by Faith O'Shea
She’d taken Hoover for a walk right after, to clear her head. The one that Terry had suggested barged in every time she closed her mind on it. The cold air chilled her to the bone but did nothing to tamp down the heat that washed over her when she thought of him. She didn’t understand the attraction. She’d seen lots of good-looking guys before, worked with some, and she’d never been affected this way. Never felt the need to climb into an entanglement that made no sense. He’d be a complication in a very orderly life. And her life was that.
She was a loner. She’d spent years wishing she were an extrovert, the life of the party, but she’d proven over time that she didn’t have it in her. She’d never be like Enrique, who had tons of energy and charm, who could talk to anyone, at any time and in any place. He felt good when he was engaged, thrived in a group. She didn’t have the stamina for small talk, nor the patience. She lacked the kind of stimulating conversation people like Rique sought out. She did serve one purpose though. She was the audience they were looking for, but she’d found out along the way it didn’t serve her. No matter how well she listened, connected, engaged as soon as she’d start to reply, the person she was with would turn away as if what she had to say wasn’t valuable. She’d given up pretending interest because it was never reciprocated. She preferred to give her energy to someone who appreciated it rather than be depleted by the insincere. Rather than force herself to be polite, she’d stopped going to parties, concerts, gatherings of any kind. She was comfortable with nine, maybe ten people tops. More people than that and she’d fade into the woodwork, her energy sapped and drained. She preferred to have deep discussions about important issues, like philosophy and ethics, meaningful interactions that were of benefit, to satisfy her curiosity or improve her life. Better to be alone than with someone like Enrique dos Santos. Even for a night.
The food had been delivered just before she heard a voice in the mudroom. There was no accent attached, so she knew it wasn’t Mattie or Rique. When three men emerged into the kitchen, their faces were creased in sadness, their moods somber. The stranger was American through and through, blonde and blue-eyed. All three could have made the angels weep.
He stepped forward, his arm outstretched. “Hi. I’m Seb Layden. Nice to meet you, although I wish it could be under different circumstances. We won’t be much fun tonight.”
He glanced at the table after meeting her eyes in greeting. It was set with four dishes, the containers of food arranged around them. She glimpsed a wolf’s hunger.
She gulped when Rique put his arm around her neck and leaned his head against hers.
“It’s been a tough day, Fifi. Meeting death has a way of…making one vulnerable.”
“I can imagine it could.”
There was a rush of longing. She wanted the gesture to mean something, that he needed her for solace, but she knew better. This was a natural expression of his nature. He was a man who touched without thought.
Seb countered, “I’m just glad he was gone when we got there. It’d be just my luck if he keeled over while sitting across from me discussing the upcoming season. Ugh.”
“Not a time to make jokes, my friend.”
“I’m not.” Seb, gave an involuntary shiver. “It could have happened. I was in his office before we left for the facility this morning.”
She felt the arm squeeze her closer, as if Rique had given that some thought. Any one of them could have been witness to it this week. Trying to get her body under control, Rique being much too close for comfort, she relayed what information she had.
“Reid and Izabella are coming back earlier than scheduled. He talked to the owner, but he didn’t learn anything new on what direction they’re going to go, manager wise. The only thing Larsen said is they have a couple of names at the top of their list.”
Rique released her and took a seat at the table.
“Not a great way to be promoted. Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold.”
Seb pulled out a chair and sat. Matteo waited for Fiona to choose and tucked her chair in when she did. There was a strange look on Rique’s face, and he held it until Seb said, “Wonder if Leo’s being considered.” He’d uncovered one of the containers to find ribs. “Shit this looks great.”
Fiona, usually good at masking her thoughts and feelings, spoke with unintended fervor.
“I ordered every sauce they had. Jamaican, mustard, habanero, Greek, BBQ, garlic and parmesan. Got three orders of them, advertised as ten bones of the meatiest ribs you’ll find anywhere, coleslaw, and fries.”
She took a breath to calm herself and opened her smaller container. Needing another dose of air, she took a moment to inhale the aroma. She glanced up to find Rique half-way out of his seat, asking, “What did you get?”
“A Chicago burger. Everything you’d find on one of their famous hot dogs.” She lifted the top of the roll. “Pickles, onions, mustard, relish, and sauerkraut.”
She always went for the plain cheeseburger, but she was feeling kind of daring tonight. She’d been doing that a lot since Rique arrived. It wasn’t a good omen.
“That won’t fill you.”
He’d gotten to know her better than she liked.
“I have an order of fries as well.”
“What will you pick at tomorrow?”
“There’s still some of the munchies you bought the other day. And I can always pick up some myself.”
“Oh, I forgot.” He reached back and extricated his wallet.
She put her hand up to stop him. “My treat. You can call it a sorry-for-your-loss meal.”
She didn’t really have the money to waste on feeding three men with man-sized appetites, but she couldn’t bring herself to accept payment again. He’d become her own walking ATM.
He murmured an, “Are you sure?” and with her nod, a “thank you.”
Seb was holding his ribs by the bone, waiting for their private conversation to be over. When it was, he said almost impatiently, “Back to my question. Think Leo has a shot?”
Rique shook his head. “If anyone currently on the payroll gets it, it’ll be the bench coach.”
As if needing time to digest this, Seb licked his fingers clean and they could all hear the pucker as he did. In between smacks, he said, “I think they’ll go outside to hire.”
Fiona couldn’t help but notice the difference in eating styles between the two men. Rique had a more refined set of manners and she had to give him credit. There wasn’t a speck of sauce anywhere except the napkin he was using. She’d been doing the same but had somehow gotten mustard on her sleeve. As she attempted to hide the evidence, Rique said, “What if they hire from outside the inner circle but inside the system? Like the guy coaching the Triple A team?”
Blue eyes shot up at him, Seb looking totally unhinged.
“Holy fuck. Don’t even suggest that. I might as well just run back to Cranston. I’ll never get on the roster. He hates me.”
Rique’s face registered stunned surprise.
“He’d let his animosity rule the field?”
“With me, yes. His women, wife and daughter, are everything to him. Beware any man who hurts either one of them.”
Fiona asked, “And you did that?”
“I didn’t mean to. It…I… Casey and I were inseparable for the last two years of high school. When I left for college, I…told her I thought it would be better if we dated other people. She had us on the road to marriage and I…needed some single time before I got there.”
“She didn’t agree?”
“She didn’t like that I felt that way.”
“Did you ever get there?”
His head dipped down. “No. I never did.”
When he looked back up, he met her eyes. “It should be ancient history by now, but he holds a grudge longer than most men are alive.”
Mattie gave his opinion. “You might be wasting the energy worrying about it. What are the chances they pick the one man who’ll have it in for you?”
She barely heard Seb’s strangled words. They were said under his breath. “It would be just my luck.”
After taking the last bite of her burger, she excused herself, left them to talk baseball. She might have a better understanding of the game than she had this morning, but she couldn’t compete with players.
Rique was quick to ask, “Where are you going?”
He’d grasped her hand, holding her in place, waiting for her answer.
The tingles were back, the feel of his skin against hers touching something inside of her. She could feel the callouses at the ridge beneath his fingers, the strength in his grip.
She made the mistake of meeting his eyes and all but fell into his dark gaze.
“I was going to let you play with your friends.”
The stutter in her answer made her feel foolish and immature.
As if Seb read something in the interaction that wasn’t there, he got up, lifting his empty plate, and said, “We should probably get going.”
He looked around for somewhere to throw his refuse and she signaled the draw under the counter, barely able to think coherently with her hand still clasped tightly. Mattie was up and following suit and smiled when Seb said, “I’ll take this guy back to my place. He can stay the night.”
She fumbled, non-pulsed. She’d be left alone with a man who did too much to her system.
“You don’t have to leave on my account.”
“I’m not, honest. This was great and I appreciate it, but it’s getting late and I have a bottle of scotch at home that’s calling to me.”
Was that how he dealt with adversity? She glanced back down at Rique and he smiled up at her.
“I told them I was done imbibing for the night. The last thing Leo said to me was Don’t get crazy. I figure I should stay on his good side just in case he gets a promotion.”
He scooted his chair back and released her hand so he could see them out. His words carried over his shoulder as he did. “Don’t go anywhere.”
She cleaned up while he was saying his goodbyes, her hands less steady than she would have liked. There was something going on between them that she didn’t understand. She stilled at the sink. Wasn’t there?
She had no experience at this, while he had years of it. He could probably have a meaningful relationship with anyone, just as he suggested. If the woman had what he needed, could provide what he was looking for, he’d be satisfied. Her, not so much. She was much more selective.
So selective she hadn’t been on an honest-to-goodness date in over a year. Physicality had never played a big role. It was the mind that interested her...until now. With Rique she felt a rush of desire that was unfamiliar, a throbbing ache every time she just looked at him.
When he came back in, he leaned casually against the door frame, and watched her. She usually felt invisible and had to admit she preferred it to this…intense focus.
“Why did you get up to leave?”
“I thought you’d want to commiserate together.”
He was a people person, loved being entertained. Did he expect her to fill that role? He had to know by now she wasn’t good at chit chat.
“I’d actually rather be alone with my thoughts. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”
He righted himself and walked over to her.
“As soon as I finish up here, I’ll leave you to them.”
He moved in and she felt confined by his closeness. He leaned down and whispered, “I didn’t mean alone, alone. I’d rather talk to you than them.”
She bristled, caught off guard by the proposition. She had a deep curiosity as to the why. Another game?
“I thought you were saving all of this…attention for your blushing bride…whoever that might be.”
“I’m Brazilian. I think it fair to say we can…attend…to more than one at a time. With no ulterior motive whatsoever. We love people, love connections, are good at juggling emotion.”
No ulterior motive.
“Are you saying there’s no deception here?”
“How would I deceive you? You know what I’m planning. I just happen to…need your company tonight.”
Her expression was one of disbelief.
He almost laughed. At himself. He didn’t understand his need to be with her any more than she did. All through dinner he’d kept glancing over to find her listening intently to the conversation, curiosity written all over her face. She was filled with it, with a strong desire to learn, to define, to analyze. She didn’t seem to like talking, but when she did, it was meaningful, had substance. He’d always preferred that to useless chatter.
“Let’s sit. You can tell me what you did today.” He gave her a crooked smile that held some sadness. “I bet it wasn’t as…life-altering as mine.”
She let him guide her to the family room. He automatically put the TV on, wanting to see if there were any new updates on today’s event.
“How about a fire? It’s cold enough outside to warrant it and I’d love to feel the heat. Death has a way of chilling you to the bone.”
She nodded, took a seat on the couch, and watched as he efficiently set kindling on the grate, a couple of logs on top, and some newspaper beneath to get it going. The match flared when struck, and before long, the flames were dancing skyward.
He dropped down beside her, pleased with his work, and for some reason, pleased by the way she’d followed his every move. With the remote in hand, he pressed the button for a news station. He didn’t have to go any further to find what he was looking for.
A montage of the coach’s life was being presented. He sat back against the cushion to watch, felt the body next to him, Fifi’s proximity alleviating his distress.
Jethro Farina. Husband. Father and grandfather. Played second base for several teams during his ball-playing days. Began his second career as infield coach, was promoted to bench coach and held that position until he took the reins of the Greenliners and pushed them toward the World Series with a relentlessness that the front office admired and encouraged.
The reporters had tracked down several members of the team, Reid among them. In a phone interview, the pitcher had issued all the platitudes one would expect upon someone’s death. Anton Bellasario, the center fielder, who’d played for the man his entire career, had offered his biased opinion. Motts, one of their catchers, had provided a story that proved Farina had a heart.
He wondered how the players actually felt. The man was a gruff old geezer who didn’t tolerate much. Were they being kind or honest in their assessment? Was there a kinder, gentler man beneath the surface that he hadn’t had the time to see?
Next, Larsen appeared onscreen. They were re-televising part of the interview he gave earlier that day after news of the death had been released. When he was asked who was on their short list for replacement, Rique sat up.
The man was impeccably dressed, as he always was, his voice controlled and smooth. He looked the part of distinguished owner and was adept at keeping his opinion close to his vest.
“We’re giving ourselves time to grieve our loss. It’s too soon to dissect the future.”
“Have you been in contact with anyone yet?”
“All I’ll say is that we’re exploring our options.”
“There’ll be speculation.”
“I’m sure there will be. As we don’t know where this search will lead, speculation won’t serve any purpose. With nothing further to add, I’ll turn it over to the president for questions and answers.”
He left the podium, to be replaced by Krasnick. The cameras never left the youthful face, but he was giving nothing away. He pointed to Murphy, one of the sports reporters, who must have had his hand raised.
“As president, will you be looking in a new direction, for someone who can communicate better with your players?”
“Farina got results, last year proof of that. We’ll be looking for someone who can command the respect of the team while working with the talents and skills that each indivi
dual player brings to the table.”
“Will you want a person who’s on board with the way of calling a game, a more analytical and statistical bent?”
Farina hadn’t liked having to base his opinions on something other than his own gut and experience. He’d resisted the new information age as stubbornly as the bulldog he was.
“Every tool should be utilized, but with common sense.”
Krasnick’s answers were brief and to the point. Letting everyone know he was done, he said, “Thank you. We’ll keep you up to date on the search, once it begins.”
He stepped away from the mic.
The screen now featured another one of the reporters who covered the team exclusively during the season.
“The Greenliners front office has been evasive as to who’s on their list of replacements. We’ve taken a look at their philosophy, their talent pool, and have come up with three possibilities. The first is the bench coach, Elijah Garces. Working directly with Farina for the last seven years, he’d be the best one to take them down the path already paved. Second would be Wayne Scherger, the manager still on the market who might be worth a shot. Third, and this is where the real buzz is, would be Mac Calipari. Currently manager of the triple A team in Pittsfield, he’s taken the team where no man thought they could go. An icon in left field during his heyday, already indoctrinated in the Greenie culture and history, he’d bring a fresh perspective that might get them over that bump, the one that kept them from a World Series ring last year. This is all speculation to this point, but odds are one of the three will be sitting in Farina’s old office before the end of next week. This is Lorenzo Lind, Channel Four News.”
