The Lucky Ones
Page 11
“I might take you up on that as soon as I come up for air. You wouldn’t believe how much there is to do. With Dad still in the hospital, I’m having to go solo.”
“I understand.” Ninah decided to accept that at face value since the alternative was Britt giving her a brush-off. “You’ve got my number.”
Britt caught her arm as she turned away. “Ninah, I really wish…if the circumstances had been different…”
“I know. Me too.”
Chapter Sixteen
In a rocking chair on her front porch, Ninah adjusted her Bluetooth earpiece so she could continue her conversation while applying a fresh coat of pink polish to her toenails. “I warned you Wesley Hodges was a downer. But this was really a low blow.”
She’d called to give Britt a heads-up about Wesley’s blog, which appeared in the Gazette’s digital edition but not in the actual paper. In today’s post, he’d blamed Britt for the team’s loss.
“Okay, I found it,” Britt said. “Thrown out at home: New Longdogs owner costs team opening night win.”
“He’s pissed because you blew him off, so now he blames you for the Longdogs losing last night. You!”
“What the actual fuck?”
“He claims the wagon race left ruts in the field, and that’s what caused the bad hop on Oscar Lopez in the eighth inning.” The error had allowed the runner to reach first, and he eventually scored what ended up being the winning run. “He also says it’s your fault Troy Cline lost his footing when he broke for home, that if the field hadn’t been torn up by the wagon wheels, he would have been safe by a mile.”
Britt read aloud, “…defaced the infield to the detriment of play, almost certainly in violation of MiLB standards. While these players give it their all, their dreams are undone by the spectacle of a third-rate reality show.”
“He’s being a real douche about it, Britt. Read on, it gets worse.”
“…you’ll want to double-check your ticket just to be sure you haven’t wandered into a carnival by mistake. While previous owner Duffy Barnett tested fan loyalty with higher ticket prices, he at least maintained respect for the game the way it was meant to be played. Not only has Miss Iverson retained the exorbitant ticket prices, she’s abandoned baseball altogether to focus on diversionary entertainment. She calls it the ‘fun quotient.’ I call it a shameful bait and switch.”
Britt viciously ground out the last words. “That bastard. He’s the one who called it the fun quotient. For a guy who’s supposed to be a sports reporter, he doesn’t know shit about the business end of minor league baseball. I ought to yank his press credentials.”
“It would serve him right,” Ninah said evenly, trying to sound supportive. “But that won’t stop him from buying a ticket and covering the game from the bleachers. Plus then he’d call you out for being thin-skinned.”
Voices filtered down the stairs from Emmy’s apartment, one of them male…and familiar, but Ninah couldn’t place it. She wondered if she finally was going to meet the mysterious boyfriend.
“I have to respond to him or it’s going to snowball. The last thing I need right now is a war between the baseball purists and the new customers I’m trying to reach. I’m going to have to crawl back to him and beg for an interview whether I want one or not.”
“You can’t reward him for being an asshole. We’ll find another way.”
“We?”
“Okay, you. But I have a vested interest in the outcome. Not only are the Longdogs gainful summer employment, they also happen to be one of my favorite things about living in Leland. I don’t like seeing them trashed. And I especially don’t like seeing you trashed.”
She hadn’t meant for that to come out quite so emphatically. Britt could take care of herself.
“Maybe I should just ignore it. You say it’s not in the paper?”
“Digital only. He’s got a decent-sized following though, which you can tell from the comment section. They’re mostly hardcore sports fans, but they don’t all hang on his every word. The more provocative he is, the more discussion it generates. And that gets him clicks, which gets the paper more advertising dollars.” A long silence followed, during which Ninah finished painting her toes and scrolled through her phone to the comments. “You still there?”
“This guy calls himself Longdong. That might be all I need to know about who follows this blog. He says, ‘It was worth losing to see Jake Greene bust his ass falling out of that wagon. LMAO.’”
“Longdong wisecracks about everything.”
“So you read this crap?”
“I’m a sports fan. I don’t comment though. Public school teacher is public enough for me, thank you.”
“What if Hodges is right? It never even dawned on me the wagons would tear up the ground. Maybe my best PR move is to put out a mea culpa and promise to take better care of the field in the future.”
The voices inside escalated to laughter, followed by the sound of running, then all quiet. Tease, chase, kiss. Deciding she didn’t want to hear what followed, Ninah dragged her chair to the far end of the porch.
“You could’ve rolled the infield with a Zamboni and the Longdogs still would’ve found a way to lose. Give it up already.”
“Right there, that’s a perfect example of what I was talking about,” Ninah said. “That’s the attitude Wesley fosters with his negative approach.”
“Here’s another one from Three…he uses threes instead of e’s. How cute.”
Ninah laughed. “That’s Trey Sharpe, Justine and JT’s son. He’s a sports fanatic, especially UK basketball. I think he and Wesley are friends, but he always trolls him hard.”
“You’ve been warned, sports fans! Go to a Longdogs game and you might be accidentally entertained. Btw, Wes doesn’t like puppies either. Or pudding.”
“I don’t think you should worry about it, Britt. He’s just one voice.”
“Except he has a megaphone.”
“So do you. Your actions at the ballpark are gonna speak louder than words. Just focus on what you do best and let the results speak for themselves. And don’t talk to Wesley unless you really want to. He’s not running your company—you are.”
Britt thanked her profusely for the call, the advice and the support. More importantly, she promised they’d go out for dinner as soon as she got a free night.
As Ninah rose to go inside, she dropped the bottle of nail polish and watched helplessly as it rolled off the side of the porch. Jumping down to retrieve it was easy, but she didn’t trust the rickety railing to hold her if she tried to pull herself back up.
“She’s gone, hurry,” Emmy said as her front door squeaked open.
Ninah reached the steps just in time to meet Emmy’s secret boyfriend, who was as shocked to see her as she was to see him. “Well, look who it is.”
“Ninah…”
She couldn’t resist singing his name. “Ike Ike bo-bike…banana-fana-fo-fike.”
He managed a sheepish smile, looked back at Emmy with a shrug, and scampered down the steps. “See ya later.”
“Oh shit! Ninah…” Emmy clutched fistfuls of her hair and contorted her face with dismay. “I thought you’d gone inside.”
“So I gather. What’s the big deal?”
“Ninah, you cannot tell Mom. Or Dad. Oh my God, but please not Mom. Promise me. Or Carly either, because she’ll tell Mom.”
She had to admit it was amusing to see the normally chill Emmy in such a state. “I’m not gonna tell anyone anything, but why all the secrecy? You can’t possibly be worried about what your mom will think.”
Emmy collapsed on the porch swing and gave it a kick. “She wouldn’t understand.”
“Because Ike’s black?”
“No! Because he’s a barista.”
From the way she snarled the word, it wasn’t clear to Ninah who considered that a problem, Emmy or Justine. She stifled a laugh and motioned for her to scoot over so she could join her on the swing. “Don’t look now, but I
think your mom actually married a barista.”
“It’s not the same. Carly graduated from U of L and worked all over the world before she came back to Leland and bought The Bean. Besides, owning a place is a little different from making the lattes.”
“Okay, I’ll grant that Carly’s a special case, but she’d be the first to tell Justine what a great guy Ike is. And even if he weren’t the ‘World’s Greatest Barista,’ his songwriting makes him special. How many guys in Leland can say a Grammy-winner sang one of his songs on tour?”
“I think he’s special, but…” She was clearly anguished, almost to the point of tears. “Ever since I came back to Leland, Mom’s been on a mission to marry me off to every new doctor in town.”
“With this ring, I thee obligate half of my astronomical student loan.”
“Ye-ah! It almost makes me wish I’d taken that job in Indianapolis. At least I wouldn’t have her watching over me all the time.”
“Don’t bet on it. She’d have sent a drone with a camera.” Justine had been ecstatic when Emmy chose the Grace Hospital pharmacy job instead of the one in Indy. She couldn’t stand the thought of her future grandchildren being so far away. “Are you planning on keeping Ike a secret forever or just till you get jammed up for a babysitter?”
Emmy threw a sharp elbow into her side. “For your information, we aren’t all that sure we even want kids.”
The surprising admission seemed to suggest their relationship was quite serious, which presented a segue to something that needed to be said.
“I remember when I came home from college and told my parents I was in love with a girl. All Mama could talk about was Matthew Shepard, that kid in Wyoming who was beaten to death for being gay.”
Emmy scowled. “I know what you’re doing.”
She wrapped an arm around Emmy’s shoulder and hugged her hard. “I’m giving you a window into my world is all. There are shitty people out there who think they have the right to police the rest of us. Your mom and Carly know how that feels, so they’re gonna worry about you. Just please don’t take your safety for granted.”
Emmy nodded tersely without looking up.
“That’s all I have to say about it, Emmy. Except…I think it’s cool that two people I really like found each other. I’m in your corner all the way.”
“Thanks, Ninah. Maybe you should break it to Mom and Dad.”
Ninah hardly wanted that job, but she wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when it happened. “I wouldn’t worry. I think they’re gonna be thrilled to find out their baby girl met someone she loves enough to talk about not having babies with.”
Chapter Seventeen
After three days of craning her neck to see the field from her office, Britt enlisted Archie to help push her desk up against the window. The continuous action below—currently practice drills by the visiting Cookeville Moccasins—was inspirational to her creative efforts.
She’d spent the last hour rehearsing remarks to the players, who’d finished their midday practice and retreated to the clubhouse. According to Archie, players barely cleared a grand a month, most of which they paid to Coy in clubhouse dues. Word had it they lived two or three to a bedroom in cheap apartments behind the shopping center, sharing everything from toiletries to clothes. Britt had a plan for earning players extra money through promotional appearances.
Archie knocked softly and cleared his throat. “You ready, boss?”
“Perfect timing.” She followed, taking only the list she’d compiled through a day’s worth of cold calls to local businesses.
The clubhouse was beneath the concessions concourse in the bowels of the stadium, two levels below the administrative offices. They took the elevator, exiting through a back door that opened into a hallway reeking of onions.
“Maybe you ought to wait here, boss. I’ll run ahead and let the boys know you’re coming. They can be sort of careless in the locker room, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course.” If there was one thing she didn’t want to see, it was a bunch of naked men.
The painted cinderblock wall of the hallway was covered with framed photos of past teams going all the way back to 1985, the Longdogs’ inaugural year. They’d had a good run in the early aughts, winning two league championships and three other division titles. Nothing of note since 2006.
“All set,” Archie said.
They walked through double doors into a large open area lined with lockers. About two dozen youthful ballplayers were seated on benches and eating off paper plates. Several were shirtless, some wearing only towels around their waists. Obviously, she’d caught them after their shower.
“Sorry they’re not all dressed,” Archie said quietly. “Everybody comes running when Coy puts the spread out. Otherwise there’s nothing left but peanut butter and jelly.”
Two long tables in the middle of the room held a sparse buffet of white bread and condiments—which included the pungent onions—but the cold cuts and cheese tray had been picked clean, as had the chips bowl. There were also apples and oranges, and a bucket-sized jar of generic peanut butter with swirls of grape jelly already mixed in. To say the spread was unappetizing would have been too kind.
The sports websites she’d explored were rife with first-person accounts of life in the minors. A shabby buffet such as this one was considered a rite of passage, motivation to work hard in order to move up the ladder of success.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Miss Brittany Iverson. Her father Vernon, who is currently recovering from brain surgery, is our new owner.”
Someone let out a wolf whistle, prompting several others to laugh. There was no way to pinpoint who it came from, only the general direction.
“Show some respect,” Archie snapped. He whispered to her, “These guys just got here a couple of weeks ago. They’re a little rough around the edges.”
She had her own answer for that, the list in her hand. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I won’t keep you long. Archie tells me you’re—”
Someone farted loudly, triggering another burst of laughter.
Archie pointed toward the source and said sternly, “That’s enough, guys.”
“It’s all right, Archie,” she said. “Farting is perfectly normal teenage boy behavior. It usually stops once they get interested in girls.”
A chorus of appreciative hisses was followed by, “Oooh, better get some cream for that burn.”
The reddest face belonged to Troy Cline, the right fielder who’d stumbled on his way to the plate in last night’s game. He didn’t seem quite so amused with himself now.
She began a slow, deliberate stroll down the buffet table, pausing to note the ON SALE TODAY sticker on the white bread. Probably days old. The fruit left in the bowl was bruised. It was hard to feel anything but sympathy for guys who paid half their salary to eat such disgusting crap.
“I came by to introduce myself, since you’ll be seeing me around. I’m new at this, but I’m excited about the potential of the Longdogs. My job is to bring people out to the ballpark to cheer you on.”
Cory Hanover, the star pitcher everyone was raving about, stood to toss his plate in the bin. He’d been wearing only a towel, which he deliberately allowed to drop. Turning toward her, he badly faked a sheepish grin. “Oops.”
Unfazed, she looked him directly in the eye and continued her thought. “If we both do our jobs well, I’d love to share the rewards. I can get you coupons for freebies from some of our advertisers”—she held up her list—“Guido’s pizza, The Bean coffee shop, Tacos Chalitos. I’m also lining up public appearances at local businesses where you can earn cash signing autographs and posing for photos. Obviously, I’m only interested in those who can put the best public face on the Longdogs.”
Her message was clear: Adolescent ass-clowns need not apply.
She found herself standing over Oscar Lopez. “Oscar, I read today where someone said the wagon race was to blame for causing you to get a bad hop.”
“No ma’am, my bad,” he answered, patting his chest.
“But it did loosen the dirt around third,” Cline said churlishly. “It’s hard to get traction to run when it’s like that.”
“I understand, and I—”
“Yo, Cline!” The roar of a deep male voice was followed by the appearance of a middle-aged man Britt recognized as Hank O’Neal, the team’s manager. “How many professional baseball games have you played in?”
Cline glanced uneasily at his teammates before meekly replying, “One.”
“And how many times have you fucked up?”
“Uh…once?”
“Great, so you’re batting a thousand on fuck-ups.” He stalked through the room looking down at each player with the scorn of a drill sergeant. “Whose job is it to smooth the dirt under your feet? You better know the answer to that, ’cause that other son of a bitch out there is doing all he can to fuck you over. He’s gonna spit, and dig holes out there with his cleats. Hell, he’d drop a turd if nobody was looking. That’s your mess to deal with every time you take the field.” He came to a stop in front of Cline, who was staring at the floor, his cheeks aflame. “If your peachy ass was good enough to play in the major leagues, you’d be there already. But it ain’t. So you better learn from every fucking mistake you make, or your baseball dream is gonna end right here in Leland.”
Britt was almost afraid to breathe in the presence of this powerful figure. In the back of her mind, she’d already started plotting her revenge, which would have been to freeze out the clowns who couldn’t behave themselves. She liked Hank’s ending better.
Taking a step back toward the door, she said, “Just to reiterate, I’ve got a handful of opportunities for players to show up at places in the community and earn a few bucks just for being a Longdog. Check with Archie for a signup sheet if you’re interested.”
Hank had returned to his office, but his voice carried just the same. “And don’t let me catch any of you saying fuck in front of women.”