by Anne Black
Finn puts the iPad down and says he'll make sure the coast is clear. A minute later, he opens the door and motions for me to come out. He leads me quickly to the front door, but I freeze as he's about to open it. "My purse," I whisper, "I need my purse."
Finn pivots toward the living room and helplessly scans the room. I can't remember where I left it when I came in last night. The two of us are now looking on every available surface. Brady and his date left a trail of beer bottles across the kitchen during their sexcapades and I accidentally knock three over in my search. "Shit!" I hiss.
I'm moving throw pillows aside and running my hand between the couch cushions when I spy something small and black sticking out underneath the bottom of the couch. I bend down and triumphantly pull out my Coach wristlet in a moment of glory, hands above my head with a big smile plastered across my face. A smile which freezes when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
"Looking for something?" it says.
I slowly turn to find a shirtless Brady, clad only in boxers, smirking at me. This certainly isn't the first time I've seen him nearly naked, but it's the first time outside of the stadium.
"Hey, Brady," I say, faking cheer. "Just looking for my purse."
"You seem to have found it," he replies, leaning against the wall, his ripped arms crossed over his perfect chest. Is there some sort of requirement that each member of the pitching staff spends eight hours a day in the weight room? "It's just so strange to see you, a reporter, here in my living room this early in the morning."
"Yep, well, er, I should be going," I stammer. "I just needed to see Finn about a story I'm working on. But we're all good now. Glad we cleared that up!"
"Must be some story."
You have no idea, I think to myself.
Finn's eyes dart between Brady and I, not sure what to say. Brady breaks the silence. "I guess your sleepover will be our little secret. I mean, unless the rest of the vultures already know what you'll do to get a story."
I narrow my eyes and ball my fists, arms rigid at my sides.
"Stop being an asshole, Brady," Finn says, crossing the room and putting his hand on the small of my back. "This has nothing to do with her job."
"Whatever you say, boss," Brady says with a fake smile before he turns and lopes down the hall to his room.
I rub my hands up and down my arms as Brady hugs me.
"It's fine," he says. "Trust me, Brady won't say anything. He's just giving you shit."
"Hopefully, you're right," I reply.
"And when he sees you the next time, it won't be a big deal."
"Next time?"
"Next time." Finn lifts my chin with his hand and kisses me softly. "I definitely want to do this again. Can I see you this weekend? We have an afternoon game on Sunday. Can we hang out that night?"
I don't hesitate. "Yes. But this time at my place. Brady's sneaking around creeps me out."
"Deal. And Katey? Next time there won't be any interruptions."
There better not be, I think to myself.
CHAPTER SIX
Nick wants an update on my progress and asks me to stop by the office this afternoon before I head to the ballpark. In the days following my date with Finn, I mostly convinced myself I could easily separate my personal and professional personas. Reporter Katelyn can do the research, gather the information and work the angles. Normal-girl Katey can have the fluttery feelings in the pit of her stomach, replay the intimate moments in her head and exchange funny text messages with the guy.
I'm constantly checking my phone, the pinging of an incoming message making my heart race a little. Sometimes we exchange fifty messages in a day, little jokes and lighthearted banter interspersed with more serious questions. I admonished Finn that he couldn't list my real name in his phone, because one never knows who might pick it up and find it. I did the same for him in my contacts list and we can't stop laughing about our code names for each other: he's Fred and I'm Wilma. I even set a picture of Fred Flintstone to come up on my screen when he calls me.
It's been radio-silence this afternoon, however, as Finn pitches tonight and he's focusing strictly on the game. I throw my phone in my bag before I enter the Chronicle building and wait impatiently for the elevator. I knock on the door to Nick's office and he waves me in, telling me to close the door behind me.
"So, do you have video of our boy wonder shooting himself in the ass with a needle yet?" Nick asks.
"Are you kidding me?" I ask incredulously.
"Yes, Katelyn, I'm kidding," he responds with annoyance. "You're good, but nobody's that good."
Nick opens a few documents on his computer screen and motions for me to come and look over his shoulder. My fellow staff members have been diligently gathering information on Finn's background, his playing days in the minors and his friends. Another writer is working the drug angle, his notes a mess of acronyms and medical jargon.
Nick points to his screen. "This is what we're looking for. Mechano Growth Factor, or MGF. Forget about anabolic steroids or human growth hormone, this is the future of performance-enhancing drugs. It's not a hormone, it's a peptide. And it works locally, so if someone injects it in a biceps muscle, it works right on that muscle. And it works quickly, with almost immediate results."
"But why would a pitcher want to bulk up?" I ask. "That's the opposite of what they want. Bigger doesn't mean better when it comes to arm strength."
"Exactly. So why would a pitcher need to shoot up? The answer is two-fold. Pitchers only throw every five days and they need those days off to rest and repair the damage that comes from throwing a ball ninety-nine miles per hour for three hours. But they also get a boost when they're injured. This drug allows them to come back from an injury more quickly. And that's exactly what our boy Ryan is using it for."
Nick shows me a few stories from two years ago that documented arm problems in one Ryan Finnegan. At the time, his Double-A manager said he was complaining of shoulder soreness and his fastball wasn't popping like it used to, so they had him take some time off. A precautionary MRI showed no structural damage and he was back on the mound within a month.
"So where are the follow-up stories?" I ask.
"There weren't any. He came back and another word was never written about it, as far as we can tell. Strange that a big league pitcher would have been sat down for shoulder soreness and then never complains of it again."
"Maybe the rest did him some good. Maybe he popped some Advil and the pain went away. Maybe he started yoga and found both enlightenment and shoulder nirvana. There's a million explanations for this, you know."
"Or, he's taking a drug that allows him to target recovery of his shoulder muscles each and every time he pitches. It's like the fountain of youth for his arm. And gives him an advantage."
"Like the other guys aren't all juicing in some way," I scoff. "Come on, look at the size of Eduardo Norte. Five years ago, his minor league photo showed a skinny twenty-year-old kid from the Dominican Republic. Now he's pushing two-fifty and pounding forty home runs a year. Sure, we all totally believe he drank protein shakes and worked out every day. Every player is looking for an edge. Why are we focusing on Finnegan?"
Nick leans back in his chair. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're going soft on this story."
"I'm not going soft, I'm just evaluating all the evidence. You know, like a good reporter should. Just because somebody says Finnegan is doing steroids doesn't mean he actually is. You know the first thing I learned in journalism school? 'If your mother says she loves you, check it out.' I'm not convinced this is for real."
I don't mention that everything I have learned about this guy leads me to believe he couldn't possibly be involved in something like this. Mostly because I can't possibly explain how I've learned those things without compromising myself. The Finn I know and the Ryan I see at the ballpark just don't jive with the scheming and cheating player they're making him out to be.
But then again, how well do I really know
Finn? We've hooked up, sure, but outside of our physical connection, what do I know about him? I know his favorite color is green, he has three siblings, hates wine and likes to watch ESPN. But do I know where his moral compass points? If he wants to win at all costs? If he's willing to give up the career he's spent years pursuing for a few extra strikeouts now?
"Good girl," Nick says with a grin. "But the evidence is mounting, Katelyn. What have you found on your end?"
I hesitate. What have I found? Absolutely nothing.
"Well, it's not like he's going to pull the needles out in front of me, you know."
"Obviously. But you're working on it?"
"We've hung out a few times. We're still scratching the surface, getting to know each other. Don't worry about me, I'm on it."
"Well, let's try for more than scratching the surface. Let's try for some inner sanctum information. Figure out where he hangs out, who he goes out with and put yourself in those spots."
I've put myself in plenty of spots with Finn, none of them I'm willing to disclose to my boss, however.
We agree to check back in over the next few days and I leave the office, heading for the ballpark. I won't see Finn before the game, but he asked if he could see me afterward. We have tentative plans to grab a drink at rooftop bar at The House. When he suggested the date, I protested it was too public, but he assured me the members-only club was crazy about its strict no-cell-phones policy, guaranteeing privacy. I relented and agreed, mostly because I hadn't been to the city's newest hot spot and wanted to see what all the fuss was about, but also because it was a weeknight and the crowd would likely be thin.
I check myself before heading in through the media gate and smile at my reflection in the handheld mirror. I've got everything under control.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Another win under his belt, Finn walks out of the player's exit, his hair still damp and a big smile on his face. I double-check that no one is watching us, but the fans have all left the stadium and the other reporters are busy filing their stories from the press box. The beauty of being a features writer is my work isn't dependent on the outcome of the game. I filed my story during the fifth inning and waited patiently through the postgame before heading out. There's nobody around but us and the security guard, and he couldn't care less with whom Finn leaves the park.
He opens the passenger door of his black Lexus SUV for me and I sink into the cool black leather seat. Finn goes around to the driver's side and hops in, starting the engine and pulling out of the lot.
"Nice game," I say.
"Thanks," he responds. "I felt good. Wish I had gotten McDermott with that fastball, but nothing I can do about it now. He cranks it to left and just slow-jogs it around the bases? Asshole move. He's getting one in the kidney next time I see him at the plate, you can count on that."
"Not like it mattered. You had a four-run lead."
"It matters to me."
"I see your point. And apparently, so will McDermott's kidney come August."
Finn smiles, reaches across the console and casually puts his hand on my knee. "I've missed you."
"We see each other every day," I point out.
"You know what I mean. It doesn't count when I see you sashaying that ass across the field during batting practice--"
I cut him off. "I do not shake my ass at work!"
"Oh, you most definitely shake your ass at work. You don't even know you do it. But I watch you, I know. To be a clear, I think you should shake your ass twenty-four-seven. You got it, work it." Finn glances sideways at me and I swat him on the shoulder.
"Hey! Easy, that shoulder just threw ninety-five pitches tonight." Finn winces, genuinely.
"I'm sorry. Did that really hurt?"
"Yes it really hurt. Let me know how you feel after throwing seven innings and someone slugs you in the shoulder."
His phone, lying between us in the cupholder, dings with a text message notification. Finn glances at it and leaves it in its place. It dings several more times in the next few minutes and he asks me to grab it for him.
"My parents watch every game," he says. "My dad likes to go over my mechanics and point out every mistake. My mom likes to tell me to tuck my jersey in and get a haircut."
"That must be annoying," I say.
"You have no idea. My dad coached my Little League teams, worked out with me and the personal trainers he hired for me in high school and didn't miss a single game of mine throughout college. He's a little intense. Can you just open that text and type back that I'm out and I'll call him tomorrow morning?"
I follow his instructions and put the phone back in the cupholder.
"I imagine your parents probably don't send you copies of your stories with the mistakes highlighted in red pen?" Finn asks.
I swallow and pause, trying to think of a polite way to respond. "Well, my mom saved everything I wrote when I was little. Stories about fairies, monsters, my imaginary friend, Imogene."
"You had an imaginary friend named Imogene?"
"I was an only child. I needed companionship. Once I was in high school, she saved all the articles I wrote for the school newspaper. Same thing with college."
"She must be the Chronicle's number one subscriber," Finn says with a smile.
"She died two years ago," I say softly.
Finn looks away from the road toward me, but I can't meet his gaze. "Oh, Katey, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"No, it's okay," I say, clearing my throat. "She had cancer. Diagnosed in April, dead by January. She wouldn't let me come home, said my job was too important. She downplayed it to me, said she would be fine. It wasn't until close to the end that she finally admitted how serious it was."
"You never mentioned it before."
"I think about her every single day. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think, 'Oh, I need to tell mom about that.' But then I remember I can't, because she's gone. But she made me promise I wouldn't be sad, that I wouldn't let this define me. So I haven't. It sucks and I miss her, but I've tried to honor that promise."
Finn squeezes my hand in his. "And your dad? What about him?"
"He was never in the picture. Split when I was six months old. Told my mom he wasn't cut out to be a husband or a father. And from what she told me, that wasn't far from the truth. He'd come home drunk, sometimes not come home at all. Not exactly a Dad of the Year candidate. As long as I can remember it was just me and my mom. But my best friend, Steph, her family has always treated me like one of their own. Her two brothers teased me as much as they did her and after my mom died, Steph's parents pseudo-adopted me. They've been amazing. I'm lucky."
Stopped at a red light, Finn leans over and cups my chin in his massive hand, tilting my face toward him for a gentle kiss. "Who are you, Katey Nelson? I can honestly say I've never met anyone like you before. Most people would be bitter, would complain about the hand they've been dealt and you're talking about being lucky."
The light turns green and Finn turns his attention back to the road. His cell phone dings again and he sighs. "Can you read me the message? My dad is probably more annoyed by that home run than I am."
I swipe the phone open but see the text isn't from his dad. It's from someone named Richie.
The message reads, "Have your delivery. $500. Meet in a.m. Shit is ridiculous."
I click the power button and the screen goes black. "I think your battery died. The screen just went blank."
"Oh well, guess I'll talk to him tomorrow," Finn says.
"Yeah."
Suddenly, this date doesn't seem like such a good idea.
"Hey, you know what? I'm not feeling so hot. I think I might be carsick."
"Are you going to puke? Let me pull over."
I wave my hand. "No, no, I'm not going to puke. I just feel super nauseous and dizzy. Can you just take me home? I think maybe The House isn't the best idea right now."
Finn quickly turns the car around and starts heading back north. "Is there a
nything I can do?"
"No, I'll just roll down the window. A little fresh air will help." I stare out the passenger side window as the skyline passes by, the cool breeze whipping strands of hair across my face. Carsickness I can fake, but I don't think I can hide my very real interest in this development. Who is Richie and what is he delivering, I wonder. And it hits me.
"Actually, I'm not sure I can make it all the way home," I say weakly.
"My place is two minutes from here," Finn says. "I'm taking you there. And I won't take no for an answer."
I lean back in my seat, closing my eyes. "Thanks."
CHAPTER EIGHT
When we got to Finn's place last night, he insisted I lie down on his bed while he got me some water. I drank it and smiled weakly, telling him I was fine and could take a cab home. I bet -- correctly -- that Finn's chivalrous sense of duty would allow no such thing. He insisted I spend the night and had me tucked into his bed in a pair of boxers and a faded gray Oregon State T-shirt in minutes. I fell asleep formulating my plan, Finn next to me on top of the covers.
I wake long before Finn, mulling my options. I know he's meeting Richie at some point today, but how can I convince him to take me with him? I lie quietly next to Finn while small snores escape from his perfect mouth. Who knew the big man snored? His phone charging next to the bed, I don't dare chance waking him by reaching for it. But I have to know what his plan is for Richie. I slowly, inch by inch, extract myself from under the covers and slide oh-so-carefully to the edge of the bed. Unfortunately, I misjudge the distance from the top of the mattress to the floor and I fall off the side, making a racket as my limbs hit the hardwood both ungracefully and painfully.
I hold my breath, hoping against hope that Finn is a deep sleeper. I sit still for a moment, waiting to see what happens, when I hear his voice.
"Hey," Finn says, peering at me over the top of the bed. "You okay?"
