Team Player

by Julianna Keyes

  “No,” Gwen muttered. “Not yet.” She slumped into her seat and spotted the bunting poll. Even though the bunt had moved Lewis into scoring position and ultimately allowed the Thrashers to take the lead, seventy-one percent of voters were not in favor of Tyler Ashe bunting. The Twitter comments followed the same vein.

  Paying @tylerashebaseball to bunt is like paying @gordonramsay to pour you a bowl of cereal, someone wrote. If you don’t remember how to cook, get out of the kitchen. So to speak.

  It had 543 likes.

  THE THRASHERS HELD onto their slim lead to win the game 1-0, drastically improving the mood in the clubhouse. Smiles and laughter filtered down the hall as Gwen walked, finding Strip in his office and passing him the talking points.

  “Do I even need these?” he asked, not glancing at the paper.

  “No. All anyone’s going to ask about is the bunt.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “I like the fundamentals. And it worked.”

  Strip adjusted his ball cap. “The fans hated it. I looked on Tweeter.”

  Gwen didn’t correct him. “The haters are always the loudest. It was a good call.”

  “I didn’t make it.”

  “Says who?”

  Now he smiled, the expression a rare one, and Gwen took her leave while she still could. The talking points weren’t her only errand downstairs—she had to finish the auction basket items so she could focus her efforts on the slogan campaign.

  She didn’t spot Ty on her way to the clubhouse, so she lingered just out of sight of the doors and asked one of the security guards to call him out. Ty appeared moments later, a towel around his neck, hair damp, his tired expression brightening slightly when he spotted her.

  “Good game,” she said as he walked closer. Close enough to speak, but not too close to arouse suspicion.

  He shrugged. “We won.”

  “That’s not a good thing?”

  “I just got a call from my agent. People hated the bunt.”

  “Not the people who like winning. Just the people who dislike losing, and the ones who like to complain. Must’ve been a slow news day.”

  He managed a fleeting smile. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. But I’m not here for a pep talk.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I need your auction basket list.”

  He closed his eyes, like he was in pain. “What’d I give last year?”

  “I checked. Your uninspiring basket included a signed jersey, a DVD copy of Moneyball, and a gift card to the team store upstairs.”

  “Okay. Do that again.”

  “No.”

  Ty’s eyes opened. “No?”

  “That’s right. Get creative. I’m in charge of the baskets this year, and I’m not going to include a half-assed repeat contribution.”

  “Fuck, Gwen. C’mon. I’m being criticized for helping win a game, and—”

  She stared at him, unyielding.

  He sighed. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

  Gwen unfolded the page of ideas she’d jotted down in the elevator. “Play with Tyler Ashe: A day at the arcade with Tyler Ashe with unlimited tokens. Say Cheese with Tyler Ashe: A mock photo shoot with one of your endorsement items. Warm Up with Tyler Ashe: A pre-game tour of the clubhouse, gyms, and batting practice.”

  “None of those things fit in a basket.”

  “You haven’t done a player experience in three years.”

  “Look, I think it’s hot when you’re strict like this, but I’m not doing any of those things. Batting practice? My numbers are shit. I’m not setting myself up to be the butt of more jokes.”

  “Then—”

  “No. A signed glove, a DVD copy of Bull Durham, a bottle of coconut water, and a pair of sunglasses.”

  She thought fast. “And a baking class.”

  “What?”

  “You and the winner do a private baking class. You can make something you saw on the show.”

  “I don’t even eat dessert.”

  “No one likes people who say stuff like that.”

  He looked away, his mouth twitching, and Gwen pounced on the opening.

  “I’ll make the arrangements,” she said, adding a mental note to her already overflowing to-do list.

  Ty stared at her, ready to argue, then shook his head. “We have a team barbeque tonight to improve our ‘team bonding’ efforts, or I’d insist we discuss this more. Privately.”

  Gwen couldn’t decide if she should laugh or squirm. Maybe both. “Oh, too bad you’re so busy.”

  “Tomorrow,” Ty said, glancing around and lowering his voice. “We have an afternoon game. Come to my place after.”

  “You know I can’t go to your place. There are too many people who might see—”

  “I’ll give you a key. We’ll arrive separately. And if I get robbed, I have your address, so I can tell the police where to find my stuff.” The heat in his eyes was tempered by the laughter lurking there, and that—among other things—was what sealed the deal.

  Still, Gwen chewed her lip like she was still deciding and pushed just a little more. “Throw in a photo shoot at the baking class.”

  Ty folded his arms. “A signed photo, and that’s it.”

  She smiled. “The Thrashers Dream Auction thanks you.”

  “Thank me tomorrow. At my place.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, trying to play it cool.

  Ty pulled the towel from around his neck and folded it in his hands as he turned back to the clubhouse. “I hope so,” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  THEY WERE STILL TALKING about the bunt.

  Ty wiped the sweat out of his eyes and increased the speed on the treadmill, watching his reflection in the mirror and letting the words fuel him. Of course, he didn’t have to listen to the local sports radio station, just like he hadn’t had to watch three different sports shows when he got home last night, hearing the now-familiar refrain: Tyler Ashe isn’t paid to bunt. He’s there to hit. Unless he can’t anymore? Are Ashe’s days in the majors numbered?

  It was like having his most secret fears broadcast for the world to hear. And prey on.

  He stumbled and nearly fell, grabbing the guard rails at the last second, his feet pinwheeling until they found the sidebars and he regained his balance. The rubber raced by below, sweat dripping onto the mat and disappearing as it spun. He’d woken up this morning in a good mood, thinking about his post-game plans with Gwen, but it had taken all of thirty seconds after turning on the radio to get a sense of how the day was really going to go.

  He gave up on the run and wiped down the machine. Maybe some time with one of the trainers would help release the tension that had been clawing its way up his spine all morning. That plan, unfortunately, lasted only until he got to his locker, finding Brodie and Allison waiting for him, their expressions serious.

  “What now?” he asked, in lieu of a more civilized greeting. He wiped his sweaty face with a towel. He’d already cooled down, and now he could feel himself heating back up. There was only one reason the two of them would be here. Together.

  Brodie held out his phone. “Another email. This one with a clip from the sex tape. Up to you if you watch it.”

  Ty took the phone and read the brief message. To wet your appetite.

  “They misspelled ‘whet.’”

  “That’s not the worst part.”

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he clicked on the video anyway. After the conversation with Gwen, he’d immediately texted Brodie to tell him the pictures were from the old tape, and they’d been trying unsuccessfully to track down the model. She’d left the country not long after selling the story and a few select, less explicit pictures, and her modeling career had not, surprisingly, taken off, making her difficult to find.

  The volume was up on Brodie’s phone, and an exaggerated feminine moan rang through the room, making them all jump. With years of experience to haunt him, Ty now knew the sound of someone faki
ng it. That cry was all performance, not pleasure.

  The clip was mercifully short, once again showing only Ty’s face, this time buried between the long, bare legs of the mystery woman. He’d seen this before—it was the clip the model had used to blackmail him before turning over the whole tape. Whatever small sliver of hope he’d held onto that maybe all the person had were stills melted away. They had the tape. But what the hell did they want?

  He shut off the phone and passed it back, humiliation making his hand shake even as he tried to hide it. “They’re still not asking for anything?”

  “No. This is the entire message. But...” Brodie glanced at Allison.

  “I had nearly a hundred messages this morning, asking about the pictures,” she told him.

  “What?”

  “They sent the photos to the press about an hour ago. Way more than the ones that were shared the first time. They’re out there.”

  Ty felt the blood drain from his face. “But we paid—”

  “We can’t find her, and we can’t be sure it’s her posting them. I’ve explained the situation and asked that the photos not be released, but they’re going to get out, Ty. You have to prepare yourself.”

  He dragged a hand over his face, trying to remember how to breathe. “Right.”

  Even Allison, normally one of the scariest people in the building, sounded sympathetic. “We’re doing everything we can.”

  “I know.”

  “And thanks for your auction donation. It’s already getting a lot of buzz.”

  “Great.”

  She patted his arm awkwardly. “We’ll do what we can to refocus the narrative on something positive. The tape is old news, we’ll remind people of that.”

  He laughed without humor. “Right. Because when someone leaks a sex tape, what everyone cares about is the date it was made.”

  THEY LOST THAT DAY, a final score of 3-2 in a tight game that left the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth, the Thrashers a hit away from winning. And that was the highlight of the afternoon.

  Not long after the visit with Brodie and Allison, the pictures made their way online. The buzz in the stands had as much to do with the pictures of Ty’s erection as the game. Jeers followed him onto the field, comments ranging from his penis size to his twelfth place standing in the All-Star voting to ridicule about the bunt. Strip, usually unmoved by all but the saddest events, even offered to give him the day off, but Ty knew an afternoon on the bench, where his own thoughts would taunt him even worse than the crowd’s, was the worst option. When he was on the field, he was focused. He was good. It was everywhere else he struggled.

  Allison was on-hand in the clubhouse after the game to do damage control, circling the reporters like a shark zeroing in on its next meal. There were token questions lobbed at the other Thrashers players, but there was no doubt the real focus was on Ty. And any other year, he’d have loved it. Today, he had to resist the urge to bury his head in his locker and refuse to come out.

  “You all right?” Reed asked. “Need anything?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re white as a ghost.”

  “It’s the lighting.”

  Reed’s teeth flashed as he smiled. “Fucking lights, man. They ruin my complexion.”

  Ty turned just as the first reporter approached, a crowd quickly following behind, microphones and cameras thrust in his face.

  “Good game, Ty,” said the journalist in front, a man with a polo shirt bearing the logo of a local cable station.

  “Thank you.” Though they’d lost, he’d personally played well, going two for four at the plate, stealing a base, and turning two double plays. But Ty knew that performance wasn’t the topic of interest right now.

  The same reporter spoke again, his expression apologetic. “We’ve gotta ask about the photos. Do you know where they’re from?”

  Ty forced himself to sound nonchalant. “They’re from an encounter eight years ago. It was filmed without my knowledge or permission. You can find the story in one of the tabloids. The photos were supposed to stay private, but apparently someone’s had a change of heart.”

  “The timing of their release is interesting,” another reporter commented. “The Thrashers are struggling, you’re lagging in All-Star votes—is this a way to get attention?”

  Ty felt the tension in his shoulders wind tighter. “There are smarter ways to get attention,” he said calmly. “Playing better, chief among them. That’s always the goal, and that’s what we’re doing. We played well against a great team today, we just came up a little short.”

  “How are you feeling about the All-Star Game?” someone else asked. “This will be the first time in three years you’re not on the team.”

  Allison, who’d been working her way through the throng, now elbowed her way to the front. “Voting’s been open for a whopping five days,” she said dryly. “Let’s not try to predict the future. That’s all for today. Thanks.”

  “About the bunt, Ty—”

  “The bunt moved the winning run into scoring position,” Allison replied. “End of story. Let’s give the players some space.”

  Gripes and grumbles echoed through the room as Allison and the security guards herded the reporters out like a group of surly sheep.

  “You coming to the bar today?” Ibanez asked, strolling over. He was, for once, fully dressed, and not doused in cologne. “We’re going—”

  “No, thanks,” Ty said.

  “If it’s about the pictures, dude, I’ve got your back. We all do. We won’t let anybody harass you.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then?”

  Ty rolled his eyes. “I’m busy, Jorge.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Jesus,” Reed said, stepping in. “You’re as bad as the reporters. He’s got reading to do. So do you.”

  Ibanez looked affronted. “I’ve been reading! I posted three comments in the discussion forum!”

  Girardi laughed. “Yeah, but one of them was just a link to your website.”

  “I saw that,” Lewis chimed in. “Zero responses, right?”

  “Um, excuse me, traffic to my website has skyrocketed...”

  Ty gave Reed a grateful nod as he changed into street clothes and made his escape.

  Allison had done her job, shepherding the reporters out of the clubhouse level, and the hall was clear of cameras, microphones, and probing questions. Gwen was there, speaking with Blanche, and from the guy’s animated gestures, Ty guessed it was about Blanche’s upcoming bowling fundraiser.

  He smiled as Gwen narrowly dodged one of Blanche’s arm swings, backing a safe distance away as she nodded encouragement. She spotted Ty and made her excuses, sending Blanche to the clubhouse and watching Ty approach.

  “He’s really into bowling,” she remarked. “How did he wind up in baseball?”

  “The money’s in baseball,” Ty replied. “And don’t forget all the glitz and glamour.”

  Gwen laughed. “For some people, maybe.”

  Ty reached into his pocket and pulled out the spare key to his building and elevator. “This is for my place,” he said, handing it over, willing his fingers to stay steady and not betray his nerves. He’d never given a woman a key before. And though she hadn’t explicitly agreed to come over, even if she just wanted to sit next to him for the afternoon, fully clothed, no funny business, he still really wanted the company. After today, he needed it.

  “I’ll text you directions so you can come in the back,” he said. “I’ll go in the front, so everyone sees I’m alone and feels sorry for me.”

  “You’ve really thought this through.”

  “I’m more than an extremely pretty face, Gwen.”

  She smiled. “So you keep saying. I have to finish some work upstairs, then I’ll, um, come over.”

  Ty nodded, trying his best to look like that was the answer he’d been expecting, not the one he was desperately hoping for. “Can’t wait.”

 
TY HAD ASKED HIS HOUSEKEEPER to make the apartment look a little more lived in, and she’d come through. Maybe a little too much. All of a sudden he owned six potted plants, what appeared to be a small tree, and three vases of fresh flowers. The place smelled like a florist shop.

  The kitchen counter now held its usual basket of bananas, as well as two tall jars teeming with lemons and limes. He had no idea what a single human could do with so much citrus, but he hadn’t specified what “lived in” should look like, so he had no one to blame but himself and a hefty housekeeping invoice.

  He checked the fridge, and she’d stocked up on the requested groceries as well. Though he also hadn’t mentioned how many people he’d be cooking for, and she’d erred on the side of caution. There were six steaks, six chicken breasts, two packages of tofu, and enough vegetables to start his own farmers’ market. He hoped Gwen arrived hungry.

  After opening the balcony doors to air out some of the overpowering floral scent, he marinated two steaks, then a piece of chicken, then, just to be on the safe side, some tofu. He wrapped potatoes in tin foil and brought them to the balcony, where he started up the grill and looked out at the city he’d called home for so many years. Then, out of habit, he glanced over at the next balcony, on the far end of the building, where Connor used to live. Their apartments shared a wall, but sometimes they’d sat on their respective balconies with beers, shouting back and forth until their voices grew hoarse.

  There was a loud ding and Ty snapped out of the memory, turning to see the elevator doors gliding open and Gwen standing in the mirrored car. She still had the ponytail, but she’d changed out of her work clothes and into a white tank top and a pair of loose blue trousers. She looked soft and pretty and...astonished.

  “The elevator opens directly into your apartment?” she said, mouth agape as she looked around the spacious suite.

  Ty walked over to greet her, smiling because he was happy to see her and because he’d had the same reaction the first time he’d seen the place.

  “I’m glad you could make it.”