by Linda Morris
“He was here on a rehab start for a while, wasn’t he?”
Sarah smiled again, her face softening, eyes lit from within, and Willow marveled at the transformation. Sarah Dudley could be tough, no doubt about it, but clearly love had worked its magic on her. When she spoke about Tom Cord, she glowed.
Now Willow had something to envy.
“Yes, he was rehabbing his elbow after Tommy John surgery. My father warned me away from him. For that matter, Paul warned me away from him too, but I didn’t listen.”
“Paul didn’t like Tom?” That was a surprise. Maybe he didn’t support his sister so much after all.
“I think he’d liked him a little too much, back in the day. Paul and Tom were teammates in college. Tom dropped out of college to enter the draft, but Paul stayed in and got his degree.”
“Was Paul any good in college?”
“Yeah, he was. He wasn’t a sure thing to make it in the majors, but I wouldn’t have blamed him for trying. He got drafted in a later round by the Royals. He decided to come back and run the Thrashers instead.”
“He gave up a chance at a career in the majors to come back here and put up with his dad’s abuse? That’s crazy.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand my brother if that’s what you think. Dad is the only family we’ve got left here since my uncle retired to Florida. The Thrashers are what we were brought up with. When we were growing up, the team was the heart and soul of this town. Plainview wasn’t a town that had a lot to be proud of. The Thrashers were it, and Paul was brought up from the day he was born to take over the team someday. Our grandfather expected it of him, and our granddad was everything to Paul when he was younger. He gave him a responsibility, and he takes that responsibility seriously.”
“Yet, now your father doesn’t want to seem to relinquish control. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No one who knows my father has ever accused him of being overly rational.” She paused for a moment. “You’ve probably noticed the stadium isn’t in great shape.”
“It’s hard not to. I thought Paul was being cheap, trying to save money.” Willow paused. She hadn’t been very kind to the man who fathered her child. Had she ever once given him the benefit of the doubt?
Sarah shook her head but didn’t speak. “I’ve said too much already. I guess I have that Dudley family loyalty after all.”
“Protecting your father doesn’t make any sense, you know. You have to know he’d throw you under the bus in a second.” She bit her lip. Blunt words, but true.
Sarah didn’t seem fazed. “I’m not protecting him. I’m protecting Paul. That’s something I’ll do to my dying day. Remember that.”
Willow shut off the recorder with a brief nod. She liked Sarah Dudley a lot, but she couldn’t ignore that she’d been on the receiving end of a very clear warning.
*
“Tell you what, I’ll buy dinner,” Paul said. “You’ve got your choice of a hot dog or nachos. Beer or soda. I don’t recommend the pizza, by the way.”
“Wow. When I agreed to sit in your executive box for the game, I didn’t know you were springing for dinner too.”
“I’m that kind of a guy, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t deny a sense of joy of being on a … no, this wasn’t a date. It was definitely not a date.
In spite of everything, it sort of seemed like a date, and she had to admit, she liked it.
God, had anyone ever been more perverse than her? She made her head argue nonstop with her heart, and then rejoiced when her heart won.
They passed the time in line at the concession stand with some chatting about the upcoming series. Their division rivals, the Muncie Monarchs, were in town for a five-game stand.
“Do you think the Thrashers have a chance to take three out of five?”
“I think we have a chance to sweep,” Paul said.
“That’s confidence. What makes you say that?”
He gave her a long laundry list: the home-field advantage, the improved play of the bullpen and their biggest slugger being on a red-hot hitting streak. A sweep still seemed like a tall order, but it struck her how happy he seemed as he talked about the team’s play. How animated. Often, when they had talked about the Thrashers, they discussed everything that had gone wrong. Power struggles with his father. Complaints from Alex Moreno-Lopez that he couldn’t address. Yet here he was, talking about the game he’d grown up with, the team that had been his birthright, and she saw nothing but pure joy on his face.
He really had been born to run this team.
In line in front of them, a plump, smiling baby a few months older than Jack peered over his mother’s shoulder at them. The sight of a mother and child gave her a fresh pang of envy. What she wouldn’t do to be home with Jack right now. After a moment, she noticed that Paul was also watching the baby as he stared with rapt fascination at a Velcro strap that attached his toy to his sleeve. The child lifted the strap close to his face, mouthing it and ignoring the toy altogether.
Paul laughed. “Cute kid,” he said to the mom, who smiled and thanked him. Willow looked back and forth between child and man, wondering how Paul would be with a child of his own. He showed at least a passing interest in this stranger’s child. That was a good sign, right?
It’s a long way between having a passing interest and embracing fatherhood. Remember that.
The line moved up and they placed their order: two hotdogs, a beer for him, and a soda for her. The teenage boy working the stands, a skinny kid with acne and a dark ponytail, called Paul “Mr. Dudley,” much to his amusement.
“It’s Paul. Load everything into a carrier, will you? We’ve got to take the stairs up to the box.”
He led her through the sparsely populated concourse—the skies had been cloudy all day and the prospect of rain had frightened away all but the hardiest fans. A short while ago, though, the clouds had parted and a bright May sun had peeked through, promising good weather for the game. At a metal door, he took a key from a ring on a lanyard around his neck and then led her down a dimly lit hall smelling of years of must and grease from the nearby concession stands, up a cramped stairway and into a small room with windows looking out over Dudley Field.
As luxury boxes went, compared to those of most ballparks, it was downright shabby. Just a few padded chairs, a couple of small tables and a mini-fridge. Worn but clean gray carpet covered the floors.
A few weeks ago, when she arrived in town, she would have seen the spare box as a sign of neglect on Paul’s part. Now she saw a more complicated picture: a loyal, hardworking man doing the job he was born to do under difficult, if not impossible, conditions.
On the wall hung a poster-sized photo of the current Thrashers roster and photos of big leaguers who’d passed through Plainview on their way to the big time. She put the food down on a table and went to look more closely. The well-cut face of Tom Cord was among the pictures. A mixture of stubbornness, intelligence and humor shone in his eyes. No wonder Sarah Dudley had been tempted beyond her ability to resist, no matter the cost.
She and Paul took their seats in time for the starting lineups to be introduced. A high school student sang the national anthem, a local car dealer threw out the first pitch, and the game was under way. Jesus Castillo, a young right-handed pitcher with a fierce ambition to make it to the majors this season, took the mound. A few pitches in, he was immediately in trouble, walking his first batter and falling behind in the pitch count to the second.
“He looks like he’s having trouble finding the strike zone.”
“Dammit.” Paul shook his head. “I told Alex he wasn’t ready to be a starter yet. He needs to get him in the bullpen and let him get some more experience first. The kid can’t handle high pressure yet.”
She shot him a sidelong glance. “Are you one of those interfering front-office executives who tries to do his manager’s job for him?”
“Only when his man
ager is being an idiot.” He took a huge bite of his hot dog, making a third of it disappear in a single gulp, and then swallowed it down with beer. “Come on, kid. Get out of this mess. You need this out.”
The pitcher threw a low ball that the batter hit gently to the shortstop, setting up a perfect double play. The second baseman tagged the runner and fired the ball to first, getting both runners. Just like that, the Monarchs had two outs and the bases were empty.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Paul said with a fist-pump.
He finished off his hot dog as Willow watched in amazement. She’d barely had time to nibble hers.
“The kid did okay. Maybe Alex knows what he’s talking about after all,” she said. Sometimes, the desire to tweak Paul was more than she could resist.
He snorted and shot her a side-eye. “Highly doubtful.”
“Oh, come on. You have to admit, he was a great catcher. A lot of baseball knowledge there.”
He shot her an annoyed look. “Please. What is with you, anyway? Is there something going on with you and him, or what?”
“No. Why would you say that?” A stupid question, she knew.
He was jealous, and it thrilled her immensely. Obviously, her heart was immune to logic or knowing what was good for her.
“Because it seems like every time I turn around, you’re flirting with him, laughing with him or sticking up for him. I want to know what’s going on.”
What could she tell him? How about the simple truth? That would be a refreshing change of pace for her dealings with Paul. “I like Alex. I do, but not in the way you’re thinking about. He amuses me.” She gave him a look through her lashes. “I have to admit though, I liked seeing you were jealous—it was fun to get a rise out of you.”
His eyes narrowed, going dark and smoky. “You get a rise out of me, all right, but it’s got nothing to do with my manager.”
Her breath caught at the stark desire in his face, and she wished desperately they were somewhere private, somewhere without a giant glass window revealing their every move. She could sidle up next to him and show him what she’d been thinking about almost constantly since their encounter at his house.
She could make use of the condoms she’d bought at a local Quik-E-Stop the next day. She’d weighed the purchase carefully but had finally decided to go for it. When and if their relationship progressed to that point, she was determined to be more prepared this time, with a condom that hadn’t been drying out in someone’s wallet for a year. Jack didn’t need a little brother or sister.
A sound at the door snapped the bright strand of sexual tension that stretched between them.
He didn’t look away from her and, for a moment, she thought he’d ignore the knock. At last, he broke his gaze. “Come in.”
The door opened and revealed Walter Dudley, sending Willow’s mood into a nosedive.
“Dad, I believe you remember Willow Bourne. She’s my guest today.” The words rang with a warning, clear as a bell.
“Guest, hmmm?” His voice had a cynical edge Willow couldn’t miss. He looked like he was about to say something truly nasty, but a glance at Paul’s taut jaw restrained him.
“Yes, she’s my guest.” Paul’s tone was even, like that of a good parent to a tantrumming child. Showing no emotion and refusing to escalate the situation. How did he endure the old man’s needling as well as he did? Tolerating a two-year-old’s drama was one thing. Handling it from a man old enough to know better must be incredibly draining.
Only one thing could make it worthwhile: the abiding love Paul had for his family’s birthright. Would he dare put that in jeopardy? Defy his father for her and a baby he didn’t even know? Unlikely.
Walter Dudley pulled over an empty chair. That’s your child’s grandfather. A part of her was fiercely glad she hadn’t told Paul about Jack. Walter didn’t deserve a wonderful blessing like Jack in his life.
But Paul does.
Enough. She’d deal with that later.
“Actually, I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Dudley. I haven’t had a chance to interview you for the profile I’m writing for the Screwball blog.”
“You won’t either. I don’t give interviews.”
“Why not?” Time to beard the lion in his den. She didn’t know Walter well, but she knew his kind. Guys like him had pushed her around in the third grade. Paul’s dad was a classic school yard bully. The more you stood up to him and the less fear you showed, the more he backed down. “Are you afraid I’ll ask you some tough questions you won’t be able to answer?”
Dudley’s eyes narrowed. “I’m certainly not afraid of you, miss.” His eyes shifted over to Paul for a moment, who sat silently, taking it all in. “Don’t you have anything to say about this, son? I thought you were the white knight, charging in to save this young lady from your mean old man.”
“She seems to be doing pretty well on her own so far.” Paul’s lips twitched. Nothing about Paul was ever obvious or easy to read, but she was beginning to understand him better. If she didn’t mistake him, he liked to see her standing up to his dad.
She was pretty proud of herself too, for that matter.
Walter shrugged. “Fine. Fire away. I can handle anything you can throw at me, young lady.”
“Paul, would you mind letting us have some privacy? I’d like to talk to your dad alone.”
The smile dropped off of his face. A brow quirked in suspicion. “Why?”
“Some interview subjects don’t do well with an audience.” Reluctant to say more, she hoped Paul would take the hint and leave. She’d already sensed Walter’s tendency for melodrama. He liked to play the victim. She was betting she’d get further if he didn’t have an audience to play to.
Some look she couldn’t quite interpret passed between Paul and his dad. His next words cleared it up for her. “Fine, but Dad, if I hear anything about you saying one word to disrespect her—”
His father waved his hand. “Oh, go on. I’ll be on my best behavior. Leave me alone.”
Paul rose. “Fine. I need to talk to the box office manager anyway. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Dad, I’m going to check with her when I get back.”
Walter scowled. “What am I, ten? I’m perfectly capable of handling her.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’ve seen your method of handling her, and I don’t much like it.”
“We’ll be fine.” Willow appreciated his chivalry, but the journalist in her was dying for a chance at a recalcitrant subject.
Shooting a final warning look at his dad, Paul left, leaving the two of them alone.
Willow took a moment to look at the older man. Trim and tan, he reminded her of one of those pro golfers on the senior circuit, always immaculately turned out in well-pressed khakis and a polo shirt. Today was no exception. His coral golf shirt was tucked neatly into a pair of crisp stone-colored trousers, and a gold watch sparkled against his tan wrist.
She’d read up on him since she’d arrived in Plainview. Consumed with running the team, he’d delayed marriage and family until his late thirties. Paul and Sarah had grown up with a father who was nearly the age of a typical grandfather. Maybe that explained why Walter Dudley was so old-school.
It didn’t explain why he was such an asshole, though.
She pulled out her recorder and asked his permission to use it, which he gave with a curt nod. She eyed him for a moment. How best to approach? “You retired as team president a few years ago, correct?”
Another nod.
“Why don’t you back off and let your son run the team?”
He drew back, his ruddy skin growing a few shades darker. No doubt if he hadn’t made a promise to Paul, she’d be on the receiving end of a stream of invective right about now. Apparently, he did care what Paul thought, no matter how he behaved to the contrary at times.
The older man shifted in his seat and took a deep breath. “I took over this team when I was twenty-two, when my father died of complications from diabetes.
I have a world of knowledge from the years I’ve devoted to this team. My son is very capable, but still a young man. I think he can benefit from my years of experience.”
Willow’s eyes narrowed. Walter Dudley might be a hothead at times, and Lord knew he could be a jerk, but he wasn’t a fool. That was an answer as slick as any a PR rep from Madison Avenue could have put in a client’s mouth.
She paused for a moment, mentally recalibrating her impression of him. “That’s your primary concern then? The team?”
“Of course. What else would it be?”
“Your family, maybe?”
“My family and the Thrashers organization are intertwined. One and the same, you might say. What benefits one benefits the other.”
If she let him get away with it, he’d fob off standard-issue sound bites on her all day long. It was time to crack through the veneer of politeness and see if anything interesting lurked beneath. “I’ve heard there are some concerns with the condition of the turf. Some of the players have suffered minor injuries as a result. If you’re so concerned about the team, why haven’t you addressed that issue?”
He shifted forward, and one loafer-clad foot landed on the floor with a thunk. “Who told you that?” His eyes, a shade darker gray than Paul’s but infinitely colder, narrowed. “That Moreno-Lopez fellow, I suppose,” he guessed before she could answer. “He’s always whining about something. If I had control over personnel …” He shook his head.
Lucky for Alex, local ownership had no control over minor league team personnel. Those decisions were made by their parent major league club—in this case, the Chicago White Sox.
She could only imagine how that lack of control chapped Walter Dudley’s ass.
“I won’t confirm the identity of my source, but I do wonder,” she said, “why are you so sure it was Alex? The condition of the field is hardly a secret. Maybe I heard it from a player, or from one of the other coaches.” Time to stir the pot a little. “Maybe I heard it from Paul.”
He leaned back. “One of the other players or coaches? Maybe, although I still think that weasel Alex is the one most likely to run to a reporter. Paul? Never.” He didn’t betray a fraction of a second of doubt.
