Team Player

by Julianna Keyes

  “So we won’t be seeing you at the All-Star Game this year,” Landon was saying, his voice too loud in the cramped boardroom. “What will you be doing instead?”

  “Oh, you know,” Ty replied, his tone deliberately nonchalant. “Hanging out with friends, catching up on sleep. And reading, of course.”

  Landon laughed. “Of course. Now, I’ve gotta ask—some rather...graphic...pictures of your teammate Andrew Girardi and actress Stacia Raine came out this morning.”

  Ty sounded amused. “I’m aware.”

  “And both Stacia and Fiona Woo were at your game last night.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Wearing your jersey.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Landon’s laugh said he wasn’t buying it. “Now Stacia’s whereabouts last night are accounted for—graphically—but Fiona wasn’t at the club.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And neither were you.”

  Gwen was adding another guest to the fundraiser VIP list, and now her fingers froze on her keyboard.

  Ty paused. “That’s right.”

  Landon’s voice dropped a pitch, sounding conspiratorial. “Inquiring minds want to know, Ty. You and Fiona had a hot and heavy thing a couple years ago—were those fires rekindled last night?”

  Ty chuckled. “Unfortunately not,” he said politely. “Fiona’s a wonderful person, but after the game, I went back to the hotel alone and caught up on my reading.”

  But not his phone calls, Gwen thought. Then kicked herself. She hadn’t missed the fact that he hadn’t called last night, but she’d refused to obsess over it, too, even if Landon was currently broadcasting her most petty, far-fetched worries to the world.

  “It must be a great book to pass up on a night with Fiona Woo.”

  “It’s a fantastic book, and you all should read it.”

  “I was reading the comments online during the game,” Landon persisted. “Lots of rumors swirling about you, Fiona, and Stacia. Lots of pictures, too.”

  “I saw those pictures. Those are stills from an adult website.”

  “Do you happen to know which site?” Landon asked.

  “You tell me. You’re the one with a subscription.”

  Brandon cackled along with both men, and Chad and Gwen rolled their eyes.

  “Okay,” Landon said. “Just to confirm—no threesome last night?”

  “Sadly, no. Not last night.”

  “But other nights?”

  Ty laughed. “Lots of other nights. And that’s all I’m saying.”

  “How many?”

  “No comment.”

  “Ballpark figure.”

  “Less than a thousand.”

  “But more than...nine hundred?”

  Ty laughed again. “No comment.”

  “He’s my idol,” Brandon mumbled.

  “Okay—new subject. Who’s better in bed? Stacia or Fiona?”

  “C’mon, Landon.”

  “Just whisper it.”

  Ty scoffed. “They’re both perfect tens.”

  “You make me sick.”

  More laughter, and now Gwen was the one feeling sick as she fumbled for her water bottle and gulped down half. They’d never put a label on their relationship, and she wouldn’t panic over a missed phone call, but she’d be lying to herself if she said this conversation wasn’t starting to sting. It was one thing to assume things about Ty’s past, and quite another to hear him talk about them like they weren’t that past after all.

  “So if you’re not hooking up with an actress, who are you seeing?” Landon asked, voice low and confiding. “Anyone special?”

  “Nope,” Ty said, not missing a beat. “No one special at all.”

  “You okay?” Chad asked, looking up from the draft menu for the fundraiser.

  Gwen realized she was visibly sweating, a combination of rage and grief and humiliation she couldn’t seem to stop. “It’s just really hot in here,” she lied. The sting had turned into a full-on ache, the physical form of “I told you so.”

  “I know,” Chad agreed. “Maybe we can get them to turn up the air conditioning. And turn down the volume.”

  “The volume’s fine,” Brandon countered, keeping his hand on the dial. “This interview is great. People have been complaining that Ty’s not the player he used to be, and here he is reminding them he hasn’t changed at all. It’s perfect. He’s out of his slump.”

  THE THRASHERS SPLIT a four-game series in Oakland, then flew home for a day off to be followed by a final series against the Red Sox before the All-Star break. Ty had called each night following the Oakland games, and each time Gwen let the call go to voice mail. She was good at avoidance.

  Now, with just three days left before the players scattered to their respective parts of the globe, Allison had ramped up her usual slew of warning messages to the players, their agents, and management, reminding them that the Dream Auction was the Thrashers’ number one fundraising effort each season, and too many people had yet to sign the promised merchandise. It had been Gwen’s job to tirelessly acquire each item, and now she sat in the boardroom with the unfinished baskets, scrolling through slogan suggestions while she waited for the straggling players to show up. Let’s Soar. Start the Fire. Boots & Baseball. Each submission made her heart sink a little further. She had no idea how to brand a baseball team, and had a sneaking suspicion that she’d been set up to fail with the task.

  She put down her phone when she heard footsteps in the hall and did her best to look casual. She was so jittery that each raised voice and ding of the elevator had her sitting upright in her seat, determined to look blasé when—if—Ty showed up to sign his basket items.

  First to make an appearance was Blanche, who apologized profusely for his tardiness, then signed the bowling ball he’d contributed. Jae-Hwa Kim was next, sweetly thanking Gwen for her efforts at procuring his favorite drink and making her feel bad about mentally cursing him out for the trouble.

  Denzel Reed showed up around noon with a dog-eared copy of his latest Reed’s Readers pick, delayed because he’d couriered it to the author for signing, then added his own inscription.

  “That was nice of you,” Gwen remarked as she updated the website text to include the new addition. “That book’s really popular. Almost more popular than you.”

  Reed grinned and scribbled his name on his jersey and posters. “Almost,” he agreed. “But not quite.”

  It felt like days since she’d smiled, but Gwen couldn’t help but smile back as Reed waved goodbye and left.

  The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared when Ty walked through the door, like he’d been lingering out of sight in the hall, waiting to get her alone. Though she’d been expecting him—and also not—Gwen still froze. With a fitted black T-shirt accenting his broad shoulders, his dark hair messy from his workout, Ty looked too good to be true. Too good to be the guy who’d said she was “no one special” on the radio.

  “Hey,” he said, glancing around the tight space to confirm they were alone. “You’ve been hard to find.”

  She’d been “hard to find” because she’d been stealthily avoiding him, ducking into stairwells and empty offices whenever she heard him coming, and timing her visits with Strip to the hours she knew Ty would be working out or on the field, unlikely to spot her.

  “I’ve been busy,” Gwen said, which was also true. She got to her feet and moved to the end of the table where Ty’s basket items awaited signing.

  He looked unconvinced. “Doing what?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “This is the most important fundraiser we have each year. It’s very special,” he said, missing her expertly snide reference to his Landon Thom comment.

  Gwen shrugged. “Whatever. Here’s your stuff, and here’s a marker. The fan experience will be scheduled for a date later in the year, when it’s mutually convenient for you and the winner.”

  Ty didn’t move, and she could feel his eyes on the side of her f
ace as she concentrated on placing the marker exactly parallel to his folded jersey.

  “Is this about the Fiona Woo stuff?” he demanded, his frustration palpable. He peered into the hallway, making sure there was no one lurking outside, then lowered his voice anyway. “Because those are just rumors and—”

  Andrew Girardi rushed into the room, looking for all the world like he was being chased by a ghost. He skidded to a halt as he sensed the tension. “Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands and bracing himself on the table to turn around. “I didn’t—”

  “No,” Gwen said. “Stay. Sign.”

  “Yes, stay,” Allison snapped, materializing in the doorway and providing an explanation for Girardi’s sprint. “Sign. And listen.” She glanced over and spotted Ty. “Oh, good. You’re here too. Were you apologizing to Gwen?”

  Ty’s brow furrowed. “Uh...”

  “Because you owe me an apology, too. Both of you do. You owe every single woman—and man—in this building an apology. Every child who watches a Thrashers game and wants to grow up to be a baseball player. You—” She jabbed a finger in Girardi’s direction and he flinched. “You’re still young and stupid. You get to call your pants-less escapade a learning experience. But you—” She whirled on Ty. “You have no excuse. Going on the radio and talking about ‘less than a thousand’ threesomes? Referring to women as ‘perfect tens’?”

  Ty’s jaw dropped. “I thought I was—”

  “No,” Allison interrupted. “You didn’t think at all. That’s the problem. He’s young and stupid. You’re old and stupid, and that’s inexcusable. Do you know how many hours I had to spend putting out the fires started by your idiotic remarks? How many messages Gwen had to respond to about your comments?”

  Understanding finally started to dawn on Ty’s handsome features.

  “I’m sor—” he tried.

  “Your apology is five days too late. I already know the coconut water company dropped you for ‘behavior that doesn’t reflect the company’s core values.’ When are you going to understand that you can’t get away with that crap anymore? Your actions don’t just hurt you, Ty. They affect everybody.”

  But he wasn’t even looking at Allison anymore. He was looking at Gwen. “I’m sorry,” he said again, more sincerely. “I’ll fix it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “I drafted a statement,” Allison said. “I emailed it to you and your idiot agent days ago, and shockingly, you have not replied. Read it. Recite it. And make it public. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me ma’am.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She glared past Ty at Girardi, huddled warily in the corner as he scribbled his name on a baseball. “Do you understand, Andrew?”

  “Um, yes...ma—miss.”

  “Good.” And though she’d presumably gotten what she wanted, Allison still stormed out of the room just as furiously as she’d entered.

  For a moment, nobody moved. Allison’s lecture had taken a bit of the righteous wind out of Gwen’s sails.

  Then Girardi cleared his throat.

  “Do you have another ball?” he asked in a low voice. “I signed my name on this one like, three hundred times, waiting for her to stop yelling.”

  “Go downstairs and get one,” Ty ordered.

  And though there was obviously a full box of balls in the corner of the room, Girardi seized the opportunity to flee and took off as quickly as he’d arrived.

  “Just sign the ball once,” Gwen said, rolling the marker across the table.

  Ty sighed. “Gwen. Stop. I’m really sorry I didn’t call, okay? And for the threesomes comment. That was a joke.”

  She didn’t want to give voice to it, didn’t want to say the words out loud—to hear them, again—but she couldn’t stop herself. “And the part about me being no one special?”

  Ty’s eyes widened. “That was—”

  But she’d already had parents who’d instilled that message, and an aunt who’d spent the better part of twenty years teaching her it wasn’t true. She couldn’t unlearn it. She wouldn’t.

  “Just sign the stuff and leave it on the table,” she said, and walked out.

  NEVER BEFORE HAD TIME moved so slowly. Some people called baseball boring, but Gwen had always loved it. The deliberateness, the thoughtfulness, the care that went into each play.

  Now those very things threatened to be her undoing. When the Red Sox pitching coach went to the mound for yet another visit, she wanted to pull out her hair, race onto the field, and throw the pitch herself. Normally she dreaded the All-Star break. She missed the regular season games, begrudged the league its four days off. Now she looked forward to them with a fervor bordering on obsession. It had been two and a half days since the encounter with Ty, and while he’d made no attempt to contact her again, he was somehow more present than ever. The field had hung new posters of the players, and everywhere she turned she encountered Ty’s handsome, oversized face. He’d issued Allison’s apology for “locker room talk on the radio,” and Gwen had fielded responses to the statement. She never thought she’d say it, but she’d had enough Tyler Ashe.

  She just had to get through the rest of this day, then she could take four days to regroup. She’d do whatever people did when they were regrouping, not that she could look at her own recent past for a good example. When Marge passed she’d cut off her friends, sold the house, and moped for far longer than was healthy. Then she’d gotten drunk and applied for a job she couldn’t decide if she loved or loathed.

  She kept her back to the windows and didn’t bother watching the game. She didn’t care who won, only that it ended, and uttered a quick prayer to anyone listening that someone hit a home run and put her out of her misery. Right on cue, Brandon leapt to his feet.

  “And that’s the ball game, folks!” he cried, hands in the air as he cheered. Gwen assumed that meant the Thrashers had won, but couldn’t muster up the requisite enthusiasm.

  Brandon grabbed a bottle of tequila and three shot glasses out of his drawer, slamming them on Gwen’s desk as Chad rolled up in his chair, hand already extended.

  “I can always toast a holiday,” Chad said.

  What Gwen really wanted to do was snatch up her things and bolt, but tequila sounded good too, so she clinked her glass against theirs and tossed back the shot.

  Allison strolled out of her office, talking points in hand, and peered at them over the top of her dark-framed glasses as she pressed the elevator call button. She’d been in the clubhouse non-stop since the team’s return, and had temporarily taken over the talking points as she did her best to smooth over the mess Ty and Girardi had made. She didn’t know she was giving Gwen the best gift she’d ever received by sparing her trips to the clubhouse.

  “Leave that out,” she said, nodding at the tequila and stepping into the elevator car when it arrived. “I’m going to need it. Enjoy your time off.”

  The doors slid closed and Chad got up to do a little dance. “Four days without talking about baseball or bowling!” he crowed. “It’s Christmas in July!”

  “I’m going to Cabo,” Brandon said, turning off his computer. “And drinking more tequila.” He glanced at Gwen. “What are you up to?”

  “Gardening,” she blurted out, thinking of the reminder notices she’d received. Gardening was the last thing she wanted to do, but she also didn’t want to admit she had no plans and no friends.

  Chad snickered. “Very convincing,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you’re going to spend the next four days passed out on your couch, that’s totally fine. Don’t pretend you’re ‘gardening.’”

  “But I—”

  “And if you don’t have anyone to hang out with, you can call me. We’ll go to the beach. Go shopping. See a movie. Whatever you do when you’re not obsessing over baseball.”

  “I’m not obsessed!”

  Chad stood and grabbed his bag, leaning over to kiss
her cheek. “Call me.”

  He and Brandon walked out together, leaving Gwen alone in the cavernous space. She took her time gathering her things and powering down her computer, then looked out the window. Thousands of fans filed out of the stands, and a smattering of players were still on the field. They were just dots from up here, but she could see someone being interviewed by Joanna Liu, most likely the home run hitting hero.

  She didn’t stick around to find out who it was, just headed for home. For four days. Alone. Most people complained about not having enough days off, but Gwen didn’t know how to fill her free hours. Like it or not, she loved baseball, but it was also an excuse. It was what filled all the space in her brain that would otherwise grieve Marge or find a hobby or do something productive with her spare time. And now she was being painfully reminded of the emptiness in her life.

  Before she’d cut off her friends, they used to hang out at a local dive bar that had trivia nights every Tuesday. They’d drink cheap beer and argue over which country exported the most wheat and whose turn it was to sit in the lucky seat. They had fun. Then Marge died and she’d stopped the fun. Until Ty. And now that fun was over, and its absence already felt like a black hole, waiting to consume her at the first sign of weakness.

  At home, Gwen changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of shorts and a plain white T-shirt. Four days, no baseball. She wouldn’t wear a jersey or watch the Home Run Derby or the All-Star Game. She’d turn off her brain and watch Baking Bonanza and root for Todd to win, even if he was the devil incarnate.

  A knock at the door interrupted her big plans.

  Gwen froze, a slice of pizza approximately five millimeters from the tip of her tongue. There were only two people who might knock on her door. Wilson, the self-appointed head of the self-appointed neighborhood beautification committee, and Tyler Ashe. She couldn’t decide who she wanted to see less.

  Gwen craned her neck to peer out the front window. It didn’t allow her to see who was at the door—and who knocked a second time—but she could see the sleek black SUV parked at the curb, the one she’d seen once before, at The Rack.