Big Leagues Page 5

  No more guessing if the sluggers have started batting practice, wondering if the team is sporting their alternate uniforms, questioning if the seats are filling up or debating if we’re looking at a rain delay.

  She watched the grounds crew tending to an extensive irrigation system in the outfield.

  I guess that last one probably won’t be an issue.

  “Boy you don’t waste any time, do ya?”

  Cat shot up three inches and spun around at the sound of the voice booming behind her. A tall man with thick glasses framing a set of glowering brown eyes stood in the doorway. He crossed his skinny arms and gaped at her. She squinted through the faint daylight in the office and attempted to place his familiar face.

  “Dustin Carlyle. Junior reporter.” He laced the junior with thick contempt, as though Cat had just carved the word into the rusty blade of a dagger and shoved it between his shoulder blades. His snotty tone triggered memories of their first meeting.

  She cleared her throat. “Y-yeah. I believe we’ve met before.”

  He ignored her. “If you’re wondering why there’s no welcome wagon waiting for you, the reason would be because everyone’s at Brad Derhoff’s wake.”

  Her mouth formed a silent “oh.” She should have known there weren’t many reasons for an entire office to be empty at four o’clock in the afternoon on a gameday. That the reason might be Brad’s wake hadn’t even occurred to her. Suddenly she felt very much like the vulture Dustin was implying she was. Cat knew nothing about the deceased reporter, other than the impressive credentials listed in the team’s media guide. She’d met Brad Derhoff only once at the beginning of the season and he’d treated her, along with the rest of the minor league staff, with the same condescension affected by every other visitor from the Las Vegas team. Cat had excused his superior attitude since, given his status with the team, he was indeed superior.

  “He’s a real reporter,” she’d prattled to Tamela after Brad turned up his nose at their break room coffee pot and requested that she fetch him a caramel macchiato.

  Tamela was unimpressed by anyone from the parent club, unless his signature appeared on her weekly paycheck. “So are you.”

  No. I’m just taking a break from slinging hot dogs.

  Back then, Cat couldn’t have fathomed that the ace reporter might have been dealing with his own inadequacies too; that was shockingly clear now. Her eyes registered their concern for the sneering coworker in her new office.

  “Uh, I’m sorry for your loss. Were you and Brad close?”

  Dustin raised an eyebrow. “Close? Well, let’s see, Derhoff and I have been a team since the franchise formed. Worked together every day, side by side. I saw him as my mentor, and he was grooming me to one day fill his shoes as senior reporter. Guess he overlooked a minor league reporter with a whopping eight months of tenure. You never know. Since apparently Erich König likes to promote from below—er, I mean, within—maybe they’ll ask me to be general manager instead.”

  Cat clenched her jaw upon hearing his insinuation. She got the message. Dustin was the veteran pitcher and she was a rookie slugger crowding his plate.

  Or what he thought was his plate. His territorial reaction was understandable. While it wasn’t unprecedented for a minor leaguer to whirl through the farm system and be called up to the big leagues in his first season, the called-upon was usually a player, never a sportswriter. Cat would be the first to admit that Brad’s junior reporter would have been the logical choice for a midseason replacement.

  But was he?

  As her blood heated, she recalled the exact details of the encounter with Dustin Carlyle at the beginning of the season. The Chips’ third baseman was rehabbing an injury in Porterville. Cat had been looking to snag a quote from the two-time All-Star, when a sportswriter from Vegas sidestepped her on the way to the dugout.

  “Sorry, missy. Real reporters only. Why don’t you get on those macchiatos instead?”

  At the time, having been with the team only a couple of months, she’d been too meek to respond.

  Not anymore.

  Cat respected the fact Dustin had lost a close coworker, but she suspected his real grief centered on the loss of a promotion. She straightened her back and looked into his eyes. Then she casually tossed a look back at the nameplate on her door.

  “Mmm. Dustin, was it?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I better get busy decorating my new office. Say, where’s yours located?”

  “Actually, I don’t have an office. My desk’s in the bullpen here.”

  She pursed her lips with mock consternation. “Oh. Well, consider yourself fortunate. My office is so large, I don’t know how I’ll be able to fill all the space.” Cat delivered him her payoff pitch with one of her infamous—well, at least according to Grams—Cheshire grins:. “A window, to boot! I’ll have to measure it for blinds.”

  Dustin’s eyes tightened and disappeared behind the tortoiseshell frames.

  Dustin’s paisley tie flipped up as he whirled toward the break room. Suddenly he stopped, looked over this shoulder, and said, “Careful, Rookie, in this ballpark, you’d do wisely to speak softly and carry a big bat.” Then he stomped out.

  Cat watched him go. What did he mean? Despite his idle threats, she congratulated herself for winning this round.

  To her surprise, Dustin returned and set a cup of coffee on her desk. “I thought you might need a little extra stimulation,” he said, voice laden with irony, “to keep on your toes.”

  Cat’s jumpy nerves seldom required stimulation, so she usually stayed away from caffeine. After this meeting, she certainly wouldn’t ingest anything Dustin brought her. Nevertheless, she decided to ignore his sarcasm and pretend as if the gesture were real. After all, she was above all this pettiness, wasn’t she? Her mind trailed back to the pages of Iss-Yous!

  Maybe I should’ve read the superiority complex chapter, after all.

  11

  Behind the sandstone wall of Villa La Playa, six four-story buildings formed a rectangle around a large courtyard of colorful shrubs, a barbecue pit, a paved patio and a sparkling pool. Each building was a clone of the first, with identical stucco exteriors, Spanish tile roofs and wide outdoor hallways. Cat parked her car in the closest spot she could find near Building A, several spaces away from the stairs due to the vast number of handicapped spots. The leasing agent had informed her that many of the tenants were retirees and senior citizens. Cat loved quiet. In her previous living arrangements, she had found that college kids and swinging divorcees didn’t share her appreciation, so bring on the AARP.

  Approaching the broad staircase of building A, Cat spotted a cluster of aluminum mailboxes. She searched the unit for number 201 and dug through her purse, pulling out the key ring the leasing agent had overnighted her. Once she’d opened her box, she tugged on a large cardboard folder addressed to a Benjamin Levy in 202. She inspected the area for the outgoing mail slot but found only a tiny, letter-sized opening. She examined the package and frowned at its week-old postmark. The return label provided no clues and the package didn’t look urgent; however, for all she knew it contained Old Man Levy’s diabetic lancets or nitroglycerin tablets.

  Or maybe a shipment of Viagra he’s been waiting for all week.

  After a quick glance at her watch and a groan, she trudged up the stairs to meet her new neighbor.

  The brown door to apartment 202 swung open with a whooshing gust. Before her was a set of eyes shining the softest blue she’d seen outside of an umpire’s polo.

  “Hi.”

  Cat remained motionless in the arched doorway, lips parted and eyes entranced. The sapphires disappeared with a blink, snapping her back into reality. Her own eyes fell to the neighbor’s sculpted jaw and movie star hair. Cat’s earlier assumption that Benjamin Levy spent his day clinging to senility in between naps was erased, though it did pique her curiosity on whether or not she was holding his mail-order ED prescription.


  The thirty-going-on-gorgeous man repeated his greeting, this time following up with an emphatic question mark.

  “Hi?”

  “Oh um, h-hi. You were in my box. Down there. I mean, this—this was in my box—uh, m-my mailbox, I mean. Downstairs. The mailboxes, downstairs.”

  Cat slammed her eyes shut and felt the blaze of heat on her face develop into a fiery inferno. She cautiously reopened her eyes. Her face fire cooled when she noticed that her handsome neighbor was focused on the package in her hands rather than her stuttering, flaming, countenance.

  “Ugh! Not again!”

  She handed him the mail with an attempted casualness, but her shaky hands blew her cover.

  “D-do they mix up the mail a lot?”

  He reached for the package and sighed deeply. “No, not that. This.”

  He pointed to a crease in the packaging. She peered at the wrapping and looked back at him, waiting for an explanation.

  “I’ll show you.” He tore open the package and pulled out a comic book. “This is a limited edition Arsenic Volume 2: Perdition. Only two thousand printed in this collector’s hardcover.”

  She returned his focused stare with a blank one of her own.

  He pulled the comic up to eye level, as if to clear things up. “Alec Duval? Award-winning artist?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I was waitlisted for six months. Even paid extra for BBB.”

  “BBB?”

  “Bagged, boarded and boxed?”

  “Oh.”

  “Just to have that brute of a mail carrier shove the envelope into those tiny mailboxes like he’s cramming a trash bag down the garbage chute. Look at the edge of this cover. See that wrinkle? The whole book’s worthless now.”

  Cat peered at the wrinkle and followed up with a silent, polite smile.

  Dimples appeared as his smile mirrored hers. “Thanks for bringing it up, though.”

  “I take it he’s smashed a lot of your comic books, huh?”

  The blue eyes flashed like a Feller fastball. “Graphic novels, not comics. Yes.”

  “Novel?” Cat couldn’t suppress the smile forming on her face. “It’s, like, sixty pages long. Mostly cartoons.”

  His forehead scrunched and he opened his mouth to protest but stopped upon catching her playful expression. He squinted his twinkling eyes. “Do I know you?”

  She swept her arm behind her toward her apartment across the hall. “I’m your new neighbor, Cat McDaniel. I move in today.”

  “Oh, where from?”

  She paused, wondering whether to give him the box score or full recap. “Um, Illinois, then California. I’m a bit nomadic.”

  “Cool. I’m Benji, uh, Benji Levy.” He glanced down at the address label on the book’s packaging. “Oh. I guess you already knew that, huh?” He set the book behind him and brushed the strands of thick black hair out of his eyes.

  “I think your moving company left about ten minutes ago. I hope they were more delicate than our postal worker.”

  She shot a worried glance into the hallway and frowned at her apartment door. “Uh-oh. I guess I should go find out. It was nice meeting you.”

  She tried to sneak one last glimpse at his piercing eyes, but it was too late. Her new neighbor had already spun around back into his own apartment and was grumbling at the fate of his devalued treasure.

  12

  The alarm hissed at an excruciating five a.m. At seven, Cat still stood in front of her full-length mirror. She dangled a hanger holding a pinstriped pantsuit from one hand and a tan frock dress from the other.

  In this corner, we’ve got aggressive hell bitch. The challenger, simpering office skank.

  She held out the pantsuit.

  Shoulder pads it is.

  Cat threw the tan frock aside and shimmied into the pinstripes. The curling iron made a soft click from the bathroom sink, a subtle reminder she still had pillow hair. She ran her fingers through the tangles and pulled the strands back into a low bun. Turning her head from side to side, she frowned and let the mess fall forward, shaking her head back and forth. A crease again formed between her brows. She held the red locks halfway back and studied the look for a few minutes before grabbing a flowered barrette.

  Cat checked the clock. Twenty minutes.

  She ran from room to room in a frantic search to find the old equipment box marked SHOES—FRAGILE! The last place she checked was the kitchen. She scowled. The movers had shoved the precious package under a crate of pans.

  Cat tore open the lid and began to dig. Whenever she found a favorite shoe, its mate was missing in action. The only pairs she was able to match were fuzzy flip-flops and black Mary Janes. The microwave clock flashed seven forty-five. Cat grabbed the Mary Janes and flew out the door.

  Had to go with the pantsuit.

  Cat glared at the reflection of her shoulder pads in the brass elevator doors, smoothed out her linen jacket and straightened her beaded necklace against her chest. Dressing for the interview had been a lot easier than this morning’s closet chaos.

  Of course, then I had the ever-helpful Tamela forcing me to wear her camisole—the one that was sure to “bring out the green in my eyes and the big in my breasts.”

  Cat adjusted the barrette in her hair as the elevator advanced four floors.

  Why did I use so much hairspray? I look like a stripper. An aggressive stripper.

  She cringed as the doors opened and she exited, all too aware of the clop of her three-inch heels hitting the hardwood floors.

  Even better. I sound like a Clydesdale. An aggressive, horsey stripper.

  “Catriona, welcome!”

  Erich König swept through the fourth floor’s reception area. Cat’s heart fluttered. She took a moment to respond, summoning the words she had prepared for this very moment. Once she had called them to mind, she squeaked them out, “Guten Morgen!”

  He beamed and waved her over. “Ah, I love it! A good morning, indeed. Winston informed me that you acquainted yourself with the office yesterday, ja?”

  “It’s the first thing I did when I got into town.”

  “Marvelous. I want to introduce you to the whole office. They’re all very excited to meet you.”

  No pressure or anything, right?

  She plastered on the best professional grin she could muster, the one reserved for IRS auditors and new bosses.

  “I’m excited to meet them, too, Mr. König.”

  “No, no. You must call me Erich. I insist.”

  “Oh uh, okay, sir—Erich.”

  As he had at their first meeting, ‘Erich’ wore a gray suit, but today’s shade was a near replica of the steely color that surrounded his pupils. A single curl dangled from his slicked back, wavy hair. The team owner looked every bit the handsome bachelor every magazine in Las Vegas declared him to be.

  Stop checking out your boss.

  She fought to keep her eyes elevated when he turned around and led her into the fourth floor office.

  Eyes up. Eyes up.

  Her traitorous peepers trailed down to his perfectly tailored pants.

  What am I doing? I’m going to be the one on trial for sexual harassment, not that I’m worth suing. I can see the headline now:

  BOSS SUES WORKER FOR UNWANTED SEXUAL ATTENTION; WINS CLOSET OF SHOES AND FORTY-SEVEN BOBBLEHEADS.

  They entered the double doors of the department and were greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and the rumblings of Monday chatter.

  “Everyone, your attention please.”

  Upon hearing the man who owned Hohenschwangau Stadium speak, the keyboards stopped clicking, the voices stopped murmuring and every head turned toward the doorway. Cat fidgeted from one Mary Jane to the other, following their attentive stares to Erich. He scanned the room, probably to verify that he had the entire department’s attention.

  “Everyone, this is Catriona McDaniel, our dazzling new addition to the team. If you have not heard, she is joining us from the Porterville squad. I think y
ou are all going to be impressed with what she brings to the club.”

  Erich turned to Cat and then swept the group with his eyes, giving her the floor. She smiled awkwardly and uncrossed her arms to give the crowd a small wave. She quickly surveyed the room. Welcoming smiles greeted her from every face, except the only one that was familiar. Dustin leaned against the copier and faked a yawn to make it clear she was interrupting his day. She took a deep breath and returned her focus to the smiles.

  “Hi there. I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”

  The eager group sized her up and down. Cat folded her arms across her chest again.

  “All right, everyone,” Erich said. “We shall let you return to your work. Please make Catriona feel welcome and give her any assistance she needs in this transition.”

  He pointed to the open area of desks in the center of the room. “Now, Catriona, most offices would call this area the bullpen. We do not, however.”

  She noticed that his lips had curved slightly upward. “I am afraid things would be a bit confusing, then. I would ask, ‘Where is Catriona?’ They would answer, ‘She is in the bullpen, sir.’ Then I’d go down to the field, look around, ask the pitchers, but no Catriona. You see?”

  Cat returned his sneaky smile. “Very confusing. Probably best to only have one bullpen.”

  “So maybe we should call this the pigpen, ja?”

  A snort escaped from Cat, followed by a genuine laugh that soothed her knotted nerves. Erich beamed from ear to ear. Over at the copier, Dustin Carlyle ripped out his original and slammed the lid down. He put his hand on his hip and glowered in their direction as the two exited the room. Cat gave him a quick goodbye wave as she and Erich chuckled out the door.

  * * *

  The field clock’s hands had neared noon by the time Erich’s tour concluded. They had breezed through every department, and she had encountered job titles she hadn’t known existed.

  What the hell is a Special Assistant to the National Crosschecker?