, wishing for something, anything, to pacify the reeling in her belly.
“You could’ve told me. Directly.”
She shook her head, feeling like a rudderless boat cut loose in a storm. “We had an agreement.”
“Chloe, I thought we—” He pressed his fists to the table and leaned toward her. “You should have said something.”
When she only watched him, didn’t defend her decision or admit that he was right, he pushed away from the table.
“I’m getting a coffee,” he said. She heard the barely controlled anger in his tone.
Scotty stood at the counter waiting for his coffee. Chloe had been right about the problem with his mechanics. And she was right about his timing. He’d been getting ahead of himself. In more ways than one, he acknowledged as he looked over at her. He’d spent half the night grateful and the other half wanting to throttle her. He wasn’t sure which steamed him more, the fact that she hadn’t told him herself or that he hadn’t figured it out on his own. Pride had its downside. If he didn’t get a grip, he’d slide right into its abyss.
