by Sykes, V. K.
“I understand even better now why you want to stay close to her,” Taylor said, her heart aching for him. “Devon’s obviously been dealt a tough hand by her mom.”
Ryan nodded, but he cast her a penetrating look from under lowered brows. “I don’t want to underplay that, but it can’t be an excuse for bad behavior for the rest of her life. You lost a parent when you were a kid, and so did I. And I’ve been a good father to her. I’m not there every day when she comes home from school, but I’m there for her when she needs me. I’ve given her everything she could possibly want.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong.”
Yes, he’d given his daughter everything—except a mother and a stable home. Not that she blamed him one bit. But when he used Taylor as a comparison, he didn’t seem to get there was a big difference between losing your father to an accident and having your mother abandon you. Despite the trauma of her father’s death, she had never felt abandoned.
But she had no intention of pointing that out to him. Ryan needed support now, not criticism from a virtual stranger.
With an apologetic smile, Taylor glanced at her watch. “I should be going, Ryan. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow, and a presentation I still need to polish tonight.”
A presentation about him, God help her, and she couldn’t help feeling another stab of guilt. But she shoved that thought down hard, telling herself that her plan could work out for everybody, including Ryan. Right now she needed to focus on the fact that she had to be fully prepared for the grilling she would inevitably receive from the pack of skeptical team scouts. Even the ones who appreciated her kind of statistical approach didn’t much care for a thirty year-old chick apparently having more juice with the GM than they did.
When she got up, Ryan rose, too, having already taken care of the bill. “I’ve enjoyed it, Taylor, more than you know,” he said with a smile so charming that it made her blink. “Thanks for joining me.”
Feeling bizarrely shy, she ducked her head in thanks and walked with him through the nearly-empty restaurant to the parking lot. After she clicked the door open with the remote, she instinctively kept her finger poised over the panic button as they approached her Fusion. When she realized what she was doing, she almost laughed out loud. With Ryan Locke close at her side, she’d probably never felt safer in her life. Aside from his intimidating size she’d read that the guy was a martial arts enthusiast, too.
When Taylor turned to say goodnight, extending her hand, Ryan grasped it and in one fluid motion swooped in, his big body seeming to surround her, and kissed her lips in an enticingly warm, brief caress. When he released her and pulled back, Taylor’s own mouth dropped open in shock.
Ryan’s smile somehow managed to convey both self-deprecation and self-satisfaction, and a hell of a lot of charm.
“I’ve wanted to do it ever since I saw you checking me out at the park,” he admitted as she gaped up at him. “Every minute that we’ve been together, Taylor.” His gaze never wavered from her face. “I hope you’re not…offended.”
Offended, no. Scared witless, yes.
She’d obviously been kidding herself that tonight was all about two friendly adults just shooting the breeze and hanging out together, and she could kick herself for her ridiculous naïveté. But she also couldn’t deny her visceral response to his kiss. Though brief, it had sparked a reaction that cascaded through her. And, yes. It scared the hell out of her to think how she might react if he put the same emotional intensity into a kiss that he’d displayed on the field.
“Um, nope. Not at all,” she said, struggling to regain her lost equilibrium. “I’m not offended at all. But, Ryan, it’s not a great idea that we’re even seen together, much less…” she windmilled a hand, mentally wincing at her inept babbling.
“Much less doing what we both want to do,” he replied in a deep voice that sent a surge of something hot and honeyed through her veins. She met his gaze and lost her breath at the same time, since his dark eyes practically devoured her.
Exactly.
“I need to go, Ryan,” she said, fumbling behind her for the handle of the car door.
That thought sent panic spiraling through her chest. What an idiot she’d been for agreeing to see him tonight.
Ryan’s smile slid into a frown as he studied her. “You’re really worried about a little gossip? What’s the big deal, Taylor?”
She frantically cast about in her head for a good reason, hating that she couldn’t level with him. She darted a gaze around the parking lot—as if she actually expected to find an answer spelled out on a billboard, or something—and then look backed at him. His dark gaze burned with intensity even as he waited patiently for her answer.
Taylor tried for a casual shrug. “Oh, you know, consorting with the enemy and all that. It wouldn’t do to be spending too much time with a division rival, would it? Not to mention the sexist crap I’d probably run into,” she said in a joking voice.
God that sounded lame, even to her.
Ryan apparently refused to pick up on her verbal clues. “We’re not going to be division rivals much longer, as far as I can see.”
Damn, Damn, Damn.
She had to get out of there right now. With an apologetic smile, she fumbled with the door, pitched her purse inside, and flopped into the car with all the grace of a wounded rhino.
“I’ll call you soon,” Ryan said as she closed the door.
Taylor gave him a weak smile and fired the ignition, hell-bent on getting as far away from the temptation he posed as fast as possible.
7
THE TABLES IN the Patriots meeting room formed a hollow rectangle, chairs lining three sides and with two seats at the head of the table where Taylor sat. Fourteen men had already filed in after her as she waited for Dembinski to arrive and claim the power seat beside her. Directly across from her at the far end were the other two AGM’s, Rick Clark and Brad Sekulich. Various department directors and scouts, along with team manager Jack Ault and infield coach Pedro Delgado ringed the other sides of the table. Carafes of coffee along with the fixings were passed around. The mood was subdued, as usual at these morning meetings. Scouts worked late and most didn’t appreciate these early morning get-togethers.
Taylor paid them little attention, struggling to focus on her impending presentation. She felt confident in her numbers and her analysis, which was a good thing because she wasn’t really absorbing the figures on the screen in front of her at that moment. Though it grated on her professional pride, she couldn’t stop thinking about Ryan Locke and how that startling kiss last night had affected her more than it should have.
After she got home, second thoughts about trading for Ryan had started to overwhelm everything else on her mind. She knew it was entirely an emotional reaction to being with him, one primed by the fact that she’d felt so disconnected and downright lonely since leaving L.A. at the end of December. And she wasn’t just physically attracted to the man, she liked him. He was a good guy, and by all indications a good father, too—or at least was trying his best to be. Ryan deserved to get what he wanted—to be able to play baseball for several more years and to be close to his daughter. He deserved his shot as a DH with an American League team to help realize those goals.
But for the next couple of hours, Taylor intended to do her level best to ensure that Ryan’s career path took a different course. By forcing him to switch to first base, she was going to take him down a difficult road with an uncertain outcome. While she remained confident that he could succeed—otherwise she would never be advocating such a move—a great deal would depend on Ryan and his attitude following the trade. It could turn out to be either a home run or a complete bust, with life-changing consequences for them both.
Especially for him.
One of the reasons—though certainly not the main one—she’d met Ryan again last night was to get a better sense of his character. How would he respond to an unwelcome trade? Any pla
yer would sulk for a short time in that situation, but would he bounce back quickly and attack his new challenge with determination and grit? That’s what it meant to be a character player. Any jackass could thrive when everything was going his way. Only by facing true adversity was a player’s mettle really tested.
The Ryan Locke she thought she knew would face the challenge head-on and succeed. He might rant and sulk and even threaten consequences for a while, but before long he’d be out there working long hours to get up to speed at his new position. Taylor knew it in her gut, and that’s why she’d finally convinced herself that she was right to argue for the trade.
But being right didn’t make her feel right. Because if Ryan joined the Patriots, they’d likely never have the opportunity to explore the connection they’d developed over these past two days. An assistant general manager having a relationship with a player on the same team? No way. She had significant input into player personnel matters, so how could she be fully detached when it came to anything to do with Ryan? Even if she believed she could be coldly objective, absolutely no one else would. It might be different if she had a truly secure position with years of experience in the organization, but she was a newbie with the Patriots, trying to prove herself. Her position was anything but secure.
And what would happen if Ryan found out she’d been the one who’d planned and pushed for the trade? While she hadn’t outright lied, she’d kept the full truth from him and that now seemed like almost the same thing. Would she have the guts to tell him after the fact?
But after a night of tossing and turning, debating all those questions, Taylor had finally decided that she had no choice but to stick with the course she’d set, and to make the most convincing case for the trade that she could. Aside from all the other reasons, she had to do it because her credibility with Dembinski was on the line. Her GM would expect her to make an even better case to the scouts than she’d already made to him, and anything less would be an invitation to career disaster.
“Good, everybody’s here,” Dembinski said, as he finally graced them with his presence. He sank into the chair beside Taylor. “You’re all aware that Taylor has an idea she wants to run by us, so let’s deal with that before we get to our regular business.”
Taylor scanned the faces around the table and saw looks that ranged from mildly interested to openly hostile.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said as she stood, grabbing the laser pointer then hitting a key to start her Power Point presentation. The first spreadsheet hit the projection screen behind the head of the table. She’d designed linked spreadsheets so the tables were compact and the numbers were bolder and more visible than usual.
“These are Ryan Locke’s offensive numbers for the past seven years,” she said. “The stats are broken down—”
“Locke? What the hell are we talking about him for?” Cornell McCoy, one of the veteran scouts, rudely interjected. “I hear he’s on the block, but the last thing we need is an outfielder who can’t play his position anymore.”
Dembinski shot him a glare. “Shut up and let Taylor finish. She’ll take questions at the end, and then we’ll have a good old fashioned debate where you can flap your gums to your heart’s content.” He gave Taylor an encouraging smile. “Go ahead, Taylor.”
“As I was saying,” she continued, gratified at Dembinski’s show of support, “the stats are broken down into twenty standard and eighteen advanced batting categories, and then six win probability stats. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the methodology from the previous packages I’ve circulated, but if you have any concerns or questions I’d be happy to answer them at the end.”
Taylor went through the spreadsheets one by one, using the laser pointer to highlight Ryan’s superior to better than average performance in virtually every batting category. The man not only got on base with remarkable efficiency, he contributed timely hits that ultimately produced runs even though he was not credited with either an RBI or a run scored. Only by looking deep into these kinds of situational stats could you see this type of player’s impact. And that was her job—to drill down past the obvious.
When she finished the slides after twenty minutes, her throat was parched. She had to clear her throat before finishing. “To sum up, Locke produces more runs overall than anybody else who’s available and that we can afford. So, it makes sense to me that we try to trade for Ryan Locke, and teach him how to play first base.”
Silent skepticism permeated the air as everybody was clearly waiting until Dembinski reacted. Most of the scouts were shaking their heads, but in a regretful fashion, as if they were saying Jesus, Taylor, but that’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my—fill in the blank—years in baseball. Taylor caught McCoy muttering something under his breath about “skirts”.
Dembinski motioned for Taylor to sit. “Questions?” he said. “Ask them right now or shut up for all time.”
AGM Rick Clark held up a hand. “Dave, even if we were to buy this idea in principle, isn’t Locke going to attract serious interest from the AL? The price might turn out to be more than we’re willing to pay.”
Most of the men at the table mumbled or nodded agreement.
“There’ll be some other teams interested in him,” the GM conceded, “but his power numbers are pretty light for a DH, so I’m not sure anybody will go big on him. Besides, I’ve already come up with an idea if we decide today to move ahead with this.”
“His power is a bit light for a first baseman, too,” manager Ault said quietly.
Taylor had to jump in before Ault’s concern started to cascade. “Guys,” she said with a big smile, “I know it’s tempting for all of us to focus on the power numbers. Power is what the fans love to see. But they love to see the team win games even more, so we can’t get too hung up on RBI’s and slugging percentage. It’s the number of runs produced that counts in the end, and Locke’s still near the top of his game when you look at those categories.”
“Thanks for that reminder,” Dembinski said. Taylor couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. Maybe he thought she was sounding pedantic.
“Dave, let’s talk about the elephant in the room,” said Cal Doyle, the director of scouting who sat near Dembinski. “The reason Locke’s available is that he can’t play defense anymore. The guy’s a warrior, but a wounded one. He can’t run, and he can barely throw anymore, either. Sure, first base doesn’t require a lot of range or long throws, but he could turn out to be a hell of a defensive liability if we put him there. I know it would probably only be for one season, but we can contend again this year, and we don’t want a potential mess to ruin our chances, do we?”
Talk about a pessimistic scenario. Taylor didn’t want to dominate the conversation, but she felt the need to address those issues right away, too. “Can I address that, Dave?”
Dembinski nodded.
“Cal, I hear you,” Taylor said. “But Locke makes virtually no fielding errors on balls he gets to, so that’s a huge positive. I can’t address the range issue directly since he’s never played first base, but his lateral movement sure looks okay to me.” She went on to doggedly argue each objection raised by the men around the table, using her power point presentation to back up her arguments.
Still, too many were rolling their eyes at her, no matter how many stats she hammered them with.
“Hell, I can throw better than Ryan Locke and I’m sixty-four years old,” McCoy interjected sarcastically.
Dembinski focused on infield coach Pedro Delgado. “Now you understand why I asked you to join us today. If we decide to go after Locke, it’ll be up to you to make sure the guy can handle first. Based on what you know about him and what you’ve heard this morning, what’s your take on it?”
Delgado leaned forward to rest his massive forearms on the table. He was a physically intimidating man, six-five and two-forty in his playing days in the nineties, but close to three hundred pounds now. While she didn’t know him well on a
personal level, Taylor knew his coaching record and was convinced that he had the skills, patience and temperament to turn Ryan into a competent first baseman.
The big man let loose with a good-natured chuckle. “You’re really putting me on the spot here, Dave.” Then his expression morphed into one of serious intent. “A lot people think first is the easiest position on the field, but I figure they’re all people who haven’t had a screaming liner hit straight at their face. Or haven’t dived to snag a hard-hit grounder then picked themselves up, fired to second and then raced back to first to turn the 3-6-3.”
“My point exactly,” McCoy muttered.
Taylor’s heart sank. It sure sounded like Delgado was going to throw a bucket of icy water on her idea, and she knew his opinion counted for a hell of a lot with everybody in the room.
“But Taylor’s right,” Delgado continued. “Locke’s a good glove man, and a hard worker. He’ll be easier to teach than a lot of guys I’ve worked with. Yeah, he’s slow, but, man, look at some of the whales patrolling first out there. Locke’s going to look like a fucking dolphin compared to them.”
Enough men nodded in wry agreement that Taylor started to relax a little. She knew her shoulders were up around her ears, and she forced herself to ease them down.
“So,” Delgado finished. “I don’t see why Locke couldn’t do a decent job for us there, Dave. I think Taylor’s made a pretty good case.”
”Me, too,” Jack Ault put in with a decisive nod. “I think Locke could make the transition.”
God love you, Pedro Delgado. Taylor made a mental note to send a case of the man’s favorite alcoholic beverage to him after they broke camp for Philadelphia.
Delgado’s seal of approval, followed by Ault’s endorsement, had taken the fight out of the reluctant scouts and front office staff. Taylor got the vibe in the room—after Delgado spoke everybody knew Dembinski would surely endorse her idea. Absolutely nobody wanted to gainsay the boss once he’d come to a decision, regardless of how much they might resent or disagree with Taylor.
