One Perfect Lie

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Understatement of the year.”

  “Are you friendly with him?”

  “Is anybody? That’s why Kwame left. Couldn’t take it another minute. Hardwick goes through assistants like Kleenexes.” Victor chuckled. “You know the secret to getting along with him? Follow the Bible.”

  “Really? I didn’t know he was a man of faith.” Chris hadn’t seen anything in his research about Coach Hardwick’s being religious or he would’ve worn a crucifix.

  “No, not that Bible. Hardwick’s Bible. He emailed it to you. He calls it the Bible.”

  “Oh, that Bible.” Chris remembered the packet of information that Coach Hardwick had emailed him. He had it with him in his backpack.

  “The Bible is the Gospel According to Hardwick. If you follow the Bible, you’ll get along fine with him. The Bible is his program, his rules, rain or shine, off-season to postseason. To be fair, you can’t argue with results. He wins.” Victor yakked away. “I follow the Bible because it’s good for JV and varsity to be consistent. But I use more emotional intelligence than he does. I like to get close to my players, get to know them personally. Hardwick’s not like that. He’s old-school.”

  “I think it’s okay to get close to the players. You can still retain your authority.” Chris processed the information. If Hardwick didn’t get close to the players, it gave him an opening with the boys.

  “I agree.” Victor smiled, his approval plain. “But keep it to yourself. Follow the Bible. Stay in your lane. The kids, too. They know what’s expected. If the kids follow the Bible, Hardwick doesn’t sweat anything. Like hair, for example. Take Raz. Mike Sematov.”

  “I have him in class.”

  “Good luck. What a wackadoodle. He pitched last season. Throws hard. A great fastball but major control problems on and off the field.” Victor snorted. “If you have him in class, you know what he’s like. Hair down to his shoulders like Lincecum. Wears a man bun. Hardwick doesn’t care. He even told Raz that his hair had superpowers like Samson. Now the kid’ll never cut it.”

  Chris smiled. “So Raz is the starting pitcher? What about Jordan Larkin? I heard Coach Hardwick might start him instead.”

  “Larkin? Love that kid.” Victor’s coarse features lit up. “He played for me on JV last season. He’s a great kid. A quiet kid, shy, but great.”

  “Really.” Chris was targeting Larkin, more and more.

  “Then over the summer, he grew. That’s the kind of thing that happens in high-school ball, I see it all the time. The kids grow, put on muscle. Or they sharpen their skills, improve their mechanics, go to a camp. Larkin came into his own. He’s got the stuff. He’s bringin’ it. The team’s losing with Raz pitching. I think Hardwick will start Jordan.”

  “How did Larkin improve so much?”

  “God knows. He didn’t go to camp, he can’t afford it.”

  “Do you think Raz taught him?” Chris was fishing. “Or maybe he learned from his father?”

  “I don’t know if Raz taught him. If he did, he regrets it.” Victor frowned. “FYI, neither Larkin or Raz have a dad. Raz’s dad died last summer, helluva guy. Neil, came to all the games. Larkin’s dad skipped out when the kid was little. He’s got a mom, a waitress. He’s an only child.”

  “Too bad.” Chris had thought as much. There had been no mention of a father in Larkin’s social media.

  “Yeah, it’s a tough break. Larkin’s praying for a scholarship.”

  “Guess we better get going, huh?” Chris gestured at the clock, getting a plan. They left the office and went down the hallway. The air felt hotter, and the heat intensified a weirdly strong odor.

  “The stench is Axe body spray. Good luck getting it out of your clothes. My wife can smell it in my hair.” Victor fell in step beside him, and they continued down a long corridor to the gym entrance, double-wide with the doors propped open. “Wait’ll you see how big the gym is. Batting nets, weight room, the whole nine. Again, the Boosters buy it all.”

  They reached the gym entrance, and they went inside. Boys were rolling nets, dragging blue mats, and lugging mesh bags full of equipment this way and that. The noise echoed throughout the gym, ricocheting off the hard surfaces. Chris scanned for Jordan, who was with Raz, talking with Coach Hardwick.

  “See what I mean? Awesome.” Victor gestured with a flourish.

  “It’s amazing.” Chris couldn’t have cared less, though the gym was immense, with a high-peaked ceiling of corrugated material, bright strips of fluorescent lighting, and blue-and-white championship banners hanging from the rafters. The walls were white cinder block, and the bleachers, also royal blue, had been folded against the sidewalls, revealing a glistening hardwood floor.

  “Today varsity and junior varsity are practicing. I run my guys, you run yours. They’re setting up the equipment.” Victor pointed to the four corners of the gym.

  “I see.” Chris kept his eye on Coach Hardwick, who was talking to Raz more than Jordan. The discussion seemed to be heating up, with Coach Hardwick gesturing and Raz shaking his head, no. “Victor, I’d better go check in.”

  “Good luck.” Victor flashed him a warm smile.

  Chris took off, beelining for Coach Hardwick. He plastered on a smile, but Hardwick only frowned back, and the harsh lighting of the gym showed the furrows on his forehead and the lines from his bulbous nose to his weak chin. It struck Chris that Coach Hardwick resembled the Central Valley Musketeer, the angry colonist whose painted likeness scowled from the center of the gym floor.

  “You’re late.” Hardwick glared. Up close, his glasses looked dirty, and their bifocal windows magnified his brown irises.

  “Sorry, I’m Chris Brennan. Good to see you again—”

  “You were talking to Victor. Don’t. He talks too much, he’s Italian. Stay away from him. It’ll take years off your life.”

  Chris let it go. “I read your email and I know what we’re practicing today. I’m good to go.”

  Hardwick’s frown eased. “Call the kids over here. Holler. We don’t use whistles. They’re not dogs.”

  “Will do.” Chris turned away, cupped his hands, and shouted, “Varsity, come on over!”

  Heads turned, and the boys came running almost immediately. Raz jogged over ahead of Jordan and Evan.

  “Come on over and take a knee, please!” Chris clapped his hands together. The boys settled down, looking up at him with eager faces, probably twenty-five of all different shapes, sizes, and races, all of them in their blue Musketeer Varsity baseball T-shirts and shorts.

  Coach Hardwick put his hands on his hips. “Boys, I’m going to make this short and sweet. Today we’re going to practice hard. The Musketeer standard is excellence, on the field and in the gym. Nothing less wins.”

  Chris kept his game face on, noticing the boys’ rapt attention. They showed every emotion on their young features, and they so wanted approval. Chris would exploit that very emotion, starting today. Jordan, Evan, Dylan, and Trevor were paying attention, but Raz’s shaggy head was down, and he was picking his cuticles.

  “Boys, let me tell you a story before we get started. It’s from the legendary Coach John Scolinos, who coached at California Polytechnic. Coach Scolinos used to say that in high-school baseball, in college baseball, in the minor leagues, and in the major leagues, home plate is seventeen inches wide.”

  Chris watched as the boys listened, especially Jordan. Only Raz kept picking his cuticles.

  Hardwick continued, “Baseball is a game about seventeen inches. If you don’t reach those seventeen inches, the plate does not get bigger or wider to help you. It’s a standard. The standard on this team is excellence. You reach the standard. The standard does not reach you.”

  Chris nodded, as Hardwick kept speaking.

  “How do you reach that standard? How do you reach excellence? You must hold yourself accountable at all times.” Coach Hardwick gestured to Chris. “Boys, meet our new assistant coach, Coach Brennan.”

  “Oh, hi.” Chri
s smiled as all the heads turned to him.

  Coach Hardwick continued, “Coach Brennan was late to practice today by two minutes. Coach Brennan might be thinking, two minutes doesn’t matter. It’s only two minutes. Coach Brennan might be thinking, two minutes isn’t as late as five minutes. Or ten. Or seventeen.”

  Chris felt himself flush. This would not further his plans. He needed to be an authority figure to Jordan to gain his trust. He could see their smiles fade when it dawned on them that Coach Hardwick was about to make an example of him.

  “Boys, if Coach Brennan is thinking any of those things, he is sorely mistaken. Coach Brennan may have been hired by the school district, but he will not stay on this team. If any of you are thinking the way Coach Brennan thinks, you will not stay on this team, either.”

  Chris kept his head high. Evan started to smirk, out of nervousness or derision. Trevor and Dylan frowned. Jordan averted his eyes, and Raz kept looking down.

  “Boys, the standard is arriving at practice on time. The standard never changes. Why? Because the standard is excellence, and excellence is the only thing that wins. The way to achieve excellence is through accountability. If you do not account to yourself, then you will fail. If Coach Brennan does not account to himself, he will fail.”

  Chris realized he’d been thinking about this the wrong way. After all, the boys were identifying with him, seeing him as relatable, which was exactly what he needed. So Chris played it up, lowering his gaze as if utterly ashamed of himself.

  “Tomorrow we play Upper Grove. We are ready. We have been accountable. And we will win.” Coach Hardwick stood taller, hitching up his pants. “Now, boys, line up at your regular practice stations. If you read the Bible, you know the drill.”

  The boys scrambled to their feet, then jogged off quickly.

  Chris turned to Coach Hardwick. “Coach, it won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right it won’t.”

  Chris took it on the chin. “I saw you talking with Jordan and Raz. Anything I should know?”

  “Raz wants to stay as starting pitcher.”

  “Over Jordan?”

  “No, over Cy Young.”

  Chris smiled at the bad joke. “From what I hear, Jordan doesn’t have the stuff to start.”

  “What?” Hardwick’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Did Victor tell you that? What does he know? He coaches JV for a reason. He hasn’t seen Jordan throw since last season. You don’t believe me, go see for yourself.”

  “You mean have a catch with Jordan?” Chris asked, which was exactly what he wanted.

  “Yes. Let him show you what he’s got. I know talent when I see it. Hmph.”

  “Okay, Coach. Will do.” Chris jogged off after the team, smiling inwardly. He was looking forward to his catch with Jordan. Just the two of them, alone. Like father and son.

  Or so Chris imagined.

  Chapter Nine

  Chris approached Jordan, who was standing in line for batting practice. “Got a minute?” he said, tossing the boy a glove. “Coach wants us to have a catch, so I can see what you got.”

  “Okay.” Jordan came out of line, and a few of the boys glanced over, including Evan and Raz.

  “Let’s go on the other side of the curtain, for safety’s sake.” Chris started walking along a blue plastic drape that hung from the ceiling, sectioning off a portion of the gym. Chris had already moved the portable pitcher’s mound and other equipment to the other side.

  Jordan said nothing, trailing him. The gym was filled with the activity and noise of fifty boys running, drilling, and catching.

  “I hear a lot of nice things about you from Coach Natale.” Chris kept his tone light, to get some good vibes going. “He told me he really enjoyed coaching you.”

  “Oh.” Jordan half-smiled, head down.

  “He also said you’ve really improved.”

  Jordan didn’t say anything, walking in his characteristic stooped fashion along the plastic curtain.

  “It’s hard to improve, I find. But you did it. You made varsity.”

  Jordan nodded, with a slight smile.

  “You might even start tomorrow.”

  Jordan nodded again.

  “How did you do it?”

  “I don’t know.” Jordan shrugged.

  “Somebody teach you?”

  “Not really.”

  “You wanna know who taught me to play baseball? My mom.” Chris rolled his eyes, self-deprecating, as they reached the opening in the curtain and entered the isolated part of the gym, which was empty.

  “Huh.” Jordan half-smiled, and Chris decided to carry the conversational ball, hoping to lay a foundation for Jordan to open up.

  “My mom is awesome, was awesome. I was close to her. Unfortunately, my dad was a real jerk. A drunk, actually.” Chris heard the ring of truth in his words, since one of his foster fathers had lived inside the bottle. “My mother tried to be the mom and a dad, both. She was tall and bowled in a league. She’s the one who bought me my first glove, even helped me oil it. She took me to the park and taught me how to throw.”

  “Huh.” Jordan met Chris’s eyes for the first time. “I learned from YouTube.”

  “Really?” Chris couldn’t remember when YouTube had started.

  “Sure, I watched a lot of YouTube videos. I still do. There are professional ones like MLB Network. They have Pedro Martinez talking about Colon. I like them but I like the amateur ones, like, from college and high-school coaches. They take it slower and explain. I think that’s how I got better. I worked on my mechanics. That’s what recruiters look for. Good mechanics.”

  “It’s true, you can’t get to the next level without good mechanics.” Chris realized that Jordan warmed up when the subject was baseball. “I like videos, but some aren’t worth it. Is there one you recommend? A favorite?”

  “Yeah, it’s from Texas. It’s mad technical but the coach explains it in a way you can understand.”

  “Can you send me the link? My email’s on my teacher page.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” Chris had just opened up a line of communication to the boy. “I also heard you picked up some new pitches.”

  “Yeah. I had a fastball, two-seam, and a change-up. My curve was okay. I added a three-seam, a slider, and a sinker.”

  “Wow, terrific.” Chris imagined Jordan training himself with only videos for guidance. Overall, Chris was hearing solitude, even loneliness, which he would exploit to his advantage.

  “Plus I worked on my legs. They were too skinny. I was all arms before, when I pitched.”

  “Legs matter.”

  “The power comes from the legs and hips.”

  “Exactly. Good for you.” Chris decided to plant another seed. “Hey, listen, before we get started, I’m sorry about what happened at the beginning of practice, with me and Coach Hardwick. That was kind of, uh, embarrassing.”

  “I know, right?” Jordan’s eyes flared. “On your birthday, even.”

  “Right.” Chris had totally forgotten that it was his fake birthday, but Jordan hadn’t, an excellent sign. “I was late because I was talking to Coach Natale, but I don’t want you to think I disrespected the team.”

  “No, Coach, I wouldn’t think that. I don’t think that.”

  “I care about the team as much as I care about my class. Coaching and teaching, they’re two sides of the same coin.” Chris looked down as if he were feeling shame anew, then screwed the baseball into his glove. “Did you enjoy class today, by the way? It was fun, right?”

  “Sure, yeah.” Jordan smiled.

  “Okay, let’s have a catch. You need to warm up, and I need to blow off steam.”

  “Okay.” Jordan smiled, warmly.

  “Then we’ll move into your new pitches. I heard so many good things that I wanted to see it for myself.” Chris backed up, and Jordan walked in the other direction. Chris rotated his arm to loosen it up, ignoring the ache from his batting-cage workouts, then threw to J
ordan. The boy threw it back effortlessly, the ball making a smooth arc that was a product of innate athletic talent and muscle memory.

  Chris caught it and tossed it back harder to establish some credibility, and the ball made a solid thump when it reached Jordan’s glove. Jordan threw it back harder, too, and as they went back and forth, Chris could discern an overall relaxation of the boy’s body, his movements becoming more fluid, throwing and catching as if at play. Jordan even laughed when Chris’s throws went wide or high, and each time he did, Chris made sure to say “attaboy” or “well done.”

  Chris realized that playing catch was a bonding thing, better than conversation, especially with a boy who was more comfortable with action than words. He thought of that old movie Field of Dreams, about the son who wanted to have a catch with his father. Oddly, Chris found himself wondering why so many fathers were missing, including his own. He only rarely thought about his father anymore, a man he’d never met. It was past.

  Chris tossed the ball to Jordan for the last time. “You good to go?”

  Jordan nodded.

  Chris got the face mask, put it on, and positioned himself about the right distance, then dropped into a catcher’s crouch. “Okay, don’t kill me!”

  Jordan stepped up onto the pitcher’s mound, of white rubber. “Don’t worry, if you got good insurance!”

  “Ha!” Chris put down one finger, an old-school signal for a fastball.

  Jordan wound up, lifting his front leg and rearing back, then pitched perfectly, releasing at the right moment and following through, back leg raised. The ball zoomed toward the strike zone.

  “Nice!” Chris caught the ball, impressed. The ball speed had to be at least eighty or eighty-five miles an hour. He threw it back.

  “I can do that better!” Jordan called out, catching the ball.

  “That was terrific!” Chris crouched again, put down four fingers, and wiggled them, signaling for a change-up.

  Jordan wound up, reared back, and pitched the ball again, following through. The ball zoomed toward the strike zone, where it changed speeds at the last instant, dipping down the way God intended.