Holm, Stef Ann

by Honey

  "I quit." Mox threw his glove on his trunk.

  "Me, too."

  "I second that."

  "Make that three."

  Calls came from all over the room. "Five."

  "Make that seven."

  "Eleven."

  "Count me in as twelve."

  Then came silence. The disapproval that had echoed through the clubhouse made Camille's bones feel brittle. If she had had any kind of sense, then she would have turned tail and left right then. But she refused, to do it. She couldn't quit—because of one fact.

  The thirteenth player hadn't voiced his opinion.

  Alex.

  Even if he voted with the rest of them, it would change nothing. She'd still be the manager. They'd have to give her a chance. Because they didn't have a choice. And neither did she. It was either her or Bertram Nops. And Mr. Nops didn't count. So she was it.

  Alex took the jersey from his cubby and slid one arm through a sleeve. Watching him dress with deliberate slowness brought a tingle across her skin, a rush of color to her cheeks. Slipping his other arm into the shirt, he began to do up the length of buttons. "What the hell do I care who tells me when to pitch? The game's still played the same."

  "But she's a woman, Cordova," Bones complained.

  Alex's gaze roamed over her with molten heat, from the brim of her hat to the hem of her skirt. Just that one look ignited a flame in the bottom of her stomach. She fought the urge to press her palm into her middle to still the warmth within her.

  His tone deep and quiet, Alex said, "I can see that."

  "But we can't take orders from a woman."

  Taking his white pants off the hook, he stepped into them, completely heedless of Camille's presence as his fingers slipped buttons in place on the fly. "Get over it."

  The players stared at each other, sending silent messages through the clubhouse. She didn't move an inch; she barely breathed. She took the time to size them up in return.

  They were a ragtag bunch, it was true. The Harmony Keystones were local men. Some lived in Harmony, others in Waverly and Alder. They worked at the feed and seed, the lumbermill. Another farmed with his dad. Several were bricklayers. No matter how much her father wanted to believe they were professional-league material, the fact of the matter was, they were just hometown players. That's all they'd ever been. And right now, clinging to hope and league salaries was all they had going for them.

  But the right person could make the difference. She had her work cut out for her, but she could do it. She had to.

  With every ounce of conviction she had, she found herself announcing, "I want you to know that my vision for this club is quite ambitious. I may be a woman, but I know the game. I can reverse the direction this team's been going."

  Since they were listening, she hastily added, "The margin between a winning club and a losing club isn't always that big. It depends on how the players look at themselves. I've read the rule book and I know how to improve batting statistics. We'll practice fielding better and shagging balls. Everyone will work together as a team."

  Alex's eyes met hers as she articulated her message. "And we can go to the pennant if we all try. It could happen, you know. You all have potential. And with Alex Cordova onboard, the Keystones can learn a great deal." She took a deep gulp of air and smiled.

  Then she waited for their reactions.

  A few mumbles, quiet conversations, and shrugs. After another long moment, the players finished dressing without protest. Specs slid the curtain shut and those men who needed to change into trousers concealed themselves behind it.

  Camille didn't think she could resume normal breathing, much less sit down at the desk. So she reached for the leather notebook and opened it. Feigning great interest in that book was how she kept from thinking about what was going on around her.

  With their spike shoes on and bats in hand, and with the basket of balls carried in between Cupid and Charlie, twelve men filed out of the clubhouse.

  Only Alex remained. He came toward her; she stilled in anticipation. She didn't know what she expected him to do, and she didn't understand why she'd wanted his approval.

  Her discomfort was unfounded. He made no attempt to touch her. He merely propped the ball of his foot on the edge of her desk to tie his shoe. Looking up at her through the hair that fell in his eyes, he said, "You didn't tell me not everyone would be happy to see me."

  "I didn't know they wouldn't be." She wanted to assure him he was welcome. "I'm sure Cub will find you to be an asset to the team. They've all known my father wanted you to play with them. So it's no surprise."

  "Yeah." He fit his gold felt cap backward over his head, then turned to leave.

  "Mr. Cordova, I'm glad my being here doesn't bother you."

  "It doesn't bother me because you won't last a week." Then he walked out into the rain, leaving the door open behind him.

  The patter of droplets smacked the ground, the sound filling the vacant clubhouse. Her smile deflated, and she gripped the desk's edge before sinking into the chair.

  If she hadn't been so knocked off-kilter by his assumption, she would have been outraged. Wait a minute—she was outraged. He had no more faith in her than her father did. Alex had let her go on and on about what a difference she'd make, all the while mentally seeing her quit when she'd barely started. That talk about "getting over it" had nothing to do with her. It had everything to do with getting over her because she wasn't going to be around long.

  Camille lowered her chin to her chest and sighed. Her energies had been wasted on a man built of granite. A terrible sense of injustice beat within her heart.

  Then she remembered a crucial piece of information, something her father had said to her the night he'd made her the manager. Anyone else would have been disheartened by Alex Cordova's prophecy, but not Camille, not in light of what her father had said. The odds on her survival had just gotten better: her father had declared she wouldn't last one day, but Alex had just lengthened the estimate to one week.

  Pushing to her feet and grabbing her notebook, she nodded to the empty room with renewed spirits.

  There was something to be optimistic about after all.

  * * * * *

  Alex remembered his first uniform playing semi-professional for the Buckeye Brawlers when he was seventeen. Hell, he'd been so proud to wear it, he'd slept in it that night. Getting that uniform had been a long time coming.

  He'd immigrated to America when he'd been twelve, leaving behind a grandfather in Cuba who'd since died. His childhood was a painful place he rarely revisited. It had been filled with war and bloodshed. Anger against the revolutionist Spaniards, deaths that came too early, and disillusionment with the Roman Catholic church. Once in Philadelphia, he grew determined to be a regular Americano. And he'd slowly succeeded, in a way his cousin Hector would never understand.

  Hector Herrera and his family had taken Alex in and given him food and shelter in return for the money Alex earned. They got him work in a textile mill rolling bolts and feeding machines with thread, a job that lasted some eight years. He'd hated almost every day of it. Baseball was the only thing that had kept him from leaving his cousin's house and heading out on his own. Hector's was a place to stay while he gained some respect among the sandlot bunch.

  Sean O'Brien. Arthur Daley. Fellows he had admired, grown up with in a time that had been both heartbreaking and heavenly. Along with other boys from the neighborhood, they'd formed their own team, the Philly Billy Clubs. Together, they'd go out to Shelton Field and watch the Hogee Knox team by crawling under the fence so they wouldn't have to pay their five cents.

  One day Arthur arrived and showed off a silver dollar his father had won in a poker game the night before. So Arthur's mother wouldn't find out about it and give Arthur's father hell, the old man had given the silver to Arthur. The gang of boys had asked Arthur what he was going to do with it, and he'd declared he was taking them all out to the ballpark on Saturday to watch the game between
the Philadelphia Athletics and the Brooklyn Bridegrooms. Well, hell, you could have heard their cheers all the way to Independence Hall.

  It was the first professional game Alex had ever seen, and it reaffirmed his desire to wear a uniform, throw a regulation ball, and use a glove. A year later he played for the Buckeye Brawlers, then the Cincinnati Stars. Two years after that, he'd been bumped up to the majors. To his amazement, his contract had been bought by the Brooklyn Bridegrooms before the Orioles had him.

  Anybody else would have said it was a dream come true. But for Alex Cordova, it had been the beginning of a nightmare.

  Leaning his back against the dugout wall, Alex watched Camille. She kept an umbrella over her head while gingerly stepping over the soggy ground, skirt held high, but modestly so, searching for spare balls that might have been planted in the tall outfield grass. The practice of hiding balls to take away home runs was a common one. But the hunt for them came before the game; not before batting practice. Apparently, she thought her own players would try to stiff her.

  She was a curious woman. He hadn't been able to fully get her out of his thoughts since the day she'd come to his carpenter's shop. He'd figured that after he'd signed his contracts, he wouldn't have to see her again. How wrong he'd been. Her showing up at the clubhouse had been a big surprise.

  Why in the hell would she want to manage a baseball team?

  Maybe he could understand it if she were mannish. On the ugly side. Large-boned. Ungainly. But she was the opposite of that. So opposite, he couldn't figure her out. Not that he wanted to. Not that he should.

  He was here in body only. He was disconnected from the emotions that went with ball playing. He didn't feel. He didn't care. All he wanted was his money.

  "Well, if it isn't the old shoe man." The greeting came in a contentious tone. "Hey, Regal."

  Alex shifted his gaze to the man who'd walked up beside him. With the exception of being in a Boston Somersets uniform rather than in a Cleveland Spiders uniform, Cy "Cyclone" Young looked exactly how Alex remembered. Every angle of his frame was exaggerated by the tight fit of his jersey. His arms were long and almost appeared to dangle from the sleeves of his shirt. But it was that right arm that could shoot a ball into the catcher's mitt with a crack. Below the bill of his cap, his pomaded hair parted down the middle with two inward curls on either side, looking much like commas... or horns of the devil— whichever way a person wanted to look at it. Alex knew which one he preferred. That remark about the Regals did it.

  "Cy," Alex said noncommittally so as not to kick up a conversation. He didn't feel like rebuilding old acquaintances. Not that he and Cy had ever been friendly.

  "How'd that go?" His arrogant smile said he knew exactly how the advertisement went and he was going to recite it. Sure as it was raining, he did. " 'The whole world loves a winner. How would you like to be in Alex "the Grizz" Cordova's shoes? "The Grizz" wears Regals.'"

  Alex cursed the day he ever agreed to wear Regals as part of the shoemaker's campaign. For a solid year, that advertisement board had been on every outfield wall, in every stadium he'd played in. He'd had to wear the shoes, too. They'd given him over a dozen pairs.

  "Don't wear Regals anymore, Cy. Don't have to."

  "Guess you don't." Cy reached into his back pocket for a tin of chew, opened the lid, and stuffed a large wad of the flaky tobacco into one cheek. As he worked it into a wet mass, he spoke through the lump. "You dropped out of sight, Cordova. Where the hell have you been for the past three years? Not in this standing-water town, have you?"

  Alex never discussed where he'd been. Where he'd come from. That was his business. "Been around."

  "And landed on this dung heap. Like a bottle fly." He chortled.

  Alex's jaw ached from the tight clamp of his teeth. Son of a bitch.

  Batting practice was called by both managers and Young departed for his side of the field. Alex wanted to take a piece out of his ass. So much for hiding emotions from himself

  The next thirty minutes were spent fielding balls, pitching fast ones, practicing double and triple plays, and keeping the mud from seeping inside shoes. Alex went through the motions without thought, as if doing something he learned as a child. He hadn't forgotten. But he did it without heart or conscience.

  When it was time to return to the dugout, Alex glanced up at the grandstands, which had only a handful of fans. They wore coats and capes, had open umbrellas, and sported rubber shoes. Mostly men; a few women. Alex took off his hat and acknowledged Captain's clapping.

  Sitting on the bench, his uniform soaked through and rain dripping from the ends of his hair, Alex waited as Camille came beneath the dugout. Her appearance hardly showed the effects of the weather. Hat still perfect; dress hem just a little muddy on the bottom; hair in place. All neat and tidy.

  "All right... let's put that practice out of our heads and concentrate on winning the game."

  "How can we win if Specs can't see out of his glasses?" complained Yank, the relief pitcher. "They're all fogged up."

  Agreement came in grumbles.

  Specs defended himself "I keep wiping them oft And it's not only me who stinks. Maybe some of you other fellows need glasses, too."

  "Ballplayers don't wear glasses. It makes them look less than men," Doc sniped.

  "Well, thanks a damn lot, Doc," Specs countered.

  Deacon broke in. "We all look like blind idiots when we're out there."

  "Speak for yourself, Deacon," Jimmy admonished. "You couldn't find your nose if your fingers was up it."

  Alex brought one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee. If he were manager, he'd kick Specs in the butt and make him get the right strength spectacles. But he wasn't. And he didn't give a damn about it anyway.

  The Keystones were at bat first. Just as Camille prepared to read the batting order, James Kennison came rushing into the dugout as soggy as a wet rug. Rain fell in a tiny river off the brim of his derby.

  Out of breath, he rushed his words. "Fellows, I have some news—"

  Yank cut in. "If it's about your daughter..."

  Cub finished the thought. "...we already know."

  Kennison's brows leveled as he ran his gaze over the men on the bench. "I figured you would know by now." His voice rose an octave as he explained, "I would have been here to tell you myself, but it's all Nops's fault. In more ways than one, believe you me! That gas pipe emptied half his infernal store onto the boardwalk and marked it on sale. The next thing I knew, I was hauling things outside myself."

  Camille glanced at him.

  "Deputy Faragher made us put everything back inside." From his coat pocket, he brought out a handkerchief and wiped off his face. His waxed mustache drooped. "On top of it all, I got slapped with a two-dollar ticket for sidewalk violations."

  "I'm sorry about that, Daddy, but you can't be in the dugout. You'll have to tell me about it later."

  "What do you mean?"

  The rose in her complexion paled, as if telling him what she had to was difficult for her. "The dugout is for managers and players only."

  "What about owners? I own the team."

  "Nothing in the rule book says an owner is entitled to a seat on the bench."

  "Folderol!"

  "It's not folderol. It's the rules."

  All the Keystones but Alex looked at Kennison, and Alex got the clear impression this was one thing they sided with their new manager about. From past run-ins with Kennison, Alex knew the man was as hotheaded as a furnace.

  He stared at the players, then blustered, "Well, how do you like that? Chased away by my own daughter."

  Then he turned and left. Alex swore he could hear audible sighs of relief.

  "All right. Now for the batting lineup..." Camille continued, seemingly unfazed, as if her father's interruption hadn't affected her. But Alex saw the slight quiver of her fingers, the barely evident droop in her shoulders. After she'd read them the batting order, she sat down.

  Primly
. Expectantly. Head held high. Gloved hands folded in her lap.

  Waiting for the game to begin.

  The first inning, the first three batters were retired in order. Cy Young struck every last one of them out Alex had been positioned ninth to bat, so he hadn't yet gone up against his former nemesis. He'd sat back, observing, letting himself become a little amused at how easily Cupid Burns, Mox Snyder, and Doc Nash let Cy intimidate them. They didn't know the first thing about hitting against the Cyclone.

  Alex had been assigned to pitch the bottom of the first. Cub gave him a look that would have peeled the bark off a tree. Putting Cub out of his mind, Alex took the mound.

  He stood on the rubber, a place that felt forbidden to him. Glove in hand, fingers through the webs of leather, he stared down at his first batter for the Somersets. Hobe Ferris.

  With rain spilling over the bill of his cap, Alex raised the ball in both hands, looked at Specs, who stood at the shortstop position, and then relaxed. He had to take deep breaths to try to focus his concentration. He looked at the ball. He fingered it, working it to get the best grip he could. The ball was as black as the ace of spades. As black as the place in his heart.

  He tried to pitch the ball once more. And again, he froze.

  His muscles bunched and pained him. Digging his toes into the wet ground, he reasoned better footing would help.

  It didn't.

  When Alex had told Camille he'd play baseball for the Keystones, he'd been so desperate for money that he hadn't thought about actually following through and standing in the pitcher's box. He now found himself thrust back in time to a place that had altered him beyond any emotion. For all the money in the world, Alex didn't think he could go through with it. But then he glanced up at Captain.

  He had to do it.

  He tried once more, staring down at Hobe, reading the deaf and dumb signal from Noodles. Three middle fingers down. A tap and an angle left of the thumb: knuckleball.

  Winding up for the pitch, Alex coiled his leg back, put his right foot on the ground, and... stalled.

  He swore. Disgusted with himself.