by Pamela Aares
Chapter Twenty-two
Scotty flopped across the king-sized bed in his Seattle hotel room and flipped on the sports news. He piled up the pillows, then squinted into the light, jumped up and pounded across the room to pull the curtains shut. The plane had hit turbulence and he hadn’t slept on the flight. Except for a few hours during the one insanely amazing night with Chloe in Nebraska, he hadn’t slept well in weeks. Incessant thoughts of Chloe occupied his brain, a relentless ticker tape of memories, fantasies and regrets. Hell, the experience in Boston had shown him she’d affected more than his brain.
He still felt lousy about his press remarks in Boston, but the reporter had caught him off guard. Worse, the social media had had their expected field day with it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lied, prided himself on telling the truth. And the whole scene with the woman in Boston had shown him that he’d nearly lied to himself.
He checked the clock on the nightstand. He had time, long enough to try for some shut-eye. The guys on the team were cutting him a wide berth, so maybe he’d have a few hours of peace.
He reached across the bed for the remote, but stopped when he heard the network announcer mention the Sabers. They weren’t getting a live feed but whatever it was, it was evidently important enough to top the hour.
There, on the screen, Chloe stood next to Dick Fisher behind a massive bank of microphones. Her announcement about the Sabers gunning for the World Series title had him grinning at her boldness. But Fisher looked damned surprised. Scotty liked what she said next about a player’s privacy—it was about time someone backed the press down. To hear her do it had pride swelling in him.
But when he heard the reporter shout out the question about Chloe’s relationship with him, his heart stopped. The pause before she answered seemed like an age. Then she stared down the cameras with unblinking resolve and cleared her throat. There was nothing between him and her, she said. And any apparent misstep on her part was a mistake. Personal business would never get in the way of her handling the team.
That was it. When she finished speaking, she walked out of the picture.
He flicked off the TV. Adrenaline shot through him, rapid fire.
He’d been dealt.
Boldly spun and dealt.
He’d felt the same way the day he’d been traded by the Giants to the Sabers. But this was personal and he played the leading role. It dawned on him that she had misunderstood what he’d said to the press. But afterward, thinking on it, he’d never come up with a better response.
He’d lied outright.
What was he going to do, tell the world he was in love with Chloe McNalley?
Love?
He’d never used the word except for family, always been careful to avoid it. It was a word for the future, a word for some day down the road.
Damn. It was one hell of a time to admit to himself that he loved Chloe and that until five minutes ago he’d been sure she loved him.
As the adrenaline began to fade and he could think more clearly, he realized that maybe she was simply telling the truth. The press made her nervous, she’d told him that. But she hadn’t looked nervous. She’d looked in control—of the interview and the situation. And she was right. She should never let personal business get in the way of her handling the team. And he fit the category of personal business.
He couldn’t possibly love the woman who’d just sliced him off like an inconvenient appendage.
A weird tightness cinched around his chest. He stretched, trying to release it. His thoughts weren’t helping; they rushed into and over one another like drowning swimmers fighting for air. He almost wished he could get angry, but there was no one to be angry with but himself. He’d been the one to set this whole thing with Chloe into motion, starting with asking her for that first damn dance.
He unpacked his laptop. He’d watch video of the Seattle hitters, focus on something else, anything else. His calendar blinked a reminder on the screen: G’maw’s birthday. He’d forgotten. He never missed calling to wish her a happy day. He’d send her an email, find some cute animal picture that’d give her a chuckle. Maybe send her a picture of Smokey.
He’d bet his per diem that G’maw could train Smokey better than the dog sitter he’d hired. But the sitter took Smokey out on long walks twice a day and if Scotty had a long road trip, she’d drop him at the outdoor kennel. The last time he’d picked Smokey up from the kennel, he’d imagined moving in—the rolling hills and scattered oaks stretched for acres. Someday he’d get around to buying a house with land, somewhere in the Bay Area. Somewhere that Smokey could run all he liked. Trouble was, every time he imagined a place like that, Chloe ran into the picture.
And that fast he was back to thinking of Chloe. He’d lasted maybe two minutes before his thoughts circled back to her.
One touch opened his email feed. He started to tap out a birthday greeting but in the webmail sidebar, he saw the Sports Underground e-feed.
It featured a full-on, color shot of him kissing Chloe.
Son of a bitch.
Scotty clicked on the photo and read the caption. “Who’s lying now?” it asked in bold orange letters. There was no article, but there were Twitter and Facebook links.
He snapped his laptop shut.
He’d publicly denied their relationship just days ago, and now so had she. But the photo was hard to argue with.
He’d like to take a bat to whoever took the damn photo and sold it to the press.
A glance at the clock on the nightstand told him he had exactly two hours before heading to the stadium.
He picked up his cellphone to call G’maw and then thought better of it—she’d know something was up from the sound of his voice.
A text message ballooned across the phone screen.
Can U meet me in room 1279 at 11:30? C
Sure. Just call him in when it struck her fancy. Not going to happen.
He had to clear his head. A walk along the waterfront ought to work. He grabbed his windbreaker and headed for the elevators.
The doors dinged open at the lobby level and there, waiting for an elevator, was Chloe.
“Hi,” she said with a wave of her hand.
It was one of those waves that women gave when they knew that whatever followed would prove painful.
“I texted you,” she said when he didn’t answer.
The door started to close, and she jumped inside. “I need to talk with you.”
She looked really nervous, something he hadn’t expected. She’d looked so calm in front of all those cameras.
“I was headed out.”
“It’s important, Scotty.”
The quaver in her voice stabbed into him, and he heard himself say some version of okay.
She punched the twelfth-floor button.
“Not afraid there’ll be hidden cameras in your room?” His words came out sounding sarcastic. He didn’t like sarcasm; it was a tool of fools.
“It won’t matter.”
She sounded defeated. He didn’t like that either.
“That’s encouraging.” He wasn’t being sarcastic now. She backed away.
A young couple got on at the mezzanine level. They laughed and poured over a map of the city, making plans for an evening out. It was the longest elevator ride of his life.
Her hotel room had a smell that put Chloe on edge, the odor of other people’s lives. Foreign, as though fingers of the past had snaked in and left their scent behind to haunt the future.
Scotty took her bag from her and dropped it on the luggage rack.
“Traveling light,” he said as he turned to her.
She shut her eyes. If she looked at him, she’d never get through this. But she owed him her direct attention. No, she owed him so much more than that. Three months ago she’d felt dead inside. He brought her to life in a way she never knew she could be, as if she’d physically connected with the stars that she’d only before been able to look at and dream about. Being with
him had made her feel whole. She opened her eyes and walked to one of the chairs by the window, stood beside it as if it could serve as a shield between them.
“I fired Fisher.”
“Good move.”
She heard the praise in his voice, but didn’t feel deserving. Maybe he hadn’t seen her fiasco with the press. She turned to him. “He tried to blackmail me. He had people follow us. Even to Nebraska.” Her hands started to tremble. She dropped into the chair and slid them under her.
“That’s insane.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. She saw that his hands, those hands that she loved, were balled into tight fists.
“What’d he think he could force you to do?”
“Sign him on for a fat three-year contract, maybe force me to sell the team. He’s already tried to position himself for a cut from a prospective buyer.” She pulled her hands out from under her and knotted them together in her lap. “Fisher would’ve ruined the team just to line his pockets. It will take money and time and . . . ” She paused, but it had to be said. “And the goodwill of the players to undo the damage he’s already done.”
Scotty nodded.
“I tried to call you yesterday,” she said. “I left messages.”
“It was a tight turnaround. I haven’t even had time to call G’maw and wish her a happy birthday.”
The mention of his grandmother nearly sunk her. She squared her shoulders. Best not to drag this out, or he’d really hate her.
“I traded you back to the Giants. But I made sure it won’t be public for two weeks.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t move, just stared as if he hadn’t heard her.
“Fisher forced my hand,” she added quickly. “But we knew this day would come.”
“Maybe you did. Evidently I missed the memo.” He took several strides toward the door, then turned back. “Anything else about my life that you’ve decided?”
He was angry. She’d imagined his anger would be easier to bear than any other emotion. But she was wrong.
She stood. Held her hands low and twined them together again to mask her shaking. “The team is my responsibility.”
“You made that pretty clear in your press remarks,” he said. “I got the point.”
She had planned to tell him that she’d traded him in order to give their relationship a chance, but from his stance and the way he was acting, her plan seemed like a naive dream.
“And I’d say you didn’t.” Anger was a close cousin to grief, and right now anger was the stronger emotion. “I saw your interview. You could’ve warned me.”
“I sent you a text.”
He had sent her a text but in the melee of moving and losing her phone, she hadn’t seen it until three days later. Besides, the message wasn’t exactly personal. He’d said he’d been caught off guard and was sorry.
“I lost my phone that day, I was moving.”
“You’re a busy woman.” There was a chill to his voice she’d never heard before.
“I wasn’t sure if you were sorry because the reporter asked about our relationship or sorry you’d been caught off guard.”
“Evidently neither issue matters anymore.”
“Issue?” The protective membrane her anger had whipped up was dissolving fast. Suddenly she wanted to wind the clock back, but what she would do differently, she didn’t know.
He nodded, slowly, like a character in one of those movie standoffs between a villain and the man who had his number. She didn’t like being the villain.
“You played your hand, Chloe.”
He turned and walked out the door. It clicked shut behind him. She stared at it, then crossed to the window and looked down at the stadium in the distance. The deep breath she hauled in didn’t stop the trembling racking through her. She’d make it through the game tonight, put on a calm face—a game face, her father always called it. And she’d stay for the game tomorrow, even if Scotty was pitching. She had a regional owner’s meeting afterward, one she shouldn’t miss. But after the meeting, she was going home. What she’d do when she got there, she had no idea. What did a woman do when she’s ruined the best part of her life?
Chapter Twenty-three
The smell of fish and ocean and sea met Scotty as he walked along the Seattle waterfront. Sunlight lit the peaks of the Olympic Mountains and reflected in the water of Puget Sound. Gulls circled grinning tourists, and the scent of baked waffle cones drifted in the air from a vendor’s stand. But neither the beauty nor the clamor made him feel any better. He kicked at a trashcan between two pier pilings and ignored the shocked looks from a picnicking couple. He downed a couple of oysters and distracted himself with a round of pinball at the arcade. He stood in front of a bar and pondered whether or not to get a beer. He wasn’t pitching until tomorrow, but he liked to bring his best to every game, starting or not. He passed on the beer and moved along the waterfront.
His phone pinged, and he pulled it from his pocket. Tracy, his agent.
“Don’t forget the party after the game tonight.”
He had. He wasn’t in any mood for a party, not even one he was being paid to attend.
“You did, didn’t you?” She sounded exasperated. He hadn’t been keeping in touch, hadn’t been doing what she suggested he do to keep his name in front of the fans.
“I’ll be there,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could fake. He’d agreed to do the party that night, so there was no need to bust her chops. He wasn’t in the mood to talk and he wasn’t in any mood to tell her he was being traded back to the Giants. He should. He would. But not now. Besides, she’d get the paperwork in the next day or so. He needed time to get used to it himself. She’d be pissed, but right then, he didn’t care.
“Tell me the name of the volleyball player who’s doing the gig with me.” He should know these things. Especially since he’d be meeting the woman on a red carpet in front of a bank of cameras after the game.
“Sabra. Sabra Moore. She won the U.S. Open, remember?” She cleared her throat. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, Tracy. Just having a little walk along the waterfront here. You know how I like the water.”
“Ten thirty. They’re expecting you. I wish I could be there, but—”
“But you have some other guy to torture.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Dandy.”
How he’d let Tracy talk him into the Adelphi fragrance endorsement, he wasn’t sure. But all the money from the contract would go to the Big Brothers fund. That he did feel good about; it was a pile of cash.
Sabra Moore. He tried to remember what she looked like. He’d watched her play two years ago, the year she’d won Olympic gold, but he didn’t remember much except that she was a true athlete. That he couldn’t forget. He typed her name into his phone and read through the top search items. When he clicked on images, he saw why Adelphi wanted her. She was more than an athlete—the woman looked like some sort of real-life Olympic goddess. He scrolled through and checked out the bathing suit line she’d endorsed the year before. Pretty hot stuff. Sports Illustrated swimsuit-issue hot. Maybe hot enough to distract him from thinking about Chloe McNalley.
As if that were likely.
Chloe sat staring at the granola that room service had brought. It had all the appeal of gravel. She didn’t have much of an appetite, hadn’t for a couple of weeks. Though the Sabers had beaten Seattle the previous night, she didn’t feel like celebrating. There was a long road ahead if they were to win the division title.
She swirled her spoon around in her bowl, then picked up the newspaper tucked toward the back of the tray. She poured a cup of coffee—hotel tea was never worth drinking and in her rush to get to the plane, she’d forgotten to pack her own. She pulled out the sports pages and read the box scores while she sipped at her coffee. After running through those, she glanced at the headlines. There, on the front page, was a grainy shot of Scotty with Sabra Moore. They were head to head and smilin
g as if the world depended on the wattage of their grins. What Sabra was doing in Seattle, she could only guess; Chloe doubted there was much beach volleyball taking place in the rainy Northwest. But from the smile on Scotty’s face, she thought she knew all too well what had drawn the gold medalist.
When she read the caption about the two of them kicking off the Adelphi fragrance line, the news didn’t dissolve the tightness in her chest. She knew this stuff sold papers, this pairing of the beautiful and famous. Sabra was an athlete and a beauty—a hot topic in the world of celebrity gossip—and her handlers were milking it. And the woman had to make money where she could; there wasn’t much of it in the tough world of women’s sports.
Chloe flicked her eyes back to the photo. How the hell they got late night shots like these into the morning papers was beyond her. She looked closer. Scotty looked like he’d had one too many. He was pitching today; he should’ve turned in early.
But that was the owner in her talking. And she’d traded him, so he wasn’t hers anymore. In more ways than one.
That afternoon, Scotty was a fury on the mound. Chloe imagined that every hitter had her face and he was firing for it.
She’d always loved the way he hugged the ball in his mitt, as if saying a prayer, going motionless before his windup. But she doubted he was praying. Not today.
Chloe watched from a seat well back of the visitor’s dugout. She didn’t want to distract him in any way. A vendor came by selling popcorn. Surprised to be hungry, she handed the man a five and settled back into her seat, munching.
Scotty pitched with a fluid motion, owned both sides of the plate, his whole body moving like a wave. He hit his groove early and held it. To the bottom of the fifth, he kept the Seattle hitters scoreless. He allowed only one runner on base and that was back in the second inning.
Seattle’s designated hitter, Billy Deron, was in the on-deck circle. Chloe knew from his stats he was a compact power hitter. He took a couple of practice swings, then stepped into the batter’s box. His batting stance, the way he kept his feet fairly close together, reminded her of Babe Ruth. Her dad had told her the narrow stance allowed batters to pivot quickly.
