The Lucky Charm (The Portland Pioneers)

by Beth Bolden

  Jack gave his best friend a sharp, decisive nod. “That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

  The problem, he realized as he finished dressing in silence, was that he wasn’t entirely sure what he did plan on doing. The talk with Hector had cleared his head from all the Izzy haze that had followed him since spring training, reminding him of what he should be paying attention to. But just when he’d reluctantly decided that maybe he was in over his head with her, he remembered the thankful smile she’d given him last night when he’d talked her off the metaphorical cliff, and suddenly, he wasn’t sure what he was even doing with her. He couldn’t seem to shake the idea that somehow he was better when he carried her around with him in his head.

  A better man. A better teammate. A better baseball player.

  And he’d better be damn good, he thought as he jogged out through the tunnel and onto the field, because this was the last season he’d have to win a title for the Pioneers.

  The game started uneventfully enough, but then most games felt pretty uneventful after twenty years of playing. Jack chased a ball down, but lamented as he fired a rocket to first that it wasn’t more challenging. Sawyer retired the next two batters, then he jogged back to the dugout.

  As the leadoff hitter, he needed to be ready right away, so he grabbed his helmet and bat and swung it around in a curling arc, trying to work out his stiff muscles. The first road trip was always the hardest, and early this morning, Jack had caught a cab for a quick ride down to the ballpark. He’d hit balls for an hour, driving them harder and harder, trying to shake the effect Izzy’d had on him, but it hadn’t worked. Now today, he was more than a little sore.

  Usually, he approached an at-bat with a surgeon’s precision. He studied film and listened to every nugget of wisdom Jonesy, the hitting coach, spouted. He was also one of the few players he knew who kept actual physical notes of pitchers he’d faced before. This pitcher was one of a trio of Tigers pitchers who had formed the nucleus of last year’s World Series team. The first pitch was fast, about as fast as he’d expected it to be, since Jonesy had reminded him before the game that Madison liked shocking batters with his heat.

  Bring it, Jack thought, as the baseball hit the pitcher’s mitt with a satisfying, leather against leather crack.

  Inside, he decided just as it was too late to hit it. Maybe he’d get lucky and the umpire would decide it was too inside.

  No, he reminded himself, not lucky. The last thing he wanted was to be lucky.

  “Strike,” the ump bellowed.

  Shit, Jack mentally drawled, but he wasn’t worried. He paused, readjusting his gloves as he always did between pitches. It also gave the pitcher a chance to cool down and come to the proper frame of mind—Jack was in charge of the situation, not the pitcher.

  Jonesy had also warned that after laying down a dirty strike, the pitcher tended to like another fastball, even closer to the danger zone. That pitch, Jonsey had joked, was going to be his bitch.

  Jack swung hard at it, and as he felt the ball connect with the bat, he took off hard, knowing it could possibly be a single, maybe even a double, if the placement was right.

  Jonesy was right, Jack thought with crowing glee as he slid into second. A double. He popped up, dusting off his now-dirty white uniform and readjusted his helmet, shedding his gloves and stuffing them into a back pocket, all while keeping his eyes glued to the battle currently going on at the plate. Foxy took the first hot pitch, too, but then laid off the second.

  It was all ego with this guy, Jack determined, watching his jerky, annoyed movements as Foxy refused to bite on more shit that never even touched the zone. The count was now 2-1, and as he usually did, Jack started stretching the distance a little between second and third. Not enough to maybe get noticed by the catcher, but he could see their shortstop eye him with the slightest bit of trepidation.

  He wasn’t the Pioneers’ fastest player, but he did have a reputation for stealing. And that, Jack knew perfectly well, was total ego. Frankly, it felt damn good to be able to literally pluck an extra base right out of thin air while making the opposing team look bad.

  Gimme one more ball, Foxy, Jack hissed to himself as he slid his cleat a millimeter further away from second base. And in that moment, the moment when he was usually completely absorbed by the action of the game, a stray thought strayed across his mind: Izzy was watching and she’d be seeing the field the exact same way he’d taught her to see it.

  She knew he was thinking about taking third. And determination, sudden and strange, bloomed inside. If luck was going to gift him an Izzy, he wasn’t going to turn it down, not when every at-bat, every pitch, every base mattered more than ever before.

  “Strike!” the ump called as Foxy fouled off a decent-looking pitch. He swore Noah sent him a swift apologetic look, as if he knew how eager Jack was to steal third base.

  He could see Hall, the third-base coach, giving him the look that said very clearly, “don’t be a fucking moron, Jack.”

  But it was happening again, that otherworldly tug at the base of his spine. He’d been unable to avoid the strangely lucky plays before now, but had never actively courted them either. He hadn’t wanted to. He hadn’t thought he’d needed to. But the team needed this series, to give them confidence and to help them believe they could go toe-to-toe with a championship team and win.

  So at the resounding crack of Noah’s bat against the ball, he took off like a shot, pushing his legs harder and faster until they burned.

  Jack knew things were never going to be the same when he opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the umpire calling him safe.

  “I won’t even ask what the hell that was,” Hector joked as Jack took the steps down to the dugout after scoring the run off Foxy’s single. Hector’s reaction would have been a one-eighty if he’d been called out—he’d have nagged and picked and told him what a fucking idiot he’d been for stealing that base. And Jack would’ve deserved every single word.

  “Better you don’t know,” Jack muttered as he tossed his helmet down with the rest of the equipment.

  He didn’t even know what to tell himself. He’d never been so foolish in his entire career, but the last few weeks had made him wonder what he could really do. Today had been a test, and even though he wanted to reject the truth of what he’d found, he’d passed with flying colors.

  He’d been thinking about Izzy. He knew she’d be jumping up and down, a triumphant yell caught in her throat, waiting with bated breath to see if he’d be called out. He knew, because he knew her, that she’d been practically there with him the whole time, each step, each breath, each particle of dirt that his cleats had kicked up.

  She could never find out, but he couldn’t deny it to himself anymore: Izzy Dalton was his lucky charm.

  “Thanks, Bart, Jed.” Izzy tightened the grip on the microphone in her hands, and smiled so hard she thought her face might explode. “Today at…”

  And just like that, she spaced yet again. What’s the name of this stadium? she thought, panic racing through her veins. She could just see Toby shaking his head in disgust and the sympathetic-bordering-on-annoyed expressions on Bart and Jed’s faces. She’d fucked up again.

  “Today, at the stadium,” she continued, trying to mask her bungle with brazen confidence. Remember Jack’s words, she told herself, you can do this. “Today, we’re in the middle of a pitching duel that isn’t all that different from games that the Pioneers and the Tigers have played before.”

  The segment wasn’t what Toby had initially pitched, but she’d changed it last night with Jack’s help, because she’d finally decided that when you reached the bottom of your barrel, maybe it was time to find a new barrel. It turned out hers was trying her best to combine what she wanted with what she had.

  “In 1998, the year of the Pioneers’ expansion season, the
y hosted Detroit for a series that brought an almost-sellout crowd to Pioneer Park. Two games went into extra innings, and none of the scores ever went above five runs. Over the next few years, low-scoring games abounded between these two teams, so it’s not any real surprise that today’s score is just 1-0 at the top of the eighth.”

  Usually, at the end of her segments, Bart and Jed would just smile at her fondly but impatiently, as if she was a necessary evil they had to tolerate. She’d almost become accustomed to this, she’d told herself during each game, even though it still stung. Toby she could take or leave, but Bart and Jed were old pros in this business and she valued their respect.

  But today, instead of just giving her that smile that stabbed her right through the heart, Jed actually spoke up.

  “I remember that series,” he said and Bart chimed in that he remembered it, too.

  “Do you know,” she said with trepidation pounding through her heart, “that the pitching coach for the Tigers was one of the relievers in the second game of the series?”

  “Jose Manuel? Really? That’s great,” Bart said, and suddenly she felt a million times lighter, like instead of blood, only the finest champagne was flowing through her veins.

  She’d done it. She’d actually brought up a baseball event that wasn’t expressly written on the teleprompter. She’d actually bantered with Jed and Bart.

  “I was actually talking about it with him this morning,” she said, “and he said the Pioneers made it a tough, close game. Here’s hoping they’ll do that tonight.”

  And just like that, she’d had an almost successful segment. Other than the sudden brain fart at remembering what stadium she was standing in, she’d even known enough facts and story to cobble together a cohesive conversation with Bart and Jed. Not too shabby, she thought, giving herself a mental high-five as well as a reminder to text Charlie to actually watch this one. He’d bravely tuned in for the first three weeks of bad-to-worse broadcasts and had finally emailed that as much as he loved her, he couldn’t do it anymore. But, she thought with glee, there wasn’t any reason to feel ashamed today.

  Izzy was just making her way up to the press box when she heard a voice behind her call her name. She turned and a lovely, older Latino woman was standing in the almost empty concourse.

  “You’re Isabel Dalton, right?” she asked, walking toward her.

  Izzy nodded. Most days before this one, she might not have acknowledged her own identity, but some of her confidence was back.

  “I’m Pilar Richardson,” she said, extending a slim, be-ringed hand toward Izzy. “Hector Richardson’s wife,” she added, just in case Izzy didn’t know who she was, and frankly, a month ago she wouldn’t have, but she would have to tell Jack later that the flashcards were really coming in handy.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you,” Izzy said warmly, shaking her hand. “I’ve heard so much about your charity work.”

  “I’ve heard quite a lot about you as well,” she said, and Izzy almost made a face at what was probably a kind way of Pilar saying that she’d heard how bad she was.

  “Not like that,” Pilar added with a small chuckle. “Of course, there’s been talk about your lack of experience, shall we say, but I’ve watched the broadcasts and you’ve made marked improvements. Toby is lucky to have you.”

  This was so far from what Toby actually thought that Izzy instantly liked Pilar for saying it, even if it wasn’t remotely close to the truth.

  “Thank you,” Izzy said. “It means a lot to hear you say that. I’ve…well, it’s an understatement to say that I’m learning on the fly.”

  “I saw you just now and basically wanted to say just that…if you ever need help or maybe just a friendly face to talk to on these never-ending road trips, give me a call.” Pilar reached in her pocket and extended a business card forward.

  “Thank you,” Izzy said, gripping it with her fingers. “Obviously, this is the first long trip of the year, and well, I haven’t enjoyed much about it so far.”

  Pilar gave her a knowing smile. “Chica, it only gets better from here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Izzy was almost to her hotel room when she felt her phone vibrate with a text message. Great timing, she thought sarcastically while simultaneously trying not to spill the open can of Diet Coke she held in one hand while digging through the purse dangling off her arm to find her room key.

  The problem wasn’t so much the beverage she was trying to keep in its container, or the fifty-pound laptop bag hanging off her shoulder, threatening to send her lower back into spasms, or the approximately two thousand loose items in her purse, all which inconveniently felt exactly the same as her room key.

  No. The problem was that she’d gotten the text and even though she hadn’t been able to sneak a single glance yet—though, she had contemplated trying, Diet Coke be damned—she wanted it to be from Jack. Like, way more than was reasonable or healthy. Or reasonably healthy, she theorized.

  Her fingers finally closed over the hard plastic edges of what had to be the card key, and triumphantly, she yanked it from her cavernous purse, only to come face-to-face with her credit card.

  Izzy sighed. It had been a long day—thus, the caffeine after 7:00 p.m., her normal cut-off point—and right now, all she wanted was to get inside her hotel room and look at her phone. Not necessarily in that order. Briefly, she contemplated dumping everything, including the Diet Coke, on the floor and digging her phone out of the back pocket of her gray slacks. Then she’d know if it was him or not—and really, she thought, how ridiculous was she? It wasn’t as if there weren’t plenty of other people the text could be from. A month into the Major League Baseball season and there was a laundry list of people who had her number now. Okay, it wasn’t that impressive a list when compared to some other people’s lists, but Izzy didn’t feel bad about it, and since she could count the number of the things she didn’t feel bad about on one hand right now, she’d take it.

  Grinding her teeth in frustration over the fact that this list also contained the name of one slightly hunky second basemen, Izzy reached back into her bag and continued searching.

  She found the key card roughly at the same time the feeling in her arm began to diminish at an alarming rate. Too tired to even crow in triumph, she slid the card into the slot at a defiantly brisk pace and launched herself into the room.

  Dumping her bags on the floor and setting the can gingerly on the coffee table, she collapsed in a frustrated heap onto the couch. Leaning back, Izzy dug into her pocket for the phone and with fingers that she told herself were trembling from exhaustion and not anticipation, she scrolled to her text messages.

  Objectively, she knew Jack liked her. Objectively, she knew it was a terrible idea for her to like him back, so when she saw she’d been right and it was from her slightly hunky second baseman, she settled on a smile and not a whoop of jubilation.

  After all, it was only a word. One word and a punctuation mark, Izzy amended.

  Dinner?

  Unfortunately, the message was not so much illuminating as frustrating. After all, Izzy knew he liked her. She also knew that going to dinner with him, while something she wanted to do very much, was a really bad idea. She’d let him sucker her into pizza and beer and a view to die for. Then she’d come to him when she didn’t have anybody else to turn to and she hadn’t wanted to sit alone in her hotel room with all her negative thoughts, but she couldn’t just pick up and go to dinner with him—no matter how much she might have wanted to.

  Emotional distance, normally the easiest thing in the world for her, seemed nearly impossible when it came to Jack, but she was trying her best She wanted to simultaneously yell at him for making it harder on her and hug him for not giving up when any other man would have thrown up his hands in frustration a long time ago.

  Her fingers hovered above the scre
en. She could go the route of easiest resistance, and never reply—and later claim that his message had gotten lost wherever texts messages went to die—but that smacked of cowardice and while she’d done a lot of things she wasn’t proud of, she’d never been cowardly.

  The second easiest response would be something as quick and cursory as his invitation had been. All she had to do was type two letters and hit the send key, but her fingers decided to choose this moment to be uncooperative.

  Izzy tipped her head back and contemplated the ceiling. The only reasonable and responsible excuse she could use with him was the plain truth. She hit his contact info and dialed his cell, closing her eyes as she waited for him to answer.

  “You know you could just text me back that you’d be happy to come. You didn’t have to actually give me the benefit of calling me in all your glory, Dalton,” Jack answered teasingly, which made her want to throw the phone across the room. Didn’t he realize how completely he was charming her? And how good, after all those years of sky-high walls, it felt to let someone in?

  “You know I can’t have dinner with you,” she said, trying way too hard to keep her voice free of any tone that could be conceived as flirtatious.

  “You’re hungry aren’t you? You still need to eat, right?”

  “That isn’t the point,” she retorted in clipped tones. “I can’t be seen having dinner with you. It’s not like I’m fifty with a receding hairline and gout. You can’t act like I’m every other beat reporter assigned to the Pioneers. You have dinner with them, it’s kind of cute in that bromance sort of way. You have dinner with me, and it’s hot gossip.”

  “Have I mentioned how much I love that you aren’t fifty and don’t have gout?”

  “Jack,” Izzy tried again, “you know we can’t do this. We can’t be seen together. Not socially.”