Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  She was amused. He could tell. It showed in the twist of her luscious mouth and the casual flip of her wrist. “Derek Jeter is just misguided."

  "Uh-huh,” he drawled.

  "Just really ... misguided. Derek Jeter's soul can still be saved."

  "Yeah, but be careful he's not stealing yours while you're trying to save his."

  She leaned closer to him, in the manner of a woman making a confession. A drunk woman making a confession. He had to cut her off. Soon. “I have a weakness for Derek Jeter, I do confess. Also for Mike Mussina."

  Shouts went up in the bar. Pedro had finished the inning. He walked off the field with his typical stare-down to home plate, his come-and-get-me look.

  Aubrey took a deep breath. “We bring in the bullpen. Anyone in the bullpen. They only have to get six outs."

  "And you have Wakefield and Lowe in reserve."

  "Right. Six outs.” She turned to him, smiling broadly. “We could actually win this thing."

  "We could."

  "Do you think they sell champagne here? Don't you think we should have champagne?"

  "I have some at my hotel room.” He winced; he hadn't meant that to come out like a sleazy invitation.

  She didn't take it that way. “Good,” she said. “But we can't talk about celebrating."

  "No, not yet."

  "We'll jinx it."

  "Yes."

  "We need a few more runs before I'll feel safe."

  "Ten or twelve more runs."

  Behind them, a woman poured a pitcher of beer over her companion's head, laughing uproariously.

  Aubrey frowned. “She's getting ahead of herself here."

  "Want me to tell her to sit down and shut up?"

  Aubrey shook her head. “I don't want to miss the Red Sox win because you've instigated some sort of bar fight."

  "Wouldn't get that far. The police are out in force. Boston's going to have a riot on its hands if they can pull this off."

  "I know.” She smiled a little. “That's why I wanted to be here."

  "Affection for riots?"

  "No. Wanting to be with people who feel exactly what I'm feeling. People who won't laugh at how seriously I take this."

  "It's baseball,” said Gray solemnly. “You can't take it seriously enough."

  Aubrey smiled again, straight at him this time. “Right,” she said. “Six outs. Timlin or Embree?"

  He decided she was the sexiest woman he had ever encountered in his life. Not his typical definition of a knock-out—but absolutely perfect nonetheless.

  He opened his mouth to answer, but she said abruptly, “Pedro,” looking away from him, frowning at the television screen.

  She was right about that. It was indeed Pedro making his way out to the mound. There were general groans around the bar.

  "What the hell is he doing?” she asked. “Is he trying to lose? Is that what he's doing?"

  "He's writing a story instead of managing a game,” said Gray, in disgust. “Idiot."

  Red Sox fans had no patience for the Red Sox manager. The general opinion among Red Sox fans was that they wouldn't like any manager, because they all thought they ought to be the manager.

  But hey, if you wanted to manage in Boston, you had to deal with the world's most well-informed fans. They wanted to manage because, in Gray's opinion, any one of them could.

  "Do you know what it is? I just figured it out. This team wins in spite of Grady Little."

  "That's—” There was a hit. The words strangled in Gray's throat. He stared open-mouthed at the television.

  Aubrey bit back on what might have been a full-fledged scream. And, without knowing it, she also grabbed Gray's hand, holding it so tightly that he was momentarily distracted from the unbelievable events of the game by the fear that she might break a few of his bones. Who knew she'd turn out to have such a grip?

  "He'll take him out, he'll take him out.” She was reciting it like a mantra. “He'll have to take him out."

  The bar was shouting it at the screen. Grady Little stood up, and there was a general round of relieved applause.

  Aubrey lessened her grip on his hand. “He's taking him out, he's taking him out. We have the best bullpen in baseball, right? And we—I mean, six outs ... Why isn't he taking him out?"

  Grady Little had walked back to the dugout, leaving Pedro Martinez in place.

  Gray swore. He put his head briefly in his free hand and rubbed at his temple. The jet lag was beginning to catch up with him in full force. Add that to the stress of being a Red Sox fan. He was quitting the Red Sox cold turkey after this. He was just going to do it.

  The bar was in an uproar. The police, Gray thought, had better be worrying about a Red Sox loss and not a Red Sox victory at this point.

  He wasn't watching the game but he felt the instant the next bat connected solidly with ball. Aubrey flinched. She had his hand in between both of hers now, clasping it tightly.

  Another hit. The bar's outrage was giving way to shock. Silence was falling. No one was touching a drink. Even the bartender was standing in front of the television, head tilted back, staring at it slack-jawed.

  Gray lifted his head in time to see another hit, and felt it like a physical blow. He put his head back down. He had never been one to watch train wrecks.

  "Oh, God,” whispered Aubrey. “Take him out. Please take him out.” She was actually talking to God, offering up the prayer, closing her eyes. Please, please, take him out. Now. Please.

  Hit. Then, finally, an out.

  But it didn't matter. The lively commercial they played during the inning break sounded sadly out of place in the deafening silence of the bar.

  "Tie game,” breathed Aubrey. “Oh, God, tie game. It's over."

  Behind them, the girl who had been gleefully wasting beer burst into tears.

  Chapter Two

  I could give you about 150 Grady examples from the last two weeks—including him breaking the major-league record for “Consecutive games with a failed hit-and-run that resulted in a double play"—but that would be a waste of everyone's time.

  —Bill Simmons, ESPN.com October 17, 2003

  Gray thought maybe they needed to rally their flagging spirits. “Hey, how many times have you given up on this team over the course of this season?” he asked, trying to sound reasonable.

  She glared at him. “You crack the door for the Yankees, Gray, they storm the castle. Do you even watch baseball?"

  "It's only a tie game. We'll come back. This team comes back."

  "He's going to bring in Mariano Rivera, Gray. We're going to be done."

  "We have the best bullpen in baseball. You just said it. You don't think we're the equal of Mariano Rivera? Right now we've got three or four mini-Riveras in reserve. We can hold the Yankees. And we can outlast Rivera."

  "Why would you bring Pedro back in? When has Pedro ever thrown that many pitches? All they do is baby and coddle him. Are you trying to save your bullpen? And if so, why? It's October! There's nothing coming after."

  These were all valid points. And, because Gray hadn't made the monumentally stupid decision to leave Pedro in there, he had no answer to any of them. He ran his free hand through his hair and let Aubrey keep the use of his other hand, because at the moment it didn't seem wise to cross her.

  "I don't want to watch it,” she said abruptly. “Can you take me somewhere—anywhere—so I don't have to watch it?"

  "They're going to come back, and then you're going to miss it, and what will you tell your children? We're Red Sox fans, Aubrey.” He tried a smile. “We always keep the faith. Always."

  "I can't go through this team losing tonight like this!"

  "They won't, all right? How can the season really end this way? This particular season? It doesn't end like this because we have a bad manager."

  "Why can't it end like this? Just another thing to add to Red Sox lore. Were you watching in ‘86?"

  "Oh, God,” he said with a moan. “Please don't bring
up ‘86. I almost killed myself in ‘86. Couldn't get out of bed for days."

  "Me too. And I watched the Cubs lose it, Gray. Did you watch the Cubs lose it? This is just the sort of thing the baseball gods would do. The Cubs and the Red Sox, perennial losers, so close to triumph they can taste it. And knocked down for their presumptuous arrogance."

  He really should have cut her off earlier in the night. “I think you're getting carried away a little bit, Aubrey. It would also be just like the baseball gods to have us down and out like this and give us a ninth-inning hero against Mariano. Wouldn't that be an equally good story?"

  "It would be equally good ... but it doesn't have a Boston ring to it, now does it?"

  "Well, lately it does..."

  "Eighty-five years of bad karma, Gray."

  "Our luck is due to turn, Aubrey."

  "Huh. Too bad baseball doesn't work that way."

  Gray glanced at the television screen. The Red Sox were going down against Rivera. He looked back at Aubrey. “Should we stay?"

  She looked around the bar, saw her own despair echoed on every face. “Well, I came to Boston to be with people who would understand. I should suffer with them."

  Gray wanted to continue to be positive; but unfortunately there was no ninth inning hero. From the television screen, he could hear Yankee Stadium roaring its way back to life.

  They made it through Mariano. Aubrey had thought he would crack during his third inning of pitching. How often did Mariano Rivera pitch three innings? No such luck.

  But they made it through him. There was hope. Grady was bringing out Wakefield. A good, solid move. Wakefield, if they pulled this off, was the hands-down MVP of this series. So they brought out Wakefield.

  The home run happened so quickly that she actually missed it. She had turned to Gray, to ask him if he also thought Wakefield should be the MVP of the series, and as she did so she saw his mouth drop open. She turned quickly back to the television and there was Aaron Boone, trotting around the bases in triumph. There was Tim Wakefield, looking bewildered and close to tears.

  Yankee Stadium was jubilant. Its exuberance was pulsing through the television. Aubrey slid off her stool. “Out of here,” she said, feeling dazed. “We have to get out of here. I can't listen to ... I can't watch..."

  Gray was calling for the check, producing a credit card.

  "I owe you money,” she realized. How much had he bought for her anyhow? She frowned. “How much do I—"

  He ignored her, handing the check to the bartender, who took it wordlessly. The bar was ridiculously silent. Someone had shut the television off, thank God.

  He turned back to her, fastened his hand firmly onto her upper arm. “Come on. Let's get out of here."

  "Gray, how much do I—"

  "Forget about it,” he said as they got outside. “Forget about—Damn it!” He turned swiftly and kicked the side of the building. Hard. Then he swore again when the action seemed to have accomplished absolutely nothing. “Oh, damn it..."

  "Did that make you feel better?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "I think I broke my foot,” he said. Her mouth twitched suspiciously. He narrowed his eyes. “Glad to see I got you over the Red Sox loss."

  "I just like the way men think. You're mad, so the best thing to do is to take on a brick wall. That makes sense. Look at you, you can't even walk."

  Well, there was a blow to his pride. But it was true: he was limping a bit. “I'm fine,” he sniffed. “I suppose you plan to go home and cry."

  "No. I'd like to throw something, actually. I just can't get my hands on anything right now."

  "I need a cab,” said Gray. His foot was beginning to throb.

  "You're never going to get a cab now."

  She was right about that. Red Sox Nation was spilling out of the bars along Lansdowne Street, looking like the walking dead. Cabs were crawling by, nudging space through the people, all of them already taken.

  "This,” he remarked testily, “is just the most absolutely perfect night. And so not funny,” he warned her, because she still looked close to laughter.

  "Oh, Gray, if I don't laugh right now, I'll cry."

  "Uh-huh,” he said, limping along the bridge over the Mass Pike. Why had he kicked the wall? Why had Grady Little left Pedro in? “This is Grady Little's fault,” he said bluntly. “I'm sending him the medical bill."

  "Here, let me help you.” The notion was laughable, but he leaned a bit of his weight on her, and off his injured foot. “I knew this guy who, after the Red Sox lost in ‘86, burned his Red Sox cap and sent the remains of it to Bill Buckner with a little note that said, ‘You ruined my life.’”

  "Really?"

  "Totally true story. I'm staying in Kenmore Square."

  "I'm closer to the Common. I'll get on the T at Kenmore."

  "You're going to get on the T like this? It's going to take you twenty minutes just to get down the stairs. If we get to my hotel, we can call you a cab."

  "We can call me a cab now,” he pointed out.

  "Yeah, and then wait on the Mass Pike for it to come. You have to get off this foot. It would have been a lot better if you had thought to punch the wall instead of kick it. At least you could still get along on your own."

  "I don't know why you think this is funny. I'm depressed. I'm terribly depressed. And you're laughing at me."

  "I'm just thinking of this great new story to pass down to my kids."

  "It was one pitch,” said Gray. “Wakefield threw one pitch."

  "I missed it. I mean, I didn't see it. I was going to ask you something. I was looking at you. And the look on your face was ... We should have left in the eighth inning."

  "You're right. You were right. You are right. I just thought ... I'd just got used to them winning. Strange thing for a Red Sox fan to say, isn't it? I was just so used to them winning..."

  "I really hate the Red Sox,” she said.

  "Love is quite the double-edged sword.” They limped along over the T tracks at Kenmore Square, headed for the Holiday Inn. Well, he'd never stayed in one of those before. These twenty hours in Boston were turning out to be an adventure.

  "You know who else I hate?"

  "Grady Little?” he guessed.

  "Passionately.” She held open the door of the hotel for him so he could limp through. “You're lucky you don't have that d in your name, turning Gray into Grady, because I sure as hell wouldn't be holding doors open for you."

  "I'll be sure to thank my mother in the morning,” he drawled, and collapsed gratefully on the dismal-looking couch in the lobby.

  "What are you doing?” she asked.

  "I'm going to call a cab and—"

  "You're going to sit here in the lobby until your cab comes? Don't be ridiculous. Get up. You can sit in my room and put some ice on your foot while we wait for the cab to come. It's important to get ice on an injury as soon as possible after it occurs."

  He huffed. “Are you a doctor?"

  "No. But I had aspirations as an eight-year-old. Come on, get up.” She took his arm, pulled hard to try to pull him up, then quirked an ironic smile when she had absolutely no effect. It was like an ant trying to push a boulder. She had the impression he could have just swatted her away.

  "Aubrey...” He whined her name, and it sounded to her at that moment like he'd been saying it forever. She tried to determine how long she had known this man, but her head was too fuzzy for the math.

  It had been long enough, certainly, to invite him to her hotel room. Certainly. Anyhow, they had been through a life-changing experience together.

  "Hey, do you know what I have in my hotel room?"

  "What?” He half hoped she would say lingerie. He could do with Aubrey and some lingerie. That took his mind very nicely off his foot.

  "Alcohol,” she answered brightly. “Lots of alcohol."

  Alcohol was a better answer. Lingerie put his mind on other parts of his body, which was going to lead to irritating
complications. So. Alcohol. Dull all the pain he was experiencing—physical, emotional.

  He pulled himself up off the couch, hissing a swear word when his foot refused to take the weight he accidentally put on it.

  She caught as much of his weight as she could. “Good boy,” she said, as if he were a golden retriever. “Alcohol and ice,” she continued temptingly, apparently believing that the prospect of these rewards would keep him going.

  "And a tennis ball?” he asked. “And would you give my belly a nice rub while you're at it?"

  "Only if you're good.” She had the bad manners to grin at him as she pulled out an electronic key card and swung open the door. “Here we are."

  The room was tiny. He tried not to wrinkle his nose. So he was a hotel room snob. There were certainly worse things to be.

  He sat on the room's one chair and put his foot up on the bed and tried not to wonder how well they washed their bedspreads here.

  "Alcohol,” she said, producing a tiny bottle from the fridge. “Didn't I promise you alcohol? Take off your shoe."

  "My what?"

  "Your shoe.” She disappeared into the bathroom. “We have to see if it's swollen."

  My shoe may be swollen? he thought, and drained in two swallows the bottle of beer she'd handed him. Oh, yeah, definitely worth the twenty bucks he was sure they were going to charge her for it. He leaned forward gingerly and tugged at his shoelace, finally managing to maneuver his shoe off, and stared in chagrin at his sock.

  His shoe wasn't swollen, but his sock definitely was.

  Aubrey came back out of the bathroom. She'd taken off her Red Sox cap so that for the first time he was hit with the full glory of her short copper-colored hair. He'd always had a weakness for redheads. It was the reason he'd slid into the seat next to her.

  So he usually preferred hair a little longer. So what? At present, he thought the flyaway look of her chin-length crop would just be lovely to run his hands through. The woman was gorgeous in a way he hadn't truly been able to appreciate in the dimness of the bar. She was petite, as he'd already noticed, but she moved with a casual, feline grace that made his mouth water.

  He had to get out of this room. Hadn't there been some talk of calling a—