Big Leagues Page 10

  18

  Cat scrutinized the image looking back at her in the hotel closet door’s full-length mirror and crinkled her nose at her chosen outfit. Once again she muttered a wish for Tamela’s input. Cat had no idea if khakis and a striped polo were appropriate for a morning meeting in your boss’ hotel room, but she knew of nothing that didn’t fall into Tamela’s realm of fashion expertise.

  Boss’ hotel room.

  Her stomach growling and nerves rattling, she decided the outfit would have to do. Besides, it was five a.m. in Porterville and, unless her apartment was doused with flames and firefighters delivered Starbucks, Tamela Lewis would be fast asleep. Cat took one last doubtful look at the mirror before exiting her room.

  Two minutes later, she found herself in front of another ivory hotel door. It swung open and Erich König stood in the frame, looking as well-coiffed and tailored as ever, even at eight o’clock in the morning. Cat didn’t know why she expected to find Erich in anything other than one of his custom suits.

  “Catriona, welcome. Please have a seat.”

  Cat nervously sat down at the large table, already set with Waterford china and enough food to feed the entire Chips team. As Erich made his way to the other side of the table, she looked around the breakfast nook and into the next room.

  Just how big is this place?

  She could see that the suite continued into a sitting area. To confirm if anyone else was expected, she made note of the place settings at the table.

  “Tea for two,” she mumbled to herself.

  “Pardon?”

  Cat turned to him, surprised. “Oh, uh, I was just remarking to myself that this looks delicious.”

  “That it does. Please, join me.” He sat down, placed a linen napkin on his lap, and passed her a basket of English muffins and croissants.

  “So tell me, how have you found the fourth floor of Hohenschwangau?”

  “It’s been just amazing, Mr. König. I truly love coming to work every day.”

  She poured a glass of orange juice and offered him the carafe.

  “No, thank you. And Maria? Do you find her to be as wonderful an editor as I do?”

  “Oh, Maria’s been great, too. She’s a busy bee, though. I think I’ve seen her in the office maybe three times since I started.”

  He nodded. Cat offered a crooked smile, still wondering what prompted this breakfast invitation.

  “Catriona, they have a splendorous room service menu here. Frankly, it is the reason this is one of my favorite hotels.”

  He pulled the lid off the buffet server, which displayed three trays of scrambled eggs, buttermilk pancakes and an assortment of breakfast meats. Erich motioned for her to help herself. She gingerly lifted out a golden pancake and spooned some fresh blueberries from a parfait dish.

  “I really appreciate you having me up here, Mr. König.”

  “Well, the thought occurred to me we have not had a moment to connect since your first day. I have a favor to ask.”

  “A favor?” Cat laid the butter knife down.

  “I am scheduled to appear on a local sports radio show before today’s game.”

  “Oh, uh, neat.”

  “Regretfully, something has come up. I was wondering if you would fill in for me instead.”

  “Me?”

  “Fan interaction, ja?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “I forget nothing.” He gave her a playful wink.

  She smiled. He had her caught in a rundown between bases and there was no tricky maneuver to get her out of this pickle.

  “Okay, okay. What’s the old joke about having the perfect face for radio?”

  Erich chuckled. “Now that is malarkey, but I am deeply obliged nonetheless. The interview will take place in the home radio booth at noon for a few minutes.”

  Few minutes. You can do a few minutes.

  “It is just a quick publicity appearance for the club.”

  “Anything for the Chips then.” She gave him a quick smile.

  * * *

  A live radio interview ... Cat had small-talked her way through breakfast with Erich, dutifully discussing the food, the weather and baseball, but the minute the door to the presidential suite shut behind her, she wiped the fake smile off her lips and moped back to her floor, stepped into the isolation of her hotel room, and slammed the door. At the sight of her flat hair in the door mirror, she headed straight for her carry-on bag to dig for her curling iron. She slung various items that were in the way over her shoulder before giving up and throwing herself on the bed.

  “Public speaking!”

  She kicked her heels against the comforter and grabbed a pillow to shriek a muffled cry into its feathers.

  Public speaking is exactly why I got into writing to begin with.

  Cat threw the pillow against the wall and turned her head toward the alarm clock. She cringed at the time. T minus two hours and counting ...

  That’s it. I’m not going. I’m sick.

  * * *

  As she fidgeted in the broadcast booth at two minutes ’til twelve while an intern wired her for sound, Cat did indeed feel sick. Her pulse raced, her body trembled and sweaty palms awaited anyone who desired a handshake. A tall bald man scrambled into the room with his hands raised defensively.

  “I know, I know,” he told the intern, “but you can’t kill me. I’d be late for the funeral.”

  He slid into a chair, threw on a pair of headphones and flipped the various buttons on his control panel. The intern motioned for Cat to sit in the other chair. She warily sat down and sized up the host, who adjusted his microphone and acknowledged her with a fleeting smile.

  “I’m Max, by the way. You’re Catriona? Did I say that right?”

  She surveyed his control panel and counted the switches. “Um, what? Oh, uh, my name. Perfect.”

  “Cat-ree-own-a. Check.” He pushed his long sleeves up to his elbows. “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

  She put her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. Max’s muscular arm reached past her to flip another switch. An on-air sign appeared behind him, which made Cat’s pulse hit the gas. During Max’s intro, she channeled the pages of Iss-Yous! and forced a supposedly calming smile.

  Stupid book.

  The smile only made her heartbeat speed up until the tachometer’s needle dove into the red.

  “With us today is the Chips’ lead sportswriter, Catriona McDaniel. Catriona was nice enough to cross enemy lines and, in the next few minutes, we’re hoping to extract some classified information out of her.”

  She fiddled with her fingers in her lap. Max held out his cue sheet. “Well, first things first, Catriona.”

  “Please call me Cat.” The request came out with a squeak. Cat dug her fingernails into her palms. At least she hadn’t stuttered.

  “Ooh, mee-OW.”

  The tachometer’s needle wavered as annoyance hopped behind the wheel and nervousness scooted over to ride shotgun.

  “I’ve never heard that one before, Max.”

  He laughed, and she smiled. Her heartbeat idled.

  “The claws are coming out already, folks, and the game hasn’t even started. Okay, Cat, let’s get down and dirty. What do you think of all the rumblings started by your team’s owner about a salary cap for the league? König’s making a lot of waves in the baseball world and the line’s been drawn. You’re either for the cap or against it.”

  She took a deep breath. She wasn’t prepared for the topic but, like any fan, she had an opinion.

  “Sure. I’m okay with capping the players’ salaries … if you slap a cap on Erich König’s, as well.”

  Max’s hazel eyes lit up. “I’m not sure what you mean, and I’m dying for you to explain.”

  “My point is this, Max. If I thought a salary cap would result in Little Bobby being able to buy a bleacher seat with his lemonade money, then sure, of course, I’d give it two thumbs up. To think that the cost of tickets, concessions or me
rchandise will decrease under a salary cap is incredibly naïve. Teams are going to charge what fans are willing to pay. The bottom line is the only thing a salary cap will result in is a swankier Rolls-Royce in the owner’s parking spot.”

  Max pressed a sound effect button on his switchboard and a car horn honked over the airwaves.

  “Don’t you think a cap would make the league more competitive? The way things work now, we’ve always got the big city teams plunking down millions for a top free agent. The smaller markets like us can’t compete with their spending. Don’t you think this would level the playing field, if you’ll forgive my appropriate, but trite, pun?”

  Cat chuckled; her raging nerves were now in the rearview mirror.

  “Max, Max, Max. Do you really want to have this conversation with a member of the Chips’ organization? We’re underdogs, at least monetarily. Yet the Chips certainly haven’t had any problems staying competitive with the boys on top. In fact, if memory serves, several of those big spenders haven’t even gotten to the playoffs in recent years.”

  “You make a good point, Cat. This is certainly a lively debate that I imagine isn’t going to end anytime soon. Let’s move on to today’s game. You’ve got the ace on the mound who nearly had a complete game in his last start. How many innings do you see him notching today?”

  She smiled, happy to be on a subject that wouldn’t cause a national uproar. “I just talked with the skipper this morning and he’s going to keep a strict watch on him, one-twenty pitch count max, uh, Max.”

  Max squinted at his notes. “I’d say that’d be good news for us, but your bullpen hasn’t allowed a run in how long?”

  “Twenty-two innings and counting.”

  “Ugh, you’re killing me here, scoop. One last thing before we release you from our custody, Cat. Do you have any good news for the home team?”

  “Um … at least it’s not a doubleheader.”

  Max snickered and pushed a button on his switchboard. A cat screech played over the airwaves.

  “Cat McDaniel, folks. Another big thanks to the Chips’ sportswriter for stopping by. I’ll be back with today’s lineup after these messages from our sponsors.”

  The on-air sign clicked off, and Cat sighed with relief. She stretched her arms out in front of her as the intern removed her mike. Max flipped off his headphones.

  “That was great, Cat. I hope the sound effect wasn’t too much.”

  She waved her hand through the air. “Nah. Thanks for having me. That was my first interview as sportswriter for the Chips.”

  “It was? Well it didn’t show.”

  Scattered clapping sounded throughout the stadium seats as the Chips ran onto the field for batting practice.

  “Ooh, duty calls. Maybe we can do this next time the Chips are in town.”

  He looked over at his clock and put his headset back on. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

  Dustin waited outside the radio booth and blocked the hallway when she tried to pass. He wore a smug grin to complement his plaid button-up and Dockers.

  Was he born with that expression? Is there such a thing as an arrogant infant?

  “I’m here to congratulate you. Heckuva interview, Cat. I’m sure König will be thrilled to hear your thoughts on a salary cap.”

  She looked over his shoulder and frowned.

  “What are you talking about now, Dustin?”

  He crossed his arms and leaned on a mural of Roberto Clemente. “Don’t you know König is one of the biggest salary cap supporters in baseball? I’m sure he’ll love to hear his newest employee thinks that’s only so he can have, what was it, a bigger Rolls-Royce?”

  “I simply gave my opinion on the subject.”

  Dustin sneered and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What’s your old saying, though?” He paused for a second before snapping his fingers. “Oh yes, ‘we’re not paid to be opinion columnists.’ ”

  She sighed. “Unless we’re asked to opine, which, if you were listening through those funnel cakes on the sides of your head, you’d know I was.”

  “I have a saying, too, Cat.” Dustin bent close to her face, and his black eyes sent a chill through her body on the warm summer afternoon. “Opinions are like bitches; everybody’s got to work with one.”

  The sting of his verbal slap knocked her jaw open. His mouth curved into a half-smile as he strolled off toward the press box. She stood in the hallway, stunned.

  * * *

  Cat sat on the bullpen bench pretending to take notes on the ace’s warmup pitches before the game. She wanted to avoid Dustin, so her options were either this or camping out in the women’s restroom. She was due in the press box in just a few minutes, but Pittsburgh was offering her too nice of a day to be cooped up in the fish tank any longer than absolutely necessary.

  “Ah, Catriona. I tuned in to your radio debut this afternoon.”

  Cat squinted into the bright sun. The lean silhouette of Erich König stood in front of her, his expression eclipsed by the bright rays. He moved toward her and sat on bench. Her stomach sprung into her throat like an Olympic gymnast. “You did?”

  He nodded and crossed his long legs toward her. “I did. I’m afraid I have to take severe umbrage with what you said about the Rolls-Royce.”

  The tummy tumbler rocketed off the springboard and raged through twists and spirals, determined to bring home the gold.

  Here we go. Stick a fork in me. He’s gonna fire me right here and now. I wonder if they’ll make me pay for my own flight home?

  “You do?”

  Maybe there’s a bus leaving today. Pittsburgh to Las Vegas, how long could that take?

  She swallowed hard, her gaze drifting to his shoes.

  How does he get them so shiny? I’ll probably find out soon enough. On-the-job training in my next career as a homeless woman who polishes shoes for a quarter.

  “Oh, most definitely. Rolls-Royce? No, Catriona, I am a Maybach man.”

  Cat’s stomach stopped in mid-somersault. She shaded her face with her hand and peered up into his dancing eyes. “You mean, you’re not mad?”

  “Of course not, Catriona. I did not hire you to acquiesce in my every opinion. If I desired that, I would have selected the Schleimer, Dusty.”

  “Actually, sir, it’s Dus—, um, w-well thank you.”

  “Nur tote Fische schwimmen mit dem Strom.”

  Cat scrunched her nose. “Dead fish float down a river?”

  He chuckled. “Only dead fish swim with the stream. A person without character chooses to follow the flow, but you, Catriona, decide your own path.” He gave her a kind pat on her shoulder as he rose from the bench. “You did terrific. I was really impressed.”

  Cat beamed as he strolled off toward the dugout, his lean physique shrouded in sunshine.

  Her smile slowly faded as she became entranced. His stride had such a smooth confidence, commanding regal power with each step. Suddenly he stopped and turned around, giving her a thoughtful smile. It caught her off guard and she snapped her head away, pretending not to have seen it. She noticed the stadium filling up with fans and spun around to face the scoreboard clock.

  Balls!

  Snatching her belongings off the bench, she dashed toward the press box.

  19

  A ten-day road trip to three cities with the best food in the country and I missed out on deep-dish pizza, cheese curds and pierogies in favor of salads, salads and more salads.

  Besides being too busy to enjoy the regional delicacies, Cat had little to complain about in the last ten days. It had been a successful trip. Out of the nine matchups, the team took seven games, including a sweep in Pittsburgh. With two months left in the season, playoff fever was beginning to spread. She refused to wait until the plane took off to fire up her laptop. The sweep had sparked an idea for a new piece about the possible matchups if the playoffs were today. The article centered on the obstacles the contenders faced:

  IFS AND BUTS.

  She paused
, backspaced and added: By Catriona McDaniel.

  Her fingers had the keyboard smoking when Eddie snagged the seat next to her once again. She smiled politely and went back to her computer.

  “Did you enjoy the trip?”

  She didn’t look away from her computer screen. “I don’t have any complaints.”

  “Oh man, I love playing in the Midwest.”

  “Oh yeah?” She accompanied the dry response with a deep concentration on the keyboard.

  “Hell yes. I can’t get enough of these chicas-next-door types. All cute and innocent. I tell ya, off the record, I’d play for half the dinero in the Central.”

  "I'm from the Midwest."

  "I know." He winked at her, put his headphones in his ears and fired up his iPod.

  She smiled.

  Cat was walking down the parking lot row when she heard another set of suitcase wheels behind her. She turned around and saw Eddie Lopez with a rolling Nautica bag.

  She pointed toward the building. “I think you missed your primo player parking spots back there.”

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  She opened the back door to the Jeep and threw her suitcase in. “Okay.”

  This was a first. Players didn’t usually ask her for anything, except to leave them alone after a bad game.

  “Tomorrow’s an off day, so I was gonna go hit the Strip tonight. You in?”

  “Oh.” She toyed with the keys in her hands. “That’s really nice of you, but I’m tired. It’s been a crazy road trip.”

  Eddie stepped in closer, backing her into the Jeep. “All the more reason you need to unwind.”

  “Um, no.” She decided to try the direct approach. “I’m not interested.”

  “I see. I guess you like your sausage a little aged.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” he snarled. “I saw you sneaking down from the big man’s penthouse early this morning.”

  Before she could protest, he added, “It’s cool. I’m not gonna say anything. I just thought if you like bratwurst so much, maybe you’d like to try a chorizo.”

  She inhaled sharply when she felt his hand on her hip. She shot a look around the well-lit parking lot. There were plenty of people, no need to be nervous.