“I’m sorry. I know this stinks.” She sat down on the couch beside him. “I’ve never broken a bone before. But Kevin did when—” She stopped herself. “Never mind.”
It didn’t sit well with him to be compared to Mr. Perfect. “My pain threshold isn’t as amazing as a professional athlete...” Especially when money was at stake.
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Of course not.”
She laughed at his innocent expression. Good. She was warming up to him. Sam was certain that if he gave himself a little more time, he might be able to coax her to Indianapolis.
“Actually, athletes do have a better pain tolerance according to my mom. She was a physical therapist.”
“Where is your mother?”
“She’s taking a nap.”
A stab of guilt hit Sam. Andrea Gray had been horrified when he had limped up the porch after being attacked by the killer horse. She’d gone to the hospital with them and insisted that the ER nurse call her husband, who was doing rounds in the pediatric wing. Later, when they’d returned, she fished the ice compress out of the freezer and helped to make him comfortable.
“I’m sorry she wore herself out on my account.”
Maisy brushed his comment off. “Don’t be. She takes a nap every afternoon. It was just a little later than normal today.”
He tried not to think about Andrea Gray taking a nap every day and unloading groceries on her own. The Grays had nothing to do with his mission to get Maisy to the ballpark. Making the Turbos a winning team was the goal. Ticket sales were the goal. Keeping his job was the goal.
He shifted his position and grunted.
Maisy sent him a wary look. “Did you hurt something?”
“No.” She probably thought he was a wimp with no tolerance for a hangnail. “I know it isn’t your fault — none of this is your problem. Even the whole lucky charm thing. The media has gone a bit crazy on it. And the fans…well, you know better than I do how they can be.”
She nodded slowly. Her eyes went soft. Her mouth twitched. “Baseball fans can be a little crazy. I was one of them once. They get over things quickly. It will all work out.”
He pressed on. “It works out when the team is winning. But that’s not happening right now. The bullpen…let’s just say it can’t hang on to a lead. Of course, that’s irrelevant because we never have the lead. The owner of the Turbos isn’t exactly patient at the moment.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said with indignation. He was almost flattered by her reaction. “When Miller was the general manager, he overcommitted the front office and tied your hands, ruining any chance of getting new talent.”
For someone who didn’t follow the Turbos anymore, Maisy was amazingly astute.
“I won’t argue with you. But it’s my job now.” It was hard enough being one of the youngest GMs in the game. The pressure to prove himself sometimes overwhelmed him. He sure as hell wasn’t about to admit it to her, though. It was time to talk about Maisy and show her he understood her feelings. Time to get them in the same corner. Time to negotiate. “I get your ambivalence about coming to the ballpark. Seeing Kevin must bring up a lot of memories. I mean…I went through a horrible breakup years ago.”
Horrible breakup was an ambiguous term. He had ended a record two-month relationship by “almost” mutual consent. The sex had been good, but she wasn’t interested in him or baseball. Just his pseudo-celebrity lifestyle. One morning he’d decided to end it. Unfortunately, it hadn’t gone over so well. She’d dumped his aftershave all over his bed.
“A bad relationship can linger in the air for a long time,” he said, thinking of his mattress.
Maisy shook her head. “I’m over it. Which is why I don’t want to go back to Turbos Stadium. And I’m not going to pretend Kevin and I are a thing. I’m never going to do that corny routine again.”
“Absolutely.” He stretched his hand over the back of the couch. His fingers itched to glide through her silky hair. “The problem is that fans aren’t going to let this go. I would like to propose another way to handle this. One that makes your problem go away for good.”
“My problem?” Maisy opened her mouth and was interrupted by the chime of a text message. She reached for her phone and her brows drew together as she read the message.
“What’s wrong?”
She sent him a long look. “My brother found out you’re here. He’s swinging by before a softball game tonight.”
“What about driving me?” He thought about all the things he had to do tomorrow and reached for his phone.
“I totally forgot. They’re in a tournament this weekend and he is…well, he’s the pitcher.” She said it with a bitterness he couldn’t ignore.
“Does Uber come out here?” He would write off the expense of a two-hour ride.
Her mouth curved up in a lopsided smile. “Afraid not.”
He sank back in the couch. Another day away from the front office would put him way behind. Little slivers of panic crept up his spine. Through the window, he gave his car a longing glance. The sun was lower in the sky and the porch was in shadows.
“I’m sure we can figure something out.” Maisy was tapping her foot and worrying her lip. It distracted him from his lonely car. She had an amazing face. Her brows drew together. Her lips pursed and puckered. Emotions ran across her like a fascinating slideshow. A person could watch her for hours without getting bored.
Jesus. There he went again with the random thoughts. That was the kind of thing that had gotten him in trouble with the horse. Back to the point of his visit. “Listen to what I have to say and then tell me how you—”
The thunder of tiny feet on the porch broke the mood. “Aunt Maisy! Aunt Maisy!”
A cherubic little boy in baggy shorts and an Indiana Pacers T-shirt burst through the screen door with a paper plate in his hand. “Look at what I drawed at camp!”
Before she could reach him, the boy spied Sam’s foot and made a beeline for the couch.
“What’s wrong with your foot?” he asked as he climbed the armrest.
Sam watched in horror as the kid crouched, ready to spring. Before Maisy could get there, Sam caught him midair and held him high. Then he deposited him on the opposite end of the couch.
The kid giggled with delight. “Again!”
Sam didn’t mince his words. “No.”
Before the miniature cyclone could object, Maisy scooped him up. “Not now, Jodie Coyote.” She grabbed the slightly crumpled paper plate from him, and with a wicked grin, she held out the plate for Sam to see. “A basketball. Good job!”
The boy’s face split in a toothless smile. “The lady at day camp said I was gonna be a great basketball player someday.”
“Awesome. I bet you will be.”
Sam sank back on the couch and tried not to moan. Basketball and cute kids. Damn attention suckers.
***
“Are you sure you can’t help me drive Sam back tonight after the game?” Maisy whispered, handing her brother a plate of lasagna. The sooner she got Sam Hunter out of Comeback, the sooner life and her estrogen level would get back to normal.
“It’s a big game. The guys and I always go out afterward.” Chad reached for a piece of bread and added it to his full plate. “I still can’t believe the Indianapolis Turbos general manager is sitting at our kitchen table.”
“For a man with an important softball game on the line, you seem quite unconcerned about your carb intake,” she hissed.
“For a woman with a Major League Baseball team that needs your help, you, my little sister, sure seem unconcerned about your responsibility to the fans of Indiana.”
Maisy rolled her eyes and caught Sam frowning at her. She scooped up another plate of lasagna, maybe a little too aggressively.
The room was on testosterone overload and M
aisy was doing her best to hide her irritation. After Jodie had burst through the screen door, followed by Chad, the rest of his team had coincidentally stopped in on the way to the field. Now, the Grays’ dinner table overflowed with plates, large men, her parents, and Jodie — who had taken an instant liking to Sam.
It was kind of adorable to watch their interaction. Jodie had insisted on sitting next to Sam at the dinner table. After asking for more paper and crayons, Jodie showed off his talent to Sam by drawing more basketball players. By the fifth one, Sam was not amused. He scowled and asked, “Why didn’t you draw a picture of a baseball player?”
Jodie shrugged. “I don’t know how to draw ’em.”
“What? They’re much easier than a dam— darn picture of a basketball player. Here.”
Sam drew a ball and a bat for Jodie with the ease of a man who had done it a million times. Jodie immediately grabbed another crayon and started a new picture.
Talk around the table was — what else? — baseball.
Once Chad’s teammates got over their awe that the general manager of the Turbos was actually standing — no, sitting — in front of them, they’d plied him with question after question. Even Dad, who came home from the hospital early, wanted to know about the newest rookie and his prospects.
Maisy listened with half an ear and ruminated. Today had been a close call. She had almost fallen into the male flytrap. While Sam answered questions about the team and their shot at the pennant, she stirred Jodie’s macaroni at the stove and reminded herself that Sam Hunter was here for one thing and one thing only. To coerce her into attending a Turbos game.
Damn the tequila. And his handsome face. And her decision to go to Plato’s. She had flirted like a teenager. She even had a vague memory of asking Sam to be her reading buddy that night. Thank God he hadn’t heard her.
“Do you think our pitching has any hope of improving this season?” Chad’s friend Boomer asked.
“My pitching coaches are working hard on it,” Sam said.
“Besides Kev—” Chad shot a glance toward Maisy and stopped himself. At least he had some sense of brotherly decency. “The bullpen is a problem, you have to admit. Lopez is on the back end of his career. And Carver, how old is he? On TV, he has more pimples than whiskers.”
Chad’s buddies laughed as if it were an inside joke. Personally, Maisy thought it was rather crude. She and her mother exchanged looks. Mom had been watching her carefully ever since the hospital. Sam hadn’t wanted to go. He’d stubbornly hopped around on one foot saying he would be fine while Maisy tried to drag him toward the car. They’d bickered back and forth until Mom had taken over. For some odd reason, Sam had listened to Mom.
Maisy placed a plate of plain macaroni with no sauce in front of Jodie. “Here you go, Jodie Coyote.” Besides calling him silly names, spoiling her picky-eating nephew was one of her biggest pleasures in life.
Sam looked at Jodie’s plate and Jodie caught Sam’s disgusted expression. He pushed his macaroni away. “Aunt Maisy, I want a piece of lasann-a, like Sam.”
Not sure how she felt about Jodie’s change of colors, Maisy retrieved Jodie’s plate and added a small piece of lasagna. Then, like she did every night, she handed a pillbox to her mother and poured her a glass of water. When Andrea swallowed her pills, Maisy removed the box and refilled the water, ignoring Sam’s gaze on her.
Baseball chatter continued as she finally sat down at the table and started in on her own meal.
“Did you ever play baseball, Sam?” her mother asked.
Sam wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I did.”
“Did you make the minors?” Chad asked.
Sam shook his head. “By that time, I had shifted to coaching and, later, managing.” He shrugged. “I was better at seeing the strategy than actually carrying it out.”
“We’re glad you made the switch. We needed a change of management,” her dad said cheerfully.
Sam lowered his eyes to his plate. “I hope you’ll still feel that way at the end of the season, sir.”
Maisy studied him. Was that a crack in his emotional armor? No. He was too sure of himself to have a weakness. Unlike her.
Boomer spoke up. “There are some signs things are getting better. Don’t you think the Turbos’ luck has turned?”
The table went silent.
Andrea pushed a plate of garlic bread toward him. “Have another piece, Boomer.”
Sam quirked his mouth sideways and blew the subject wide open. “Sadly, this whole situation is very uncomfortable for Maisy. Zoom and the fans are desperate for a win. Even if it means voodoo and superstition.”
Dad laughed and patted Maisy’s hand. “Baseball has always been the most superstitious sport of all, honey, you know that. Joe DiMaggio used to touch second base every time he took his spot in the outfield. Guys like Jim Palmer and Stan Musial would eat the same thing for breakfast before each game.”
Sam raised a conspiratorial brow. “Then you know what I’m dealing with, Dr. Gray.”
“Call me Bobby.”
First-name buddies? Irrationally, Maisy couldn’t help but feel that the room had shifted. Instead of being sympathetic to her, Dad was agreeing with Sam. She sank down in her chair, her knee bobbing up and down under the table so forcefully that her water rippled in her glass.
“Speaking of superstition, remember how Kevin made Maisy sit in the same exact place in the bleachers every time Maisy watched him play?” Boomer said. He ignored Maisy’s narrow gaze, as if the subject of Kevin and the Turbos was perfectly acceptable now.
Chad joined in. “Yeah, then there was that time Maisy made the mayor move during a play-off game?”
“Wasn’t that the one that was during their prom?” Boomer asked, getting into the story and talking with too much bread in his mouth.
“No, it was the year when she skipped her softball tryouts.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember that now. The mayor was so mad at her for making him move out of the front row he almost forgot about the way I accidentally smashed his roses with my ATV the week before.”
Chad and Boomer continued from there, sharing more stories about the old days.
At her end of the table, Dad cleared his throat and said quietly to Sam, “Aren’t the Turbos playing the Yankees tomorrow night when Kevin pitches?”
Sam nodded.
Dad made a small O with his mouth and turned to Maisy. “Burke is pitching for the Yankees. The Turbos don’t have much of a chance. This whole thing could end if—”
Maisy didn’t want to hear it. “Whose side are you on?”
“Honey, I’m always on your side. I just think, well, it’s pretty much a given the Turbos will lose. The Yankees are in first place in their division. We are last.”
Sam raised his hand and leaned in, keeping his voice low. “That is exactly what I think. The only way this good-luck frenzy is going to end is if the Turbos lose when Maisy is in the stadium. We are in a losing streak, and if we want to end this superstitious nonsense, now is the time. Tomorrow night may be the very best chance we have for a loss all season.”
“Not my problem,” Maisy said.
Bobby opened his mouth to speak and Andrea frowned, shaking her head. She quickly changed the subject. “How is your foot feeling, Sam?”
The conversation shifted to Sam’s foot and sports injuries.
Unable to stay still, Maisy got up and started to clear the table.
Chad held out his plate as she passed. “Seconds, sis?”
“Get it yourself. Maybe the extra effort will help your weak pitching arm.” Chad’s teammates thought that was hilarious and made whooping noises. She resisted sticking out her tongue and throwing a piece of bread at all of them like she might have done ten years ago. “Speaking of sports, shouldn’t you all be going?”
Chad put his feet up on
her chair, ignoring her question. “So, you don’t believe in this good luck stuff, Sam?”
“No.” At least there was one grown-up in the room who didn’t think everything was a joke.
Chad wisely let the conversation rest. He stuffed the last piece of lasagna in his mouth and, still chewing, picked Jodie up from his stool, ignoring his protest. “Time to go watch us play baseball, buddy. Mom will meet us there after she picks up your sister from soccer practice.” Chad held Jodie sideways, and Jodie kissed Andrea.
“I want Sam to come with us,” Jodie said swinging his arms out toward Sam.
“Sorry, kid. The foot says no…” Sam said, pointing to his foot propped in an empty chair.
When Chad and his friends, thankfully, left in a big manly mass, Maisy gathered the dishes.
Bobby leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I checked out that nice car of yours, Sam. Is that a manual transmission?”
Sam nodded.
“You might need to rethink any idea of driving yourself.”
Sam gazed at his foot darkly. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience to you.”
“You can sleep in Chad’s old room, Sam,” Andrea said without bothering to ask if he even wanted to stay.
Sam didn’t protest. “I’m sorry to be such a pain.”
Andrea grabbed her crutches and rose from the table. “Not at all. There are already fresh sheets on Chad’s bed. And your clothes should be dry soon. Maisy, make sure Sam has a fresh ice pack and another round of ibuprofen.”
Wonderful. By default, she was going to be the nursemaid to Sam Hunter and his cursed foot. Maisy started scraping dishes with as much vigor as she’d cleaned Faygo earlier.
Chapter Seven
Sam sat on the porch swing and stared at the weather radar on his phone. A slow-moving rain pattern swept westward across the northern edge of Indianapolis and sent tonight’s ball game into a rain delay. It would be called soon for sure. Another game to make up.
Come Back to the Ballpark, Maisy Gray Page 8
