Though it was probably nothing more than click bait, Gwen’s finger fell for it and clicked immediately, bringing her to a local blog that reported on all the South Carolina sports teams. The headline was not misleading.
A source close to the subject says that the Thrashers’ season of unprecedented public relations headaches is the result of mismanagement. PR Manager Allison Whyte, who has been with the team for five years, is preparing to transition from female to male, and medications for said transition are to blame for mood swings and bad decision-making.
Gwen wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to pick up her jaw off the floor. She’d been surprised by Allison’s confession that she planned to leave the team to become a monk. But gender reassignment surgery? It was almost—
She closed her mouth as realization dawned.
Then her phone rang.
THEY MET AT A SMALL café near the field. Gwen had never noticed it before, but then, she’d been so busy for so long that she hadn’t had much time for exploring. The café was half-full with a well-dressed brunch crowd that made Gwen regret her “I don’t care you fired me” outfit of jeans and a white T-shirt. She’d spent ten minutes trying to find parking and was the last to arrive, joining Allison, Brandon, and Chad at a round table near the back. An untouched mimosa sat in front of each person, along with unopened menus.
Gwen slipped into the free chair and looked warily at her former coworkers, who were also looking wary. Only Allison looked prepared. And a bit frightening, as usual.
“Thanks for joining us,” Allison said.
Gwen nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She had some idea what this meeting was about, but if Chad and Brandon’s expressions were any indication, neither of them did.
“I assume you all saw the story this morning,” Allison began, taking a calm sip of her mimosa.
No one replied, not wanting to be the one to bring it up.
“The one about my upcoming gender reassignment surgery,” Allison clarified.
Brandon nodded slowly, his expression bewildered.
“I wondered when it would come out,” she continued. “I hoped my suspicions were wrong, but I decided to test you anyway. So I told you all a secret.”
There was a long pause as that sank in.
She looked at Gwen first. “I told you I was becoming a monk.”
Brandon gaped. “Can you even be a monk if you’re a woman? Oh, wait. Is that why you’re having the surgery?”
“No, Brandon. I’m not becoming a monk, or a man. And I’m not adopting twins from Africa, either.”
He looked crestfallen. “But I got you a gift.”
“It was a free onesie from the team gift shop. But that’s beside the point.” She turned to Chad, who looked alarmed, nauseous, and annoyed. “For some time I’ve been concerned that the issues in the department were the work of someone inside, so I told you each a different ‘secret’ to see which one leaked. And now I have my answer.”
Gwen looked at Chad in disbelief. A thousand unspoken questions ricocheted around her brain, but Allison’s question was simple and direct. “Why?”
It took Brandon a minute to catch on. “Wait. Chad’s the saboteur? Dude. Why?”
“Because I hate this team!” Chad snapped, slapping his hands on the table. “And I hate this job, but my father wouldn’t let me quit because I’m ‘unemployable.’ So I figured if the department fell apart, he wouldn’t make me stay.”
“So you told a blogger Allison was having gender reassignment surgery?”
He crossed his arms and slouched in his seat. “Well, in my defense, I thought it was true.”
Brandon looked crushed. “But that was personal!”
“It’s not even real!”
Gwen didn’t know how to feel. She wasn’t especially close with Chad, but she’d considered him a friend at work. She’d liked him. She’d trusted him. “You’re the one who leaked Ty’s sex tape?” she said, the shock of it fresh and raw all over again.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the star of the team! Because there was a tape in the first place! I don’t know, it seemed easy. I mean, the Thrashers sucked, so why not pile it on?”
“You humiliated him.”
“Well, I didn’t know he was your boyfriend. And it’s not even you in the tape, anyway.”
Her mind was reeling. “How did you know he went to visit Connor in prison?”
“Just a guess. You said you’d gone to Wayland, and that’s where the prison is, so I put two and two together. Not you two, obviously. Not until the Keelie Karr thing at the bowling alley.”
Gwen’s heart stopped. “What thing?”
“You two, going at it in the supply closet. I’m the one who tried the door and pretended it was locked. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Brandon’s mouth hung open. “Wait a second. The thing about you and Ashe is true? And you banged at the bowling alley?”
Allison sighed. “Brandon...”
But Gwen couldn’t worry about him right now. “How did you know we—”
Chad took her mimosa and drank that, too. “He’s not exactly great at hiding his feelings. I saw you head down the hallway, then a minute later he followed, and the look on his face was like, I don’t know. Intense. So I followed too. And I heard you guys.”
“You’re the one who took the pictures of me at his place?”
“Yes. Obviously. Things were ramping up, the Thrashers were probably going to the post-season. After the bowling alley I started hanging out at his place, wondering if I’d see you. Then one night, I did. So I took a few pictures. You’re Allison’s favorite, so I knew the news would make things difficult for her. I didn’t know they’d fire you.”
“Well,” Allison said, gesturing toward the front of the restaurant where a man in an expensive suit stood, along with two beefy men in polo shirts and slacks, who looked like off-duty security guards. “You’re about to join her.”
“About time.”
Chad reached for Brandon’s mimosa, but Brandon scooted it away, looking hurt.
“What?” Chad whined. “I didn’t do anything to you at all!”
“You hurt the team,” Brandon said. “You hurt everybody. You think Allison’s going to be able to adopt children now that this has happened?”
Allison pinched the bridge of her nose. “Brandon, there are no—”
The three men arrived, and Chad looked up, groaning at the man in the suit. “Seriously? You called my dad?”
“You should be grateful,” Allison said. “You’re going to need a lawyer.”
Chad argued while he was led away, protesting that his actions weren’t “that big a deal.”
When he was gone, the table was silent.
Brandon sipped his drink. “So,” he said eventually, glancing cautiously at Gwen. “Did you watch the game?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Too bad.” The words were a woefully inadequate expression of everything she’d been feeling, but the best she could come up with.
“What are you doing now?” Allison asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ll probably go back to school and get my Masters. That was my plan originally, but when my aunt died, I put my life on hold while I worked through it. I didn’t expect it to take so long, but...I’m ready now. And I think I’m a better Thrashers fan than employee, anyway.”
“You were a great employee. I mean, look around.” She gestured to Chad’s empty seat and Brandon’s vacant stare.
“Hey,” he said, but sounded uncertain.
Gwen smiled. “Anyway,” she said. “It is what it is. I’m sorry about Chad, but I’m glad you’re not actually crazy. Or leaving the team.”
Allison rose and so did Gwen, who stood stiffly while her former boss gave her an unexpected hug. “Let me know if you need a reference,” she said. “I’ll give you a good one.”
“Wait,” Brandon said, putting down his glass. “You’re not
going to give her her job back?”
“No, Brandon,” Allison said, sitting back down. “In fact, we need to talk about your position in the department.”
Gwen took that as her cue to leave.
CHAPTER 22
TY HAD ALWAYS LOVED Miami. After his first season in the big leagues, his first time with any real money in his pocket, he and Connor had come down and rented a house right on the beach. Each morning they’d roll out of bed and run straight across the sand and headlong into the water, marveling at their good fortune.
They’d done the same thing every season that followed. The houses had gotten bigger, the beaches more private, the company more exclusive, but the ritual was special. Or so he’d thought. Last year Connor had been in prison and he’d been in hiding, and this year it was...wrong. This year it was Ty in another oversized house, this one with a view of the Atlantic Ocean instead of the South Carolina forest, but just as lonely and just as isolated. Two weeks in one of his favorite cities in the world, and he’d barely ventured outside his front door. He hadn’t once sprinted across the sand or gone in the water. Instead he’d read all the books on the bestseller list, polished up his one-person pool game, and watched the remaining episodes of Baking Bonanza, throwing his drink across the room when Todd won.
He’d read a news article outlining the situation with the Thrashers’ PR saboteur and Chad’s efforts to upend the department. There was a picture of the guy, looking small and miserable, and Ty might have felt bad for him had he not taken the pictures that had gotten Gwen fired. Because while their fight hadn’t been great, it wasn’t enough to break them up, and Ty knew he could have apologized and made things right had Chad not humiliated her and sold her out with that story, if she hadn’t been made the scapegoat for a season of bad judgments.
He kept the television on all day, tuned into the sports channel, watching the live games, the pre-games, the post-games. Now he paused as he heard the Thrashers mentioned, looking up from his book to pay attention.
“A couple of weeks ago we told you about the Charleston Thrashers’ saboteur—a young man in the public relations department who wreaked havoc on the team’s image this season. Though he was discovered and fired, it looks like he had one more trick up his sleeve, leaking the team’s sample promotional material for next season. There was a company-wide competition to come up with a new Thrashers slogan, and the winning suggestion came from that department. You can find the full clip online, but we have a sample for you here.”
Ty watched as the grainy presentation played, simple background music and stock photos with the watermarks still in place, clearly a first draft. Baseball fans, young and old. Thrashers players. Ibanez’s mother. Little Blanche with his shock of white hair. The pictures melting into a heart before fading away and leaving behind the text: Love & Baseball.
The words lingered on the screen like the nudge Ty had been waiting for. All summer he’d resisted the urge to label the thing that had developed between him and Gwen, but there was no denying that he’d fallen for her. That the presentation she’d worked on tirelessly had culminated in the simplest, surest answer.
Love and baseball.
It didn’t have to be one or the other.
He’d had it all wrong.
His phone beeped with an incoming message, but Ty didn’t bother to look at it. The rumors of his Miami escapades were overblown but far from untrue, and though he was without Connor, he was still getting calls and invitations to various parties and events, former flames reaching out, looking to rekindle. He had free access to private clubs and expensive alcohol and gorgeous, willing women—and he knew without even trying that none of it would satisfy him. He had money to burn, but nothing he could buy would fill the void in his chest, and he was finally ready to admit what would.
He roamed around the enormous house until he found the study, then rooted through the desk to locate a pad of paper and a pen. He started to write before he could talk himself out of it again.
Connor, he scrawled, the words barely legible thanks to his shaking hand. I’m coming to visit in a week. Drag your criminal ass out of your cell and meet with me. We need to talk. It’s about a girl.
TY SAT IN HIS NOW-FAMILIAR, still-uncomfortable seat in the Wayland Prison visitation room. He munched on a package of barbeque peanuts he’d gotten from the vending machine and glanced at his watch. He’d been waiting for twelve minutes. The guard was already looking at him with pity.
Ty wasn’t feeling terribly optimistic, but he didn’t feel bad, either. He felt proactive. Much better than he’d felt in a month. Better than he—
The door buzzed open and Connor walked in, looking much like he had the last time they’d seen each other, on the day of his sentencing. His blond hair was too long, his beard shaggy, eyes sharp. The only difference was the gray jumpsuit with Wayland Prison stenciled across the pocket, a five-digit number sewn beneath it.
Ty stood automatically, not really sure what the protocol was in a situation like this, because he’d never actually been in this situation because Connor had never bothered to show up. And right now he felt torn between the need to hug his best friend and punch him in the face, too many warring emotions battling for dominance.
Connor settled the issue when he slumped into the seat on the opposite side of the table, eyes cold as they watched Ty slowly return to his own chair. For a long minute they stared at each other. A lot of people said Connor had a mean face, and Ty knew what they meant. But those people didn’t know Connor the way Ty did, hadn’t seen him laugh hysterically at the revolving door scene in Elf or painstakingly pick all the onions out of a salad he’d ordered without onions, reluctant to send it back and get the server in trouble.
“So,” Connor said finally. His voice was raspy, like he hadn’t spoken in months. “Who’s the girl?”
Now Ty really did want to reach over and punch him, make him pay for it taking this long to hear his voice, the sound that had meant home to him for half his life. But instead he ate a peanut and said, “She’s in PR.”
Connor jolted in his chair. “You hooked up with Allison?”
“What? No, are you insane?”
“Not insane enough to hook up with Allison! She’ll kill you!”
“It’s not her!”
“Well, who is it, then?”
“Her name is Gwen. And she’s...she was...my girlfriend.” Ty kept his voice low. Whether it was the sight of him and Connor together, or simply the fact that Connor had finally shown up, three guards now lurked in the room, watching curiously.
Connor reached over and stole the pack of peanuts. “Why the past tense?”
Ty related the whole story of their relationship, from the first kiss at the arcade to Baking Bonanza, to the trip to the prison and the faux-mance with Keelie, the stupid fight, then Chad leaking the pictures, Gwen avoiding his calls, and finally, the Love & Baseball promo. When he finished, the peanuts were gone and Connor had his elbows on the table, listening intently.
“We watch Baking Bonanza here,” he said. “Fucking Todd. Dickheads always win.”
“So, you’re saying I have a chance.”
Connor cracked a rare smile. “I’m saying, if you want the girl, you should probably be sending her love letters, not me.”
“They’re care packages.”
“Stop including your monogrammed underwear.”
“How else can I be sure you’ll remember me?”
Connor rolled his eyes. “Everyone in this fucking place knows who you are, we don’t need the reminder.”
Ty studied his fingers, rough and scarred from years of play. “You don’t think it’s a mistake to try to have a relationship and play baseball? What about the pact?”
“Nah.” Connor shook his head and confirmed what Ty already knew, he just wanted to hear someone else say it. “That pact was ridiculous. It’s a mistake to accept information from an inside source and use that to buy stocks, but it’s not a mistake to fall for someb
ody.”
Ty scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’m thirty-two years old and I’ve never done this before.”
“One minute left!” the guard called.
Connor shrugged. “You’ll figure it out. If you managed to turn this shitty season around, you can probably get her to listen to you. Just be honest. Tell her you love her, you miss her, and you regret refusing to see her for a year because you’re ashamed of what you did.” He cleared his throat. “Or something like that.”
Ty blinked away tears he’d die before actually allowing to fall. “You’re such an asshole.”
Connor stood. “So are you.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
The doors buzzed open, guards escorting out visitors and inmates in opposite directions.
Ty hugged Connor, relieved when he hugged him back.
“Come visit any time,” Connor muttered gruffly. “I’ll be here.”
CHAPTER 23
IT WAS OFFICIAL: GWEN hated gardening. She didn’t care how beautiful other people’s gardens looked, hers was always going to be a disaster, and she would learn to live with that mess the same way she’d lived through all others: one day at a time.
It was the first day of November, the sky a muddled gray-blue, and baseball season was officially, blessedly, over. The Thrashers hadn’t played since the beginning of October, but they’d been in the news a lot anyway, mostly due to Reed’s Readers hosting a local meet-and-greet with the author of their latest book pick. Reed’s daughter had shown up at the event, and while Gwen had been doing her best to avoid any and all Thrashers news, she’d scoured all the photos he’d posted of the two of them together and felt her heart twist at the smiling pair.
She, on the other hand, was not smiling. She was on her knees in her dreadful garden, an overflowing trash can next to her, the bin now home to two dead rosebushes and a mountain of weeds. The self-appointed beautification committee had dialed up their efforts to drive her crazy, and since she was the last house on the block without a garden—and with a particularly hideous plot of death and decay next to her front steps—even the non-committee neighbors were starting to give her the stink eye.
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