League of Her Own

by Faith O'Shea

  She made a face at him. “Never liked the texture or the way it wiggled in my mouth.”

  “I am beginning to think you missed out on a lot of life.”

  She had. Her education had taken all the minutes in all the days of her life so far.

  “Like I said. Been busy.”

  She didn’t want him asking what had consumed her, but she needn’t have worried. She was learning he had a one-track mind and the conversation always reverted back to him.

  “I will get you a ticket to our first game, yes? Then you can see for yourself what is involved.”

  She waved her hand in front of her and asked, “Does anything on this face suggest a desire to see you play?”

  He sat back with a thud.

  “It’s America’s pastime. There’s even a song about it. You must know it.” He began to sing a few bars before she cut him off.

  “I know the song. Even the lyrics suggest one time is enough.”

  “Once is just a sampling. The more one knows, the more addictive it becomes.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “There’s understanding the context, how weather conditions can affect the outcome, the slang, knowing the players and the history, and a team’s strategy.”

  “What if I don’t care?”

  “Are you averse to learning new things?”

  She almost laughed. Her entire life had been dedicated to her curiosity and a driving need to find the answers she sought.

  “Only some things.”

  He was pointing his fork at her and said matter-of-factly, “I am very good. You would not be bored.”

  She shot him a cool look. “Such confidence. Tell me again why you were traded. I would think such a good player would be wrapped in gold and treasured.”

  His eyes dipped to the last morsel on his plate, which he ate before answering.

  “They are fools and I will prove it to them.”

  “And how will you do that? Isn’t the skill innate?”

  “I have the skill…what I need is more…”

  When he trailed off, she supplied, “More humility?”

  “Humility doesn’t win games.”

  “What does?”

  She studied his face, the contours, the coloring, the intensity of his eyes, and then she glimpsed a shadow there. Was it uncertainty?

  “Discipline. Hard work. A driving need to be the best.”

  “Well, if you think you already have the latter covered, what’s the problem?”

  He glanced up and stared.

  “Ah, the discipline. That one’s going to take work.”

  “I have turned a new leaf. I am settling down, putting my nose to the grindstone…”

  “You do know your idioms.”

  “Is that like idiot?”

  “No.” She looked up and smiled. “But if the shoe fits, you might as well wear it.”

  “Shoe?”

  “Another idiom that seemed to work well here.”

  She rose from her stool and collected their plates, rinsed them, and put them in the dishwasher.

  He had risen and thrown away the trash.

  “Good job. I thought that was beneath you.”

  “When I marry, the woman will do all these tasks. I will supply the money; she will make me a home.”

  “Is this how all Brazilians think? Or only the male population?”

  She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “It is how we are raised.”

  “Glad I opted for the good old USA. We’re raised to think differently. You’ll have to go to Brazil to capture one of these fragile butterflies.”

  “That is what I have planned. Before the season begins, I will have found someone I can marry and bring here.”

  “That simple, is it?”

  “I am loved in my hometown. It should be easy enough to find who I am looking for.”

  “What about love? Can you fall in love with just anyone?”

  “I will know it when I see it.”

  “I think it has more to do with heart than eyes. Unless you’re looking for some eye candy.”

  “I know exactly what I want. Beauty will be part of it. How can it not?”

  “Right. How could you possibly settle for anyone less gorgeous than yourself?”

  He arched an eye. “You think me gorgeous?”

  She had to back track fast. If he thought that she thought that…he’d be even more intolerable than he already was.

  “Not personally, but you seem to have the dark and handsome down that women drool over.”

  “But you are not one of them?”

  “Gawd, no. If I get married, the man will have to have a lot more to him than just looks.”

  “I have more than that.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I have talent.”

  “But no discipline, so what good does that do you?”

  He looked up at her from underneath his long black lashes and asked, “What is it you would look for?”

  “Intelligence, humility, and a kind heart. Oh, and a sense of humor.”

  It was one of the things that her father had that made marriage to a scientist enduring.

  “I can be humorous.”

  “I know, I chuckle at you all the time, but you can’t laugh at yourself. Cocky doesn’t allow for it.”

  “Why would I laugh at myself?”

  “Because it proves you know you’re human and have faults.”

  Like the rest of us.

  She moved away from the counter, and as she walked by him, he was watching her intently. It made her queasy. She was certainly not one of the beautiful people, and she could only think his attention was on all her deficiencies.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Enrique watched her go, feeling discomfited. She made him feel inadequate in some way. Mocked his confidence, made him laughable.

  Not that it mattered. She was in the minority. Most women he met fell all over him. He could provide references on his ability to satisfy, and his bank account would provide evidence of his ability to take care of the woman he married.

  What else was there to it?

  He wandered into the family room, grabbed the remote, and surfed for something to watch. Being alone wasn’t natural for him. He liked being in the thick of things, with people and conversation, a hotshot in a room of the ordinary. If he was serious about building discipline, he had to make a start, and tonight was it. He was staying no matter how badly he wanted to go out, have some fun. He scrolled until he found the MLB station. They were recapping the trades that had been happening around the league. He wasn’t the only one to be picked up by the Greenies. There was a new catcher on board, a guy named Verducci, who’d bounced around the league over the last few years. He was one of the best, according to some of the well-known pitchers out there, but he couldn’t hit the ball to save his life. With a dismal .157 batting average, no one was willing to keep him on. The thing was, he probably saved more runs with how he called the game than others with a higher average. A third baseman had migrated from Cuba a few months ago and had been picked up immediately by the Greenies. Mateo Alvarez would permanenetly fill the position occupied by utility players last year. It had been the first order of business for the front office, and Reid had told him the guy had unbelievable stats and would add a lot to the infield. There was a new left fielder, a guy who’d been in the Greenliners’ farm system since college and had been called up for tryouts. The one who’d played last season had torn up his knee skiing just before the holidays and would be out for the duration.

  He sat up and turned up the volume when the announcer said, “The Greenliners have just picked up the contract of Milo Buzzley. Once a standout closer, Buzz has had his share of troubles over the last year. After a stint in rehab, he says he’s ready to put all his energies where they need to be. Out on the mound.”

  They had a picture of the guy on screen. He’d guess his age at thirty tops, not that ol
d for a pitcher. He had molasses-colored hair that was short and spiked, a close-cropped beard, more refined than the ones ballplayers seemed to be growing lately. His eyes looked shadowed, as if he was haunted by something in the distance. A broken future? If it was, it didn’t bode well for the team. He’d be striving for discipline as well, the need to stay away from the bottle a dire one.

  Rique wondered if Reid had heard.

  After pulling his phone out of his back pocket, he texted his brother-in-law.

  Did you hear?

  Hear what?

  We have a new closer. Buzzley.

  Are you sure?

  I just saw the clip. What do you think?

  I won’t know until I talk to him.

  The Larsens must have signed off on it.

  Will Larsen and his wife, Nancy, owned the team and were lifelong residents of Boston. They’d made their money in footwear, their sneakers being the hottest thing on the market today. They’d only added to their fortune with the purchase of the Greenliners a decade ago. They’d just promoted Jordan Krasnick, to president and CEO. He’d been with the Larsens since they’d purchased the team, making himself invaluable on the way up the ladder.

  Krasnick, DeLorenzo, and Farina must have as well.

  Dan DeLorenzo was the man in charge of Baseball Operations and Jethro Farina was manager.

  Are you going to reach out?

  When I get back. Where are you?

  In your family room.

  That’s a nice surprise. Are you going to stay there?

  For tonight. Tomorrow I’m meeting with Leo.

  Good. Maybe he can whip you into shape.

  I thought that was your job.

  You’re going to take both of us.

  Are you going to tackle Buzzley as well?

  He’s not family. I’ll leave him to Mulligan.

  Lucky him.

  Go away. I’m busy.

  See you soon.

  Rique sat there thinking, his head resting on the back of the couch. The team had taken on as many new players as they had old. Would the new dynamics work to their benefit? A winning team was a well-oiled machine, and every working piece had to do the job intended. If any one thing was out of alignment, it affected the whole. He’d known teams who lacked talent but had such a magical chemistry they won in spite, of it. His prior team had the talent on paper but couldn’t put it together well enough to climb out of fourth. He’d played a part in that.

  He shook his head. Thinking was not his thing and the silence was driving him mad. Even Hoover had disappeared. Taking his courage in hand, he climbed the stairs and walked down to the end of the hall. And knocked on the closed door.

  “What?”

  He’d expected snide and he got it.

  “I’m bored.”

  He heard an undisguised snort of derision. “And I’m supposed to entertain you?”

  He paused before asking, “Do you play cards?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He was leaning against the door frame, his arms over his chest.

  “Do you want to play with me?”

  “What are you, six?”

  The chortle hurt his pride.

  “Add twenty and you’re on target.”

  He heard Hoover whine, as if she wanted her freedom, and then footsteps.

  When Fifi opened the door, she had a book in her hand, her finger marking her place. He nodded toward it. “Is that what you do for fun?”

  “No, it’s what I do when I have downtime.”

  He’d tilted his head to see what the title was, curious as to the genre, but she’d brought it up to her chest, back side facing out, preventing it. He straightened and his eyes met hers.

  “You don’t mind being alone?”

  “Not in the least.”

  He was feeling it again. Inadequate.

  “Never mind, then. I’ll find something else to do.”

  She brushed her hair off her face, as her eyes pierced through him.

  “Why don’t you let Hoover out. I’ll finish the chapter and come down.”

  He heard her mumble under her breath, “I thought I was house-sitting, not babysitting,” but before he could say anything to refute it, she’d closed the door.

  Once Hoover was back inside, snow-covered from brushing herself under one of the shrubs, he went into Reid’s man cave and riffled through drawers until he found some playing cards. He took the carousel of chips as well, just in case. If he was any judge of character, Fifi would know the rules for Fish and little else. Well, maybe Old Maid.

  He was shuffling a new deck when she came into the dining room, where he’d set up shop. He nodded to the bag on the table.

  “Look what I found. Cheese curls.”

  “And you’re going to eat them, getting orange crap all over everything.”

  He was offended by her lack of finesse. In his defense, he said, “There wasn’t any other kind of snack in the kitchen and I thought you might like to pick at something.”

  “I only pick when I’m hungry and after eating all that food at dinner, I’m not.”

  He was beginning to think prickly was a part of her nature.

  “Okay, no cheese curls.”

  He began to shuffle, showing off a little, fanning the cards. “What’s your game?”

  As she reached over to the chips, took a stack, and began to parcel them out between them, she said without blinking, “Seven-card stud.”

  The cards went flying with that pronouncement and he looked at her with wide eyed astonishment. There was no way to impress someone who kept you so off-balance.

  She looked at him with what could have been distaste. “What? I thought poker was your game when I saw the chips. Don’t you know how to play?”

  He nodded although he was more a Hold ʼEm kind of guy. Bluffing was more in his skill set than drawing the best cards. He was casting glances at her as he gathered the cards up from the floor and the table, and when he had them all, he sat back down and straightened the deck.

  “How about Texas Hold ʼEm? It’ll be more interesting with just two of us.”

  “I hate to admit it, but you’re probably right. Come on, cut the deck.”

  He placed it flat on the table, and she paused and then knocked on the top, saying “There’s no way you could have fixed the deck after that.”

  “What’s our ante?”

  He glanced down to see that she’d chosen the twenty five and fifty dollar chips from the carousel. High stakes for a friendly game. It was a good thing it wasn’t real money, although she couldn’t compete with him in that category.

  “Twenty-five?”

  She tossed the chip in the center of the table.

  He did the same and then dealt them two hole cards, the only ones that would be hidden from each other.

  He watched as she squeezed the down-facing cards up, so suspiciously, that he almost laughed. She didn’t trust him not to try and sneak a peek.

  “I don’t cheat, don’t need to.”

  “Your cocky’s coming out. Here’s another idiom for you. Pride comes before a fall. I take it I go first seeing that we don’t have a button or blinds.”

  That she knew about them should have told him something, but it had gone completely over his head. He nodded as he lifted his two cards. A seven and a nine, which gave him nothing, but he wasn’t folding this early. He matched her bet and called.

  Her face was blank, wearing what people called a poker face. He wasn’t going to pick up any clues from her.

  She was fiddling with her chips like a pro when he dealt the flop. The first three community cards that they would use to build their best five-card hand were an ace, a ten and a three.

  Still nothing, but when she bet fifty dollars, he matched her again and called. Was she bluffing?

  Another glance at her face, another blank stare. Did she have something to go with the ace?

  Maldição. Damn it. She was giving nothing away.

  He flipped
over the next card. It was a jack. Before he could process that he had a seven, nine, ten, and jack, which could result in a straight if the last card went his way, she bet a hundred. The chips toppled onto the stack. He looked up, and she gave him a sly smile. Was she pulling his chain, or did she have the kind of hand that warranted that high a bet?

  He slowly fingered the chips needed to match it, threw them onto the pile, and raised her a hundred. He wanted to see where she was going to go now.

  “I’ll see that and raise you another hundred.”

  He arched his eyebrow, took her in. “I call.”

  “You folding?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s see what the river holds for us.”

  He turned over the last card and placed it down beside the other four. Another ace.

  It gave them both a pair of aces, but other than that he had nothing to go with it.

  When she bet another hundred, he matched and called. He wanted to see whether she was bluffing or not, and the only way to see her hand was to finish it.

  When she laid down her hand, his eyes widened. She had a full house, three aces and two jacks.

  He didn’t bother showing her the piss poor hand he held. It would only prove his stupidity for staying in.

  She leaned out of her chair and pulled the chips to her, all but crowing.

  She knew how to play, that was obvious. “I believe the question now is, are you always so lucky?”

  This wasn’t a game of strategy, not with just wo of them. You either got a winning hand or you didn’t.

  “In cards? Yes. But you’re lucky in love, aren’t you? I’m sure you’d prefer that to this.”

  He was mesmerized by the way she handled the deck, shuffling like she worked the tables in Vegas.

  “Are you saying you’re not lucky in love?”

  “Haven’t really given a lot to find out.”

  He cut the deck when she tabled it and she began to deal.

  “You’ve been busy?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes intense in their scrutiny.

  “You were listening.”

  After an hour of losing almost every hand, he got up and raided Reid’s liquor cabinet. He poured himself a finger of scotch, and downed it in one gulp.

  Her voice held an edge. “Are you ignoring me again?” She snapped her fingers and added, “Or have I become invisible?”