by Faith O'Shea
He could feel her eyes on him. “I hope Seb isn’t watching this. It might ruin his evening.”
“He might not want to admit it, but Mac would be a good choice.”
“Why?”
He glanced over, her eyes cool and appraising. He knew she’d expect a logical explanation, so he gave her one.
“Managers are trending younger. I think the guy’s in his late forties, and from what I’ve heard he understands the dynamics of younger players. What worked twenty years ago is becoming outdated. He’d bring a fresher perspective, more fluid than Farina’s. He’s brilliant, well-respected. His number’s been retired, and it adorns the wall in left field, even though he never played there. And over the last year, the trend in hiring practices is experience-not-needed.”
“What did the reporter mean by adhering to analytics and statistical data?”
“It’s become a numbers game. Maybe that’s why they can hire the untried, men without managerial experience. The computer spits out the most efficient moves. Take a pitcher out now or leave him in? Check the stats. Want to pull a player who doesn’t hit well against a lefty? Which available hitter on the bench has the best odds?”
“I wouldn’t think using equations as a basis for winning would be valuable in a field like this. Experience should count for something.”
“A lot of teams are hiring what they call information coordinators. Educating players on how they are evaluated, statistically speaking.”
“Like on their launch angles?”
He jerked his head to look at her. How the hell did she go from knowing nothing to knowing about launch angles? The computer geeks had come up with another stat that measured the vertical angle at which the ball hit the bat after being struck. The new data had dramatically changed the philosophy of hitting. Ground balls were out; balls hit in the air were in. It had resulted in a higher number of homeruns offset by a higher number of strike-outs. It was changing the game. It was reducing the action across the nine innings.
She shrugged at the look on his face.
“I read about them before you guys got back. My uncle said those kind of stats are ruining baseball. Taking away the excitement of the swing, stolen bases, the bunt, said there should be more than one way to hit a baseball. Melinda told me Reid groused about it. He had to drop a couple of his bread-and-butter pitches and go more with the high fastball and well-placed breaker.”
He was amazed by the breadth of her knowledge, the amount of information she’d taken in and absorbed.
“And when did you have this discussion?”
“You never did follow up on what I did today.”
“You picked up the phone, called your uncle and asked…what?”
“I actually went over for lunch. Melinda knows as much as Jim.”
“I can attest to that.”
“We watched a couple of games he’d saved. He gave me pointers. I know the difference between an ump and a referee now.”
He chuckled. “What else did you learn?”
“That you lost your passion for the game.”
His smile faded. He didn’t know what to say to that. He’d lost the incentive to keep his enthusiasm high. Was it the same thing?
“Not exactly. I still love the game. What I didn’t like was sitting on a bench.”
“Were you designated a utility player?”
“I guess, in a way. I was more in-line to inherit the shortstop position, but I began to think it would never happen.”
“From what my uncle says, the utility players won it for the Red Sox last year, so they must have immense value.”
“They do, but in my mind—”
“You were better than that, too important to be such a mediocre addition to the team.”
“That’s not exactly true, either. They have to be talented athletes to play every position.”
“Interesting how you refer to them as they, as in, other than me.”
He squirmed in his seat. She was right and it said something about him that he didn’t want to acknowledge. Those who knew their role, played all out to fulfill it, were the true heroes of any winning team. He had felt it was beneath him and had played half-heartedly as a result. His haphazard play had created tension and trust issues, so they’d traded him. The move had dented his ego, but recently he was looking at it as a new start. But he knew his attitude had to change.
How would he cope if a new manager brought in another shortstop? Would he still give it his all or would he carry his irritation onto the field with him?
“I guess I have to work on my mental discipline.”
“You either have an affinity for it or not.”
He lifted a single eyebrow at her. “Are you saying that I can’t affect my attitude?”
She was chewing on her lip, a tentative expression on her face.
“Personality is partially related to your genetic make-up. Psychological differences, say, between you and me, are caused by whatever DNA we inherited. To some extent there are dozens of traits that fall into heritability, and traits that emerge in childhood tend to create patterns in how you think and behave. Your appetite for attention is one of them.”
“So, what you’re telling me is I was born with an antipathy for mediocrity.”
She chuckled. “We all have a dislike for inadequacy. What I’m saying is that you like being at the center of things. It’s part of who you are. There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m on the other end of the spectrum. I am more of an introvert. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like superficial which translates to I don’t like small talk. I tend to listen, but sometimes I absorb too much and feel drained, whereas you come alive.”
“Are you implying that I’ll never be able to discipline myself mentally?”
“No, but you’ll have to work harder at it than, say me. I come from a long line of disciplined scientists. We’re logical, analytical, organized, married to rules and tradition and systematic investigation. It’s not something I brag about. There are times I’d give anything to be more gregarious like you.”
“But if you were like me, you wouldn’t be you.”
“I’ll concede your point.”
Her laugh unbalanced him. It was musical and hit him in the gut.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
She’d given more of herself away than she’d meant to, or rather he was stealing parts of her, one piece at a time. But this was where she was at her best. One on one, exchanging ideas, on intellectual topics. What had surprised her was he had a facile mind and she knew she could probably talk to him about anything.
“You’re not a dog walker by trade, are you?”
She glanced over and smiled. It seemed he was out to get it all.
“Not by trade, no.”
“What exactly did you go to school for?”
“Science, just as you thought.”
“What branch?”
“It’s a field, not a branch.”
“I stand corrected. If based on your treatise, I’d say it might be the elements of kissing, but if I had to make a guess, it would be genetics.”
She blushed at the memory of her passionate response when she’d rebuffed him for kissing her. It seemed to have made an impression, one she didn’t dare dwell on.
Dipping her eyes, she admitted, “Your intuition is working tonight.”
“You don’t have a job yet?”
“Bingo again.”
“You’re just doing this for pocket money.”
She met his dark eyes, so lethal to her well-being he should carry a permit for them.
Taking a breath, she said, “It’s never in my pocket for long.” She forced some calm and a smile into her answer. “Although by you being here, I got a boon in the form of a raise and a few paid-for meals.”
“My sister gave you more money because I’m here?”
“Yes. She asked that I stay and make sure you didn’t destroy her house.”
His facial expression was comical.
&n
bsp; “How could she think such a thing?”
“I believe you’re known for your parties. Then there’s the mess you’d leave in the sink. She had visions of coming home to mice nicely fattened by your leavings.”
“I have an aversion to mice myself so I would have gotten around to it. And I told her my partying days were over, at least while I’m in training.”
“She could believe you?”
His expression read hurt and it was almost cute. “Do I keep my word? Most of the time.”
She took a sip of the water she’d brought in with her and shifted her eyes in his direction. “Not only when it suits your purpose?”
He curled his lips in, didn’t answer. Was he unwilling to incriminate himself?
When another clip about Farina came on, he raised the volume.
The repetitive clip didn’t surprise her. It was Boston, after all, and it was a big sports story, one that would monopolize the news cycle until after the funeral and maybe even beyond. There’d probably be comparisons made between Farina and whomever was chosen as manager, player reactions, editorials on quality and substance.
She was watching him as he was watching the screen, both of them in rapt attention. His profile was compelling, his nose the perfect shape and size, his jaw strong. His full lips were slightly open as if he was still dazed by what had happened.
She let her eyes flutter shut, the coil of hunger tightening with her intimate inspection. She felt so much, about him, for him, lust, she guessed, but who could blame her? He was the prime example of a male specimen, athletic, handsome, and, she was coming to suspect, intelligent.
The thought of satisfying such an unfamiliar need was making headway, through all the qualms and insecurities that plagued her. She’d slept with a few men, the first time more out of curiosity than any sexual feeling evoked. The second with her boyfriend from college, who she’d been with for close to six months. It was uninspiring and something she found she could live without. No one before had caused her heart to stutter or her nerves to sizzle, and it was easy to side step that part of her life because she was so consumed by her work. Since meeting him, it was a whole new ball game.
She was acutely aware of his body, which was only inches from hers, the emanating heat more potent than the fire. Even with the intensity of her emotions, the hunger gnawing at her gut, she felt…not relaxed…not with the kind of tension vibrating through her, but as if she’d found just the right environment to feel cozy and snug. Their discussion had given her an even better understanding of the game and how he played it. Now she’d been given permission to sit without speaking, and in the silence, her mind had shut off, something that rarely happened lately. She was tired and she let herself float away.
She was awakened by the doorbell. And one of Hoover’s menacing barks.
She forced her eyes open, trying to avoid the sun streaming in through the window. She was still on the couch, Rique asleep beside her, his head resting against her shoulder, snoring lightly. The loud bong hadn’t breached his slumber. Neither had the barking.
After gently moving his head, she crawled up and stretched. A second hit of the doorbell jarred her system, propelling her toward the door. She glanced at the clock on her way, not quite believing she’d slept in so late.
Who the hell was here? Could Seb or Mateo be back? Melinda or Jim come for a visit?
When she peered through the window panel to the left of the door, she gasped.
Her mother and father were standing on the front stoop, her mother’s face expressing her impatience. After sliding the bolt, she opened the door and her mother wasted no time entering.
“It’s freezing out there, Fiona, and why on God’s green earth are you still sleeping? It’s after eight.”
“Hold that complaint, Mom. I have to let Hoover out.”
Her mother had been trying to avoid the wet, welcoming tongue, but her father was giving the animal the hugs she’d been waiting for. Hoover liked nothing better than to feel appreciated.
“Come on, girl. Let’s go.”
She got caught up in Hoover’s legs, who was sidestepping her on the way, and almost tripped.
Rique, who’d finally been woken by all the commotion, caught her and set her back on her feet. She whispered, “My parents are here.”
After she unlocked the slider, Hoover scrambled down the steps, just as Rique asked, “Did you expect them?”
She pushed her hair of her face, and croaked, “Gawd, no, or I would have been awake and ready for them.”
“Take your time. I’ll handle it.”
He missed the weak smile she offered in return for his graciousness.
She could hear Rique’s voice as he introduced himself to the Barrows and invited them into the kitchen for some coffee. She hoped he’d make it. She sucked at that domestic task like all the others.
The cold air made her gasp as soon as she stepped out onto the deck. She could have just let Hoover out and remained inside, but she needed time to gear up for her parents’ unexpected visit. What the hell were they doing here and why hadn’t her mother mentioned a visit when she last spoke to her? Edgy, she wanted to get back inside now, afraid her mother was being her assertive, sometimes obnoxious self. She watched impatiently as Hoover raced around the yard before finding a place to squat. Her teeth were chattering when she slipped back inside, the dog running ahead.
Her mother teetered on one of the stools at the counter looking totally out of her element. Her father was having an in-depth conversation about baseball and the Greenies’ prospects now that Farina was no longer in the wheelhouse. He knew a lot more about the game than he’d ever let on, and there was some passion there that had been unexplored. The scent of freshly brewing coffee filled the room.
Her mother looked over and gave her a full-body scan.
“I didn’t realize you had company, or I would have called before arriving.”
“I don’t have company. Enrique is Izabella’s brother and is staying until he finds his own place.”
“Then why are you here instead of looking for a job?”
Fiona crossed her arms against her chest, as if to hold in the anger that was rising.
“I have a job at the moment, and it involves staying put until the Jacksons come home.”
It was easy for Clare to look down her nose from her perch. “Fiona, this is so beneath you.”
“I know, Mom. You’ve already told me that, but I made a commitment and I’m keeping it. The job ends Monday, so it will have to wait until then.”
“I compiled a list—”
While Rique was pouring coffee into mugs, he cut in. “Fi…Fiona, why don’t you go take a shower. Your parents want to take you to breakfast.”
Before she could send him a grateful look, her father said to the new shortstop “You’re more than welcome to come with us.”
He looked up at Fiona, questioning her with his eyes if she wanted him along.
She nodded, grateful there’d be a buffer and someone who could carry the conversation through an hour-long meal.
“Coffee before you go up?”
She nodded vigorously as he handed her a cup dressed just the way she liked it.
She raced up the stairs, not wanting to leave Rique alone too long with the Queen of the Inquisition. Her mother would probe and dig, looking for answers to whatever she was obsessed with-his ethnicity, his gene pool, the scientific probability of earthquakes in Brazil.
She fumbled as she stripped down, clambered into the shower. In and out in record time, she dressed and returned to the bosom of her family, just as her mother announced, “Yes, I understand you’re gone all day, but for God’s sakes my daughter has her doctorate in genetics. Her brain is going to wither away if she doesn’t get back to it as quickly as she can.”
Rique’s jaw dropped when she entered, his eyes widened as if in stunned surprise before a scowl took over his expression. He was staring intently, and she was becoming unnerved.
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br /> “My brain is not going to wither away. I’ve only had the degree for a couple of months.”
Rique rasped out, “That’s what’s kept you busy.” As if he was still trying to wrap his head around what her mother had told him, he asked, “You’re a doctor?”
His lips were pursed, and she remembered how they felt on hers. At the moment, she’d trade her degree for another one of his kisses. Flustered, knowing his opinion of her had changed, she stuttered, “No. Yes. But not in the way you think.”
His hands were on his hips. “How would a person address you?”
Her mother replied for her. “Dr. Fiona Barrows.”
She rolled her eyes, just like she had when she was a child. Her mother had that effect on her.
“Fiona would be fine. Your turn to shower. If you still want to join us.”
His expression was unreadable. She couldn’t tell if he was angry at her or disappointed.
“Yes, I do. I think there’s a lot I don’t know that would be interesting to learn.”
His tone suggested the former. He was angry.
“I’m exactly the same person I was yesterday.”
“Yesterday I thought you walked dogs for a living. A little more background would have been helpful.”
She sputtered out, “You never asked.”
His voice rose in volume.
“I shouldn’t have had to.”
“You would have looked at me differently.”
His eyes gleamed at her, as if that’s exactly what had happened.
“We can discuss that later.” He began to walk away, his hand knuckle deep in his hair as if he were going to pull it out in frustration. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
He left the room, giving her a backward glance as he did. The look was penetrating.
Fiona emitted a long, deep sigh.
“Thanks, Mom. That was smooth.”
“Obviously he didn’t realize that you’re wasting your time here.”
Fuming at her interference in her life, yet again, and finally having enough of her heavy-handed opinion, she barked, “Taking time off was important for my mental health. I went straight through. Nine years of academics, writing papers, researching, experimenting, analyzing. My brain needed a break. I took one. It hasn’t been a waste of time. Deal with it.”
