Perfect Catch

by Sierra Dean

  Tannis, one of the physical therapists who typically worked on Ramon, popped her head into the room, a halo of red curls framing her dainty, pale face. “Are you ready?” she asked Ramon.

  “I am always ready for you, mi amor, but you keep insisting you will not have me.” He held his hands over his heart and gave her beseeching puppy-dog eyes.

  “Keep it up and I’ll ask if you’re ready for a meeting with the human resources lawyers.” Tannis rolled her eyes.

  Ramon was harmless, but he tended to come on too strong. Alex worried if he didn’t tone down his conquistador routine with Tannis, the girl would actually take him to HR.

  Emmy came through the door next, patting Tannis’s back. “Don’t worry about Ramon, T, I’ll take care of him. I think Chet could use someone to check the quad tightness he’s been feeling, okay?”

  Tannis wrinkled her nose, pulling her shoulder free of Emmy’s hand. Alex glanced at Jasper who looked annoyed, then back to Emmy who was tying her long, dark blonde hair up into a ponytail. If she was frustrated by Tannis, she wasn’t letting it show.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked Alex, watching as Jasper dug in.

  “I think your sidekick is trying to pry me apart like a chicken wing.”

  “I take offense to being considered her sidekick,” Jasper said.

  “You are my assistant.” Emmy crooked her fingers at Ramon and tapped the padded table beside her, silently commanding him to come.

  “Assistant has an air of propriety. Sidekick sounds like I’m the Robin to your Batman. And everyone knows sidekicks get the worst outfits.”

  Emmy indicated her bright orange Felons polo shirt then pointed to his identical one.

  “Oh, please.” Jasper dropped his hands from Alex’s back and grinned at Emmy. “We both know I look better in this than you do.”

  Jasper was a fit dude, and his arms rivaled any of the guys on the team, so it was tough to say which of them filled out the shirt better. Alex wanted to vote for Emmy because boobs, but since her boobs belonged to his best friend, he decided to stay silent on the whole thing.

  Taking the safe road he said, “I don’t care which of you is the hero, frankly, as long as Jasper gets his thumb out of my bones.”

  Jasper kneaded him harder. “The pain is how you know it’s working.”

  “It’s working.” Alex tried to smack the assistant A.T. away, but Jasper had situated himself in such a way that it was impossible to reach him. Maybe it was a technique they learned at those fancy med schools, how to brutalize their charges while avoiding retaliation.

  Ramon was sitting with Emmy now. It didn’t look like she was doing anything to hurt him, so maybe Jasper was just a sadist. A mean, pointy-fingered sadist.

  “Stop it,” Alex grumbled.

  “Stop being so goddamn tense, then.”

  “He is a big baby, this one. Such sad faces, yet he can’t take his therapy like a man.” Ramon chuckled.

  “What does that phrase even mean?” Emmy asked, prodding Ramon in the ribs. “Take it like a man?”

  “It means, you know… It means…” He shrugged helplessly, as if to say, Don’t blame me, my English isn’t as good as yours. He had a habit of using the second language thing as a foil when his real problem was sticking his foot in his mouth.

  “No, I don’t know what it means.” Her tone was firm, but she laughed lightly. The guys in the clubhouse were used to Emmy by now, so used to her in fact they sometimes forgot she was a woman. She didn’t tend to remind them, but occasionally she’d say something or do something and they’d be forced to remember she wasn’t just a friendly sister figure or sexless entity who tended to their wounds.

  “I didn’t mean anything. It is only a saying, you know?”

  “It’s a silly saying,” Emmy countered. “And if you don’t know what it means, you shouldn’t say it.”

  “He doesn’t know what most things he says mean,” Alex offered. “It hasn’t stopped him yet.”

  “I know exactly what I mean when I say your face looks like a donkey anus.”

  “Which implies you know what a donkey anus looks like.”

  “I do. I do know. It looks like your face.”

  “Wow,” Emmy said, shoving Ramon down on the table. “I’m never sure if I’m an athletic trainer or a babysitter.”

  “Both,” Alex answered.

  “Please,” she replied. “If I were a babysitter, you guys would actually have to listen to me from time to time.”

  “Or else you’d give us a spanking.” Ramon waggled his brows.

  “That’s enough. Jasper, let’s trade.” She laughed and indicated to Ramon he should roll over.

  “I don’t think that will stop him,” Jasper said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Interleague play was a bit of an oddity for the team. Normally they only played other American League teams, except for a month in June when they faced the odd National League team. But since the Astros had moved leagues, interleague games had become more frequent out of a necessity to have even matchups.

  Which was how the Felons came to be playing the New York Mets that night. The Yankees were their usual New York opponents, and it had been more than a year since the Felons had last played the Mets. Long enough each team had forgotten the quirks of the other players, or how to face off against certain pitchers. Certainly long enough for major roster changes and a shift in each team’s fortunes.

  The Mets had long been a bit of a laughingstock in their division, whereas the Felons often rode in the first or second spot of their own. Now both teams were having a wonderful season, leading their divisions by a huge margin with all the sports blogs considering them sure things in the playoffs.

  It was going to be a hell of a weekend series, with two giant teams battling it out in the national stage. The cap of the three-game showdown was an “ace off”—a battle of the teams’ two best pitchers—between Tucker and the Mets up-and-coming phenom Harry Mendoza. But that was two games away. Tonight, Miles would be up against one of their moderately skilled starting pitchers.

  This would be the foreplay period for the teams. Feeling out each other’s skills and learning what they could ahead of the bigger, more heavily touted match on Saturday.

  But it didn’t matter what the media had to say about the match because Alex could only think of one thing when he stared at the lineup card for the night’s match.

  M. Hernandez.

  Matt. Liv’s father and Alice’s ex. The very reason he’d had so much trouble overcoming her apprehensions about baseball players. The man she’d admitted was the cause of most of her misgivings about men in general.

  He was batting third.

  Alex crouched behind the plate like a coiled spring set to shoot up at any moment. At the pitcher’s mound, Miles looked good, the nerves and wiry energy of the previous season having faded away, leaving the kid as calm and ready as a pro.

  The lead-off batter fanned—striking out swinging on his first up. The second batter hit a single, just inside the foul line behind first base. Then came Matt Hernandez. From Alex’s vantage he appeared much the same as most players—thick thighs, dusty shoes and a black shin guard over his gray pants. But something about his presence on the plate rankled Alex in a way no other player had.

  Instead of any teasing jabs he might throw out to a player he was familiar with, Alex remained silent behind home, chewing the inside of his cheek out of frustration as he gave Miles the signals. Alex had spent some time watching tapes of the Mets batters, the same as the pitching staff had, and he knew Matt liked to swing at the fastballs, so Alex called for a change-up. It was a pitch that looked like a fastball but slowed down as it approached the plate, leading most batters to swing far too soon.

  It worked like a charm. Matt gave a mighty swing, but the bat sliced through the air and the ball landed in Alex’s mitt with a satisfying whack.

  “Fuck,” Matt grumbled, kicking the dirt in the batter’s box. A red
cloud billowed out in Alex’s direction.

  The next pitch was a ball inside, sending Matt dancing backwards, his grumbling elevated. “You call for that one, Ross?” he asked, never glancing backwards or acknowledging Alex in anything other than name.

  “What?” Alex replied.

  “You think because you’re sticking your dick in my sloppy seconds it’s cool for you to call for bullshit plays like that?”

  “Gentlemen,” the home-plate umpire growled, “let’s keep things civil and continue playing the game.” He kept his tone light but was stern in the manner of a friendly schoolteacher. It was his way of preventing the mood from getting too heavy but letting them know he meant business.

  “No arguments here, Barry.” Alex shifted himself back into position, trying to ignore Matt’s spiteful words.

  “Carry on, then.”

  Alex made his call, and though it might not have been in his best interest, he called for another ball inside. Miles shook his head, and Alex made the same call. Miles shook him off again. The pitcher jerked his head more firmly, and this time Alex listened. He made the request for a straight-up fastball, and Miles nodded his agreement.

  This time Matt didn’t miss. The hit made a cracking sound on the bat so deep and loud Alex didn’t need to follow it to know where it would wind up. The sound was a distinctive sign, a surefire herald of a home run. Alex lifted his mask to watch the hit go, and in a very unsportsmanlike move, so did Matt.

  He didn’t just give it a passive glance. Instead, Matt tossed the bat down and tracked the ball’s path until it was well over the stands. Then he turned to Miles and jerked his chin at the pitcher before strutting towards first base to run his lap.

  “What a prick.” Alex lowered his mask and punched the inner pouch of his glove.

  “You can say that again,” muttered the umpire.

  The next several innings went off without another blip, though there was a great deal of chatter about what a dick move it was on Matt’s part to make such an unnecessary show of his home run. It wasn’t the way things were done. Home runs were a part of the business of doing baseball, and to stand around and glory in them was like rubbing a pitcher’s face in it. It was disrespectful.

  When Alex came up to bat in the third, he used the mindset he was accustomed to having when he took his swings—hit like Alice was in the stands, cheering him on against all reason. He adjusted the wrists on his batting gloves, the sweet, potent smell of pine tar coming from the wood.

  He closed his eyes before the pitch came, digging his toes into the dirt and clearing his mind. When he was focused, the bat felt light and the pitcher appeared to be no more than ten feet away, not sixty. The pitch came, and Alex swung hard. It wasn’t a perfect hit, but it found a gap, and Alex ran like hell—he didn’t waste any time watching the damned thing.

  He got to third base standing, and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. It wasn’t until he’d handed his batting gloves off to the third base coach that he noticed Matt lingering behind the base.

  “Well, look who made it to my office. A little shy of how far mine got, though.” He angled his chin to the bleachers. “Better luck next time.”

  Alex gritted his teeth and edged off the plate, leading towards home. All he needed was a nice outfield groundball or even a sacrifice bunt to get him home. And home was vastly preferable to being on third base with Matt.

  “Although it seems you’re used to coming up second to me, doesn’t it?”

  Keep him out, Alex told himself. Don’t let him get in your head.

  The next batter up waited out a ball.

  “What’s the matter, Ross? You seem awfully quiet.”

  “Fuck off, Matt.” Alex knew better than to engage with someone who was goading him intentionally. It was as likely to have a positive outcome as arguing with trolls on the Internet. But something about the way Matt was taunting him made it impossible to ignore.

  “Oh, so you can hear me.”

  Alex moved another foot off the plate. If this was a tactic to make him slip up for an easy out, Matt would be sorely disappointed because Alex never took his eye off the Mets pitcher. It was unusual for a pitcher to try tagging out a runner on third—the chances of missing and allowing the run to come home were too high—but Alex wasn’t taking any stupid chances. He still felt like he was on thin ice with the team, and an error that lost them a potential run wouldn’t be overlooked.

  “Tell me,” Matt continued, ignoring Alex’s discomfort, or more likely feeding off it. “Does she still look good naked? She used to be a wildcat in bed. I remember she used to do this thing with her mouth—”

  “I said fuck off.” Alex was crouched, prepared to run home at a moment’s notice. Hoping he’d get a good chance to get the hell away from Matt Hernandez and his flapping jaw. If things kept up as they were, Alex wouldn’t be able to help himself from throwing punches.

  Alice might not be on speaking terms with him, but he’d be damned if he let a motherfucker like Matt talk about her behind her back. He’d hope any good man would do the same for one of his sisters. Or any woman for that matter.

  “Hope you used protection, man, that’s all I’m saying. Otherwise you might get eighteen years of bullshit, like I did.”

  Alex’s right eyelid twitched, and his hands balled into fists. His vision started to cloud over with a red hue, and he remembered the way it had felt to clobber the Twins batter who had lipped off to Alice and elbowed her. That guy was some random asshole. Alex was willing to bet punching Matt would feel ten times better.

  As luck—good or bad depending on the perspective—had it, Chet Appleton bashed a solid hit to left field that hit the ground, giving Alex the opening he needed. He bolted for home and slid in a foot ahead of the throw.

  Safe.

  And so was Matt, at least for the time being.

  Chapter Thirty

  Carmello’s Diner wasn’t exactly a happening family venue on Friday nights, so Alice’s Spidey-sense started tingling when the group of five women, two of them with children in tow, showed up and asked for a table.

  Varying in age from early twenties to mid-thirties, the women bore a passing resemblance to one another, in such a way even a casual observer would assume they were sisters. They also nattered and squabbled with each other in the familiar way only family members could.

  Things went from peculiar to downright strange when the women asked the hostess to seat them in Alice’s section. Since Alice had never laid eyes on the women before, she had no idea why they’d want to be in her section. No immediate notions sprang to mind, which left her feeling uneasy.

  “Ladies.” She smiled as she approached their table in the diner’s one big family-sized booth. “Can I start you out with anything to drink?” Holding her order pad at the ready, she let her gaze drift over them. Three of the five had dark, curly hair, while the remaining two were blonde. All five of them were pretty, but in an inoffensive, girl-next-door way that seemed designed by nature to put other women at ease.

  “That’s her,” whispered the youngest-looking one, jabbing her neighbor with an elbow. “Oh she’s much prettier in person.”

  Alice wasn’t sure if the whisper was meant to be so audible, but she blushed.

  “Vi, hush. She’s not deaf, you know.” This sister—for Alice was now convinced they must be sisters—smiled brightly and placed her menu on the table. “We’ll have a round of waters, if you don’t mind. And two glasses of milk for the kids.”

  An order that simple didn’t need to be written down, so Alice simply tucked the pad back into her apron, gave the women a strange glance and returned to the kitchen.

  “Bev.” She waved down the hostess as she filled up the water glasses. “Did those ladies say anything to you? About why they wanted to sit with me?”

  Beverly, all of sixteen, shrugged and snapped her gum. “I dunno. I didn’t ask. Why?”

  Alice sighed. “Never mind.”

  “Hope
they tip good,” Bev added. “Middle-aged ladies tip for shit.”

  That Bev thought they were remotely middle-aged made Alice feel ancient in comparison. Some of the women at her table were barely older than she was, and their kids were all much younger than hers. If that was over-the-hill, Bev must have thought Alice herself was ready for a nursing home.

  She snapped plastic lids onto the kids’ milk cups to prevent the inevitable spills, and returned to the table with the drinks, distributing them among the family. All five women watched her with wide, interested eyes, the way visitors to a zoo might observe a captive panda.

  “Um.” Alice shifted nervously, the weight of their scrutiny becoming more overwhelming by the second. She had never been so steadily eyeballed by other women before. In fact, the only time anyone had stared like this had been when she’d first slept with Matt, and he’d been eyeballing her all night like a prize catch. “Are you guys ready to order, or do you need another minute?”

  The eldest of the children, maybe four or five years old, loudly slurped his milk, little legs kicking out under the table.

  “Ask her.” This from one of the blonde sisters to the eldest-looking one who wore her hair in a smart bob.

  “I will ask her. Will you all please be quiet?”

  Alice’s stomach lurched. They didn’t seem like paparazzi. What kind of magazine would send a sister team of chatty ladies with toddlers out to scoop a story? But the way they were whispering to one another and giving her the eye like she was a human spectacle made her think it couldn’t possibly be anything else. They were here because of the story about Alex.

  Great. Now not only was she out one job, but her remaining position was about to be flooded with gossip hounds who wanted to make an exhibit out of her. Look, it’s the slutty townie who slept with Alex Ross.

  No thanks.

  “Ladies, I don’t mean to be rude—”

  The sister who was obviously in charge raised one hand to silence Alice’s protests. “If you looked any more panicked right now, I’d worry you were going to make a run for the door. I think there’s a chance we haven’t been as subtle as we could be. But what do you expect from five women trying to come up with a plan on short notice?”