Big Leagues Read online

  Cat tore her eyes away from the man’s flashy suit and surveyed the grand room, which was triple the size of the office she and her ten staff members shared in Porterville. Her eyes fell upon the many empty chairs surrounding the marble coffee table in front of them. Erich followed her gaze.

  “I thought I would keep our interview one on one. To be perfectly candid, the final decision will be made solely by me, so why bother with spectators?”

  He chuckled and she nervously joined in.

  ‘One on one.’ Great. So no witnesses if he begins caressing my knee, asking me exactly how badly I want this job and what I’ll do to get it.

  Erich sat in the smooth leather chair across from hers and picked up a pen and a legal pad from the coffee table. Cat gnawed on her bottom lip as she envisioned the same yellow paper surrounded by a team of equally slick-suited lawyers in front of a judge and a jury.

  Oh sure, the trial will begin with him as a defendant, but the verdict will end with me on the stand, vehemently swearing I did nothing to lead him on. The twelve jurors will cast judgmental looks upon me and share a knowing glance with one another. My case will be lost, along with any hopes of working in the sports industry again. Desperate to make rent, I’ll end up serving cheap beer in nothing but tassels at the Boom Boom Room. One night, while working a double shift, I’ll look across the room and see Erich König entertaining clients in the VIP section. Suffering from pangs of regret and an agonizing nipple rash, I’ll stomp across the shag carpet and throw everything in sight, tassels included, at his snooty Gucci—or was it Armani—suit. We’ll face the jury again, this time with me on the left side of the courtroom, and I’ll wind up serving five to ten upstate for assault with a slutty weapon.

  Cat’s reverie was disrupted when Erich crossed a leg over his knee and exposed a coordinating pair of cashmere socks.

  The man wears argyle socks, you ninny. He’s pure class. He probably dates supermodels and sex kittens. I doubt he gets his jollies by sexually harassing B-list sportswriters.

  Erich tapped the pen on the notepad and looked around.

  “Ah, on second thought, Ms. McDaniel, would you mind if Lynette sits in with us?”

  Cat’s eyes snapped up from his socks and gave him a small smile with a shake of her head. Erich reached over to the phone and pushed an intercom button.

  “Yes, Mr. König?”

  “Lynette, I would like to give Catriona my full attention. Would you mind joining us and taking a few notes?”

  7

  Cat glared at the desk calendar’s bold numerals, resenting its smug reminder that two days had come and gone since her interview in Las Vegas. She brought her attention back to the computer’s blank screen for the hundredth time that morning, mesmerized by the cursor’s rapid blink as it waited for her input. She glanced back at the calendar and sighed.

  It’s hopeless.

  No hope here.

  Fresh out of hope.

  Mr. König had started and ended her interview with the same statement: the season was halfway through and the organization had to fill the position immediately.

  Two days! How hard could it be to pick a sportswriter from a group of freaking sportswriters? It’s not like they were trying to fill the position from a pool of pet psychologists.

  Despite the stated need for haste, Cat hadn’t heard a peep. Not the disappointing, but expected, “Thank you for coming in but we’re going to go another direction,” or the amazing, but delusional, “Pack your bags and start tomorrow.”

  Well screw ’em. If this is how it’s gonna be, I don’t want to work for such a rude man anyway.

  Cat attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince herself of that. She was repeating her new mantra again when the fanfare of trumpets interrupted. She reached for the cell phone on her desk, saw the Las Vegas area code and answered the call before the ringtone’s victorious “Charge!”

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. McDaniel?”

  Cat recognized the unenthusiastic monotone as Lynette Sanders. She closed her eyes in an attempt to compose herself.

  “Yes!”

  So much for composure.

  She cringed, glad the secretary couldn’t see her. “I mean, yes. This is Cat. Uh, Catriona McDaniel this is. Speaking.”

  Lynette’s annoyance once again came through clear as a bell. “Please hold for Mr. König.”

  Hold … Is that a good sign? If she were delivering happy news, she probably wouldn’t sound so cold. You’d think she’d muster up a “Hey, how are ya?” if she was speaking to a future coworker.

  The two minutes of Muzak weighed heavier on Cat’s patience than the load of the last two days.

  Mr. König’s velvety voice interrupted her thoughts. “Catriona, thank you for holding. Hello.”

  “H-hi, Mr. König.”

  “So, tell me, how have you been? Everything well in Porterville? I hope the valley is covered in sunshine.”

  “Oh, uh, it’s wonderful, Mr. König. We’re looking at a scorcher today, though. Our five o’clock game is going to hurt. What I wouldn’t give for a rain delay.”

  He made a tsking sound with his tongue.

  “That is unfortunate. I am afraid you will also be without an abundance of rain delays at Hohenschwangau. That is assuming you accept my offer to come to Las Vegas.”

  Cat sprung out of her chair. The other staff members stopped their work and looked up in bewilderment. Tamela dropped her papers and ran over. Grabbing Cat’s hand, she squeezed her fingers with a tight grip. Cat bit her lip and nodded several times. They jumped up and down, hand in hand. Cat halted their next bounce, remembering that Erich was still waiting for a response.

  “You mean, I got the job?” she managed to squeak out.

  Just as his secretary’s annoyance had traveled over the phone lines, so did Erich’s smile.

  “Catriona, I would like to formally offer you the position of senior reporter for the Las Vegas Chips.”

  Tamela released her grip, and Cat steadied her shaky hold on the cell phone with her other hand. “Shushhh!” Tamela rattled her index finger in front of her mouth to quiet the office down. Cat’s mind spun from thoughts of the press box to what her first clubhouse interview would be like. She struggled to utter something semi-professional to her new boss.

  “That is amazing news. I’m just blown away. Thrilled. I can’t wait to start.”

  “Well, to reiterate what I said at our meeting, I prefer to commence next week, given the circumstances.”

  “Of course, that’s no problem at all.”

  “I shall transfer you back to Lynette so she can make detailed arrangements.”

  “Okay, great. Thank you, Mr. König, for taking a chance on me.”

  There was a pause on the line.

  “You are welcome. I have a hunch you are going to make this organization very proud. I will see you next week, Catriona.”

  Cat suppressed her emotions until the Muzak took over for Mr. König. For the second time in a week, she filled the Porterville ballpark with a joyous scream. This time, she was joined by an office full of soon-to-be former coworkers.

  After the impromptu celebration, wherein Tamela fashioned party hats from old sports pages and served day-old popcorn from the concession stands, Cat excused herself. The steel door slammed shut with one last gust of air-conditioning. As she strolled along the steamy concourse, she tuned out the players’ warm-up drills and replayed the meeting in Las Vegas in her head. She searched for validation that tomorrow she wouldn’t be waking up in her tiny bed to face another mundane day in Porterville. Bits of the grilling interview flashed through her mind.

  “I see from your résumé that you speak Spanish fluently, ja?”

  That had been Erich’s first shot. He lay back in his leather chair, while Lynette scribbled away, waiting for her answer.

  “Yes, sir. I majored in Spanish in college, with a double in Mass Comm, uh, Communication.”

  “Impressive. Español is a v
aluable asset for anyone in baseball. Do you have a flare for languages?”

  “I ... like to think so. I’m currently working on German, actually.”

  Thank you, Tams.

  The fib had been Tamela’s idea. Cat had stumbled upon a paperback of common German phrases, also hiding in the bargain bin, and joked about sucking up in two languages. Tamela’s eyes had sparkled as she thrust the language guide into their shopping basket, swearing the book was the key to a standout interview. Cat had barely scanned the cover, but when she found herself in Erich’s office, she indeed felt the desire to stand out; thus the five-dollar paperback morphed into a lie about online classes and the pursuit of fluency. She was sure her prospective employer had been downright tickled when she ended the interview with a respectful, “Es war nett, Sie kennen zu lernen.”

  Cat shook her head in shame as she pushed the memory away. Thankfully, her brownnosing had stopped short of vowing to measure home runs in the metric system. Inhaling deeply of the ballpark’s freshly cut grass, she made a mental note to download some language lessons before Erich König found out she was a fraud whose German proficiency started and ended with “It was nice meeting you.”

  After a résumé review, Erich had rolled out the dreaded questions. He led off with an inquiry of her ninety-day strategy, but she was prepared. He had nodded eagerly when she explained her ideas for increasing the fans’ involvement with the team.

  “In this day and age, we can’t continue to keep a fence up between the fans and the players.”

  Erich leaned in and placed his chin on his fist.

  “Well, I mean, at least not figuratively. I know the Chips wouldn’t be leading the league in home runs without a fence to blast the balls over.”

  They had both chuckled, and she’d surged from the boost of confidence.

  “Also, with a world of reality television, social networking and viral videos, there’s an expectation. The fans want to be more than just spectators.”

  “Interesting, go on.”

  “I think one of the easiest ways to appease them is with a more interactive website—adding opinion polls, live game blogging, maybe even a weekly interview with a player chosen by a fan vote.”

  Erich’s eyes hadn’t left hers, except for occasional glances to make sure Lynette was still jotting everything down.

  A single cloud approached the afternoon sun and briefly dimmed the ballpark. Sure, the interview had its good moments, but she hadn’t hit every question out of the park. As Cat walked back to the Porterville office, doubt crept into her mind again.

  “Catriona, you will have to excuse the triteness of this question, but I enjoy hearing the responses, so indulge me. What do you consider to be your greatest weakness?”

  “My greatest weakness?”

  Oh boy, you might want to cancel your dinner plans, sir.

  “I guess I’ve always had an issue with public speaking, I tend to get anxious—”

  Erich checked his watch as she started down that road. Cat interpreted his action as a sign of a trouble and, like a novice racer, she cranked the wheel in the opposite direction.

  “N-not that I’m shy or withdrawn or anything like that. Far from it. I’m a total extrovert, big team player. What I just mean is that sometimes, in a group setting, I find myself nervous. Not overly nervous, though. I don’t let it interfere with my work.” She brought her hesitant eyes back to his. “It’s just I’m not that good with w-words.”

  Erich’s brow furrowed as her overcorrection sent Cat skidding into the ditch.

  Not that good with words? Good show, Cat. Interviewing to be a sportswriter! Maybe for your next trick you can tell him that sometimes you get Ryne Sandberg and Carl Sandburg mixed up. Or that Babe Ruth is your favorite candy bar.

  Cat ran her hands through her hair as the interview’s lowlights poured in her mind. Moving away from the grueling questions, Erich had apparently tried to lighten the mood.

  “Forgive me, Catriona. I have forgotten the most vital question. You are a Chips’ fan, I hope?”

  “Oh yes, sir. I bleed red.”

  “As opposed to?”

  He gave her a teasing smile and Cat felt her face flush, the perfect example to her obtuse statement. “Well, obviously. I mean, everybody does, right? But a Chips’ shade of red, not the purplish, veiny kind.”

  It’s a wonder he hadn’t dismissed her right then and there.

  The Bulldogs’ concessions started to prepare for the game and the air filled with the scent of fresh popcorn. Cat took a deep breath and let the buttery waves soothe her wounded ego. Interview gaffes aside, she knew she didn’t have the qualifications to be a senior reporter on a professional baseball team. Besides lacking experience, she was replacing a Yale grad.

  Yale. The real Bulldogs.

  It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her alma mater. From the time her grandmother had told her the only way out of the farmland was a college degree, Cat had never even considered another school. She suffered through two years of community college and a year of waitlisting before she entered the university’s journalism program. Her grades were decent, great, even, if you considered her situation. Transcripts failed to mention the night shift and caring for a post-op grandmother.

  Her credentials were barely adequate for the Porterville Bulldogs, let alone the Vegas club. Cat was green, and not the kind of green billionaires like Erich König appreciated.

  “This is your first season with the Bulldogs, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. I arrived right before the New Year. In my short tenure, I’ve learned a lot. I know I haven’t really—”

  “I have heard nothing but raves about your performance. It is especially impressive considering the brief time you have been with the team.”

  I wonder if he knows I only got the minor league gig because they were desperate after the last reporter announced her engagement to a dashing junior senator and thus, her resignation—a mere two weeks before the start of the season. Had the team been given more time to score another Little Miss Perfect to post their lineups, my résumé would still be buried beneath takeout menus on an intern’s desk.

  Cat approached the office’s steel door and again tried to push her uncertainties aside.

  He’s right. I have done good work here, even if I am only a pinch hitter to them.

  She took one last look at the minor league players on the field. She reached for the office door, buoyed up by excitement once again.

  So what if I’m short on experience? Maybe my time has come. I’m finally getting a break in this world.

  Cat entered the office with a jovial grin, not just for her coworkers’ benefit, but also for her own. She was one week away from the job of a lifetime. One week away from clubhouse interviews. One week away from team trips to every major city in the country. One week away from a tripled salary. One week away from her dreams coming true.

  8

  Barring a spring break trip to the Florida baseball training camps during senior year of college—her only vacation to date—the last five days constituted the quickest week of Cat’s lifetime. During the eight months she’d lived in Porterville, she had become close with the small group of players, coaches and support staff inside the homey ballpark. After Saturday night’s game, Tamela insisted the gang head downtown and party at the Bullpen for beer, pizza and an official sendoff.

  Despite their friendship and direct knowledge of Cat’s debilitating fear of public speaking, Tamela was the first to start the chant: “Speech! Speech! Speech!”

  Cat’s stomach smacked the greasy checkered tiles as she scanned the restaurant and evaluated the emergency exits. The group continued chanting, their faces glowing with anticipation. Cat took a swig from the mug in front of her and hesitantly rose to her feet, the frosty glass clasped in her hand. “Ok-kay, okay.”

  The group quieted and all eyes were on her. Her fingernails chipped away at the ice on the mug.

  “I’m n-not really one for speec
hes, obviously. I find it’s much easier to wrangle quotes out of these guys than to make up my own.” She pointed in the direction of the players, and several of them chuckled. “I’m sure I’ll get another chance to do just that when you guys join me in Vegas.” Hopeful grins lit up each of their faces.

  Cat turned back to everyone else. “I do want to say thank you for the opportunity to be a part of the Bulldogs. I wasn’t here long, but I loved every minute of Porterville. You made me feel so welcome.”

  Cat shot a smile at Tamela’s warm face on the last sentence and exhaled. “In addition to speeches, I’m also not one for long goodbyes, so I think I’ll just leave us at that. Cheers.”

  She held up her drink and everyone followed suit. She knocked back the light beer, its foamy chill drowning the knot in her stomach. The truth didn’t make a good speech, but the fact was that she wasn’t going to miss this group. She liked them all right, quite a lot, actually. They were down-to-earth, friendly and never made her feel like she didn’t belong in their ballpark. Plus, Tamela Lewis had been the closest thing she’d had to a best friend since high school. They couldn’t compete with the greener grass, though. Last time it was Porterville, this time it was Las Vegas. It didn’t matter where; Cat loved a fresh start. The only person she’d ever been sad to leave behind was her paternal grandmother in Chicago. Baseball had been the common thread that held her broken home loosely together. When her car-thief father was a child, Grams had taken him to games, bringing her along as soon as she was old enough to walk. During the season, the subject dominated most meals. Other than Grams, everyone else could come and go, and Cat would do the same. Her speech wasn’t a lie. She had liked working in Porterville, but she really wasn’t one for a long farewell. Not because she hated goodbyes or had a fondness for them. She just didn’t care. As the group battled over the last slices of pizza, Cat watched them thoughtfully and wondered if it were possible to have anti-abandonment issues.