Mal made a disgusted noise. “C’mon, Alex, what are you doing? Everybody in this place loves Maggie Jameson, you know that. They might be suspicious if Tom says we’re good guys but they won’t doubt Saint Maggie. You need her to vouch for us.”
Alex made sure the desk was still between him and Mal. “Good idea. But there’s one little problem with it…”
* * *
A shower went a little way toward restoring Maggie’s sense of humanity, if not her faith in said species. She blew her hair dry roughly, piled it up, slid into jeans and a hoodie, and decided she wouldn’t call her dad to let him know she was coming. She had a feeling he might try to duck out if she did. Tom Jameson had eaten team managers, coaches, players, and members of the press for breakfast in his time, but he’d never been good at dealing with anything too female. Given Maggie had been a tomboy, that worked out well. Most of the time. The few times they had fought and she’d succumbed to tears, she’d had the distinct impression her father would rather gnaw his own arm off than go through it again. Which might explain why he’d never remarried.
But that wasn’t the point. Today, it didn’t matter how uncomfortable it made her father, she was going to get the explanation she deserved.
Her purse was still on the kitchen counter where presumably Alex—goddamn it, her memory of what had actually happened when they’d reached her apartment was way too blurry—had put it. She’d woken up in her clothes—most of them at least. He’d taken off her jacket and shoes but thankfully had left it at that. She really would have had to punch him if he’d seen her passed out in her underwear.
Maggie just about reached the door when there was another knock that made her jump and drop her purse. She bent to grab it, frowning. Dev was fairly dogged about calling up to announce visitors. The building’s security had been one of the reasons she’d chosen it. Maybe it was Dev himself with another parcel. She straightened and moved to peer through the peephole.
The person standing there was both welcome and unexpected and, Maggie suspected, definitive proof that the news had gotten out.
“Maggie, open the damn door. I can hear you breathing in there.”
Maggie grinned. Hana probably could at that. She had skills.
She opened the door. “Hi,” she said brightly. “I thought we were getting together tonight.” A “welcome back from Europe” blowout dinner with the gals. All planned. Though no longer what she was in the mood for. Especially as she now suspected she knew precisely why her father had surprised her with a month-long vacation to France and Italy as a “graduation” present instead of letting her come straight home to start work at the Saints.
Hana’s immaculately groomed black eyebrows drew together. “You know why I’m here.”
Crap. “You missed me unbearably?”
That earned her an eye roll as Hana stalked into the apartment, dropped her perfectly plain but extremely expensive black purse onto the nearest flat surface, and turned back to Maggie. “I saw you a month ago at your graduation. Where, I seem to recall, you said nothing about the Saints being sold. I had to hear it from Brett last night. God, Maggie, what’s going on?”
Hana’s voice turned a little scared at the end, which made all of Maggie’s anxiety return.
“I swear, I didn’t know, Han,” she said. “I would have told you, you know that.”
Hana bit her lip, her hazel eyes unhappy. “Brett was aaaannnngry last night. There was ranting. How could you not know about this? Has your dad lost his mind?”
“I don’t know” was the answer to both those questions but telling Hana that wasn’t going to be helpful. “Brett will be okay. They didn’t say anything about trading or cutting.” Even Alex Winters wasn’t fool enough to get rid of Brett Tuckerson, Hana’s husband and the Saints’ star pitcher. Cuts. Her stomach curled uneasily at the thought. The trading of players like chess pieces was the one thing she hated about baseball. Tom had been softhearted, often giving players several chances too many. Alex Winters wouldn’t share that weakness.
“What did he say? When did this happen?”
Maggie shrugged helplessly. “I really can’t tell you. Two months ago Dad and I were talking about what I was going to be doing when I finished school, and now this.”
“Shit.” Hana flopped down on the sofa. “Alex bloody Winters. And the other two. I can’t believe it. I mean, last season went pretty well.”
It was true. The Saints had finished seventh in the American League. They hadn’t made the play-offs. They hadn’t made the play-offs for nearly three decades. But they’d had a far better year than the previous two when they’d been last and eleventh. The younger players had settled in, Dan Ellis—the manager who’d taken over when the Saints’ veteran head coach had retired a few years ago—had seemed to hit his stride and things had been gelling nicely.
“It did. But apparently Alex Winters made an offer too good to refuse.”
“Alex Winters. What does he even know about baseball?”
“Seems he’s a big fan. Been a Saints season ticket holder since he was in college. They all have.” Tom had included that little tidbit when he’d introduced Alex at yesterday’s meeting.
“I’ve never seen him at a function.” Hana was frowning, her brain obviously cycling through her mental file of “people in baseball.” There was a reason why Brett called her Hanapedia. She remembered baseball statistics and people with computerlike accuracy. Though wisely, Brett tended to stay out of reach when he did so. Hana was a few inches shorter than Maggie’s five foot eight and her slender frame was the gift of her Korean mom, but she was also a former Olympic tae kwon do medalist.
No one messed with Hana or anyone in her circle. Even the baseball groupies that swarmed around the players like gnats gave Brett a wide berth. The ones with any sort of brain, that was. There’d been a few dumb enough to give it a try when Brett and Hana had just started dating, but apparently the experience of being flipped across the room and then frog-marched out of the building was a salutary one. Maggie couldn’t remember when she’d last seen anyone do anything more than mildly flirt with Brett. Even when Hana wasn’t there.
“I don’t think I have either.” Alex Winters stuck to New York society as far as she could tell. She would have remembered him if they’d crossed paths before. He was, unfortunately, the sort of guy you remembered. Both for his face and his aggravating personality. Maggie had been in school for the last eight years, so she hadn’t had much time for any sort of socializing outside of her Saints duties, catching up with the girls now and then, and hanging out with her study groups bitching about the latest assignments over late-night coffee and takeout.
“Definitely not,” Hana decided, apparently coming to the end of her mental review of faces. “Damn. We need the dirt.” She wandered over to one of Maggie’s big cushy sofas and flopped down, looking exasperated.
Maggie flopped next to her. “I did a case study on him last year. There wasn’t much dirt to be found.” A succession of pretty women on his arm, but there’d never been much else thrown at Winters in the press. If there was dirt to be found, his business rivals would have used it before now.
“Doesn’t have to be bad dirt,” Hana said. “But we need to know what makes him—and the other two—tick. I’ll call Shelly.” Shelly Finch was engaged to the Saints’ catcher, Hector Moreno. She worked for the New York Times as an entertainment reporter and possibly knew even more people than Hana did. If that was humanly possible. She was another one of Maggie’s posse. Women who understood the baseball life and bonded over crazed travel schedules, athletes’ foibles, and the general nuttiness of life in MLB.
And apparently the posse was now mobilizing. Maggie felt vaguely cheerful at the thought. Alex Winters and his two buddies might own the Saints now but they had no idea what they were stepping into. No understanding of the complex webs of relationships that made up the team and the league. Or what could happen if those relationships turned sour. Even the devil would
n’t be able to save himself from the potential world of hurt if the team took against the new owners.
* * *
“Margaret, what are you doing here?”
Maggie ignored the question. Veronica, her father’s … well, she was a bit too old for “girlfriend” to be the right term … wasn’t her favorite person in the world. Veronica preferred hockey to baseball for a start. Then there was the “Margaret” thing. The last person who’d called her Margaret on a regular basis had been Sister Maria Henry in junior high. “Is Dad here?”
“He’s in his den. You almost missed him. We’re about to leave for the press conference.”
“Press conference?” Maggie moved past Veronica, not waiting for her response, heading toward Tom’s den. It was a hike. The house wasn’t a mansion but it was sizable. Two levels designed around a central living area and two long wings, one of which held guest quarters, Tom’s den and office, and the games room, while the other contained the family bedrooms. Maggie moved quickly, her feet knowing the path by heart. She hadn’t been home to the house in a few months, between her final exams and Tom being away for the last stretch of games for the season and then her trip. It had been easier to meet on the road, at Maggie’s apartment, or Tom’s Manhattan loft than here on Staten Island.
Usually being home relaxed her here but today she felt her shoulders creeping toward her ears. For as long as she could remember this house had been her home. And the home of the owner of the Saints. But no longer.
She knocked once when she reached the den but didn’t bother waiting to be asked in. In fact, as she pushed open the door and stepped through, she almost knocked her father down. Or maybe he almost knocked her down. She wasn’t entirely sure. Tom grabbed her shoulders to steady them both.
“Maggie, love. What are you doing here?” He looked her up and down for a moment. “I take it you didn’t get my message.”
“Message?”
“About the press conference. I left several.”
Maggie thought guiltily of the iPhone still switched off in her purse. She wasn’t ready for the barrage of inquisitive calls and sympathetic texts from friends, acquaintances, the press, and the just plain nosy. “I’ve been busy.”
Tom lifted his wrist, glanced down at the heavy gold watch Maggie had given him for his sixtieth birthday two years ago. “We have time. You have clothes here, don’t you?”
“Clothes?”
“You can’t do this press conference dressed like that,” her father said. He was wearing one of his immaculately tailored dark blue suits. And a Saints team tie with an equally immaculate white shirt.
Maggie looked down at her jeans and biker boots. “That’s not a problem. Because I’m not going to be doing the press conference.”
“Now, Maggie…” The faintest hint of her grandfather’s Irish brogue crept into Tom’s voice as it always did when he was trying to charm her.
“No!” She threw up her hands. “You can’t seriously expect me to stand there and smile like everything’s okay while you hand the Saints over to that … that … that man!”
“You’ve stood and smiled for me before,” Tom said.
“When we were in trouble. When it was for the good of the team,” Maggie said, feeling acid rising in her throat again. Sure, she’d grinned and pretended nothing was wrong on previous occasions. PR involved the odd white—or distinctly gray—lie occasionally and she’d been happy to do it. But not this time.
“Love, this is for the good of the team.” He smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It’s not!”
Tom’s expression turned stern. Once upon a time that look had been enough to make her quake. But not today.
“It is, Maggie. I’m sorry it happened like this but Alex and Lucas and Malachi love the Saints. They’ll take good care of them. I wouldn’t sell to anyone who wouldn’t.”
“I don’t understand why you’re selling at all.” Her voice had gone high and tight again like it had last night with Alex.
“It was time, love.”
“But why?” Fear suddenly gripped her. “Is something wrong? Are you sick?” She searched his face, horrified that she hadn’t thought of this possibility before. But Tom looked his usual self. Didn’t he?
“No. Though I’m sure Marcus will be doing handsprings that I’m retiring.”
Marcus Donahue being the crusty old MD her father had been seeing for his personal checkups for years. Relief whooshed through her, fear melting away. Which left room for the hurt and betrayal to rise again in its place. “Then why?”
“I don’t have time to explain. We need to leave in fifteen minutes to get to the stadium in time. Go get changed.”
Maggie folded her arms. “No. Give me a reason why.”
“For me. One last time. I promise I’ll explain afterward, but right now do this for your old dad, okay?” He reached out and touched her cheek gently, like he always did. “It’s going to be all right, Maggie. Alex is a good guy.”
“He’s the devil,” Maggie muttered, but her father had turned back to his desk, staring down at some papers while he straightened his blue, silver, and yellow Saints tie. The sun through the window illuminated the white hairs among the gray that had been there for years, and something about the light and the slight slouch in his shoulders made her heart clutch. He looked … tired. And Tom Jameson never looked tired. He had kept up a punishing schedule and thrived on it for years, running the Saints and his other businesses with clockwork precision. Fear clutched again. Maybe he was ill after all. Maybe he just didn’t want to tell her. It would be like him to try and protect her from something like that.
“Maggie. Clothes.”
His voice, at least, was unchanged. Strong and low and reliable. She was so used to obeying orders he issued in that tone that she turned on her heel and was halfway down the hall before she realized he’d put the whammy on her. But she kept going. She didn’t like what was about to happen, but neither was she going to miss the press conference and the chance to find out more about the enemy. Because Alex Winters was the enemy. And one thing was sure. The enemy wasn’t going to see her looking like last night’s excesses had had a single ounce of effect on her.
* * *
Thirteen minutes later, Maggie descended the stairs, thanking the sartorial gods that she’d left a few suits in her room here. And that they were of the classic variety. She’d pulled on the sleekest, blackest of them, grabbed a pair of heels from her closet, and opted for up and back for her hair rather than attempting to tame it enough to leave it down. Eye drops, masses of mascara, and the magic of makeup meant she looked like she was ready for anything. She wore her diamond-studded angel-wing earrings and a trio of bracelets in silver, blue, and yellow enamel. Saints colors. Her colors. She was more a part of the team than Alex bloody Winters ever would be and she was going to let the world know.
She looked good. She knew it when her father smiled at the sight of her and Veronica pressed her lips together. Veronica who was wearing something sedate in pale lilac. Maggie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She’d never once seen Veronica wear Saints colors voluntarily. God knew what her father saw in her.
She allowed herself to smile briefly at Tom and then followed him out to the car where his driver was waiting. As she folded herself into the seat opposite Tom and Veronica, she couldn’t help feeling that they were all going to an execution.
Chapter Three
At least the weather gods were cooperating. Alex stared out the window, down at the field, where the press were assembling. This early in the year Staten Island was cold but it wasn’t snowing or raining, and the reporters, cameramen, and sound people were well wrapped up and apparently enjoying the coffee and food he’d laid on to keep them entertained.
There were a lot of curious expressions on their faces as they looked around and clustered around the small podium that had been set up near the pitcher’s mound. Normally he wouldn’t let several hundred people tram
ple the grass, but right now he needed the visual of him and Mal and Lucas in the ballpark, and the grounds staff had several months to get the turf back under control.
Lucas joined him by the window. “The sharks are gathering, I see.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Alex adjusted his cuffs, mentally rehearsing his remarks for the hundredth time. “They’re going to love us.”
“Today, maybe,” Lucas said. “But if we don’t pull this off, there’s going to be blood in the water. And we’ll be the ones being dragged under and chewed into little pieces.”
“There’s that optimism I know and love,” Alex said.
“Plan for the worst, expect the—”
“The unexpected. Tell me something I don’t know.” If the three of them had a mantra, that would be it. Drummed into their heads by Coach Paulson at college and then all too apt after the bombing. They’d all taken different lessons from what they’d gone through that day but the unofficial motto was one they all shared. Maybe it was the secret of their respective successes. They all tried their best to be at least ten steps ahead of the game in any given scenario.
Which begged the question as to what the hell they were doing here today. Because professional sports had an element of unpredictability that no one could control. The best team in the world could tank for no good reason and the underdogs could fight back from impossible situations to take all the glory. You could plan and train and strategize, but you couldn’t manage the essential … alchemy?… no, chemistry that made a team gel into a run-making, win-taking machine.
Though they were going to try to do exactly that.
There was a quiet knock on the door. Alex and Lucas swung around and Mal lifted his head from where he’d been half reclining in one of the chairs, apparently asleep.
“Come in,” Alex said, and Gardner Rothman, his company lawyer and de facto right-hand man, entered. Like the three of them, he wore a Saints tie with his suit. He looked, as always, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, even though he’d been wrangling press demands all morning while juggling phone calls from the Saints players’ irate agents and managers and personal assistants, not to mention the Saints management team. It took a lot to knock Gardner off his stride. Alex had never managed it, which was why they’d worked together for so long.
The Devil in Denim Page 3
