Big Leagues Page 9

  She batted her eyelashes and pressed her lips together. “Biology … that’s the one with cells and genes, right?”

  He burst into laughter. “That’s the one. Don’t tell me, you have an equally traumatic story to rival my foam finger tragedy?”

  “Very much so. My ordeal involves a high school lab, a squeamish student, an owl pellet and Sloppy Joe day in the cafeteria.”

  He held his right hand up in protest. “Say no more, please!”

  They smiled, and their eyes convened once more.

  Definitely bluer.

  She blinked. “Oh, hey, I have a favor. If you don’t want to, say the word.”

  He waved nonchalantly. “No, please, I love to do favors. Assuming it’s an incredible imposition, of course.”

  “Well, it’s mildly inconvenient.”

  Benji stroked his chin. “Hmm … I suppose I can find another way to put myself out. What’s up?”

  “The team has a road trip to the Central. We’re leaving tomorrow, and I don’t think the tiny mailbox out front can hold ten days worth of bills and junk mail. Would you mind grabbing it for me?”

  “Sure. I have to warn you, I reserve the right to read any magazines.” He brought an index finger up. “That includes first dibs on perfume samples.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Levy.”

  She stuck her hand out, and he took it with a soft grip, keeping her fingers in his grasp.

  “So are you on the road a lot then?”

  She gently slipped her hand out of his and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “Oh yeah. Eighty-one away games, after all. Then there’s a month of spring training down in Arizona.”

  “Sounds rough.”

  “I know, right? I think living out of hotels will get old real quick. Going out to eat every night by myself will be kind of embarrassing.”

  He shoved his hands back in his pockets and traced the floor with his foot. “Yeah. Though I’m sure you’ll have tons of burly, no-necked ballplayers for company.”

  She eyed him carefully, trying to determine if he was serious. “Not so much. I don’t date ballplayers.”

  “Don’t date ballplayers? Isn’t that every woman’s dream, snagging a professional athlete?”

  “Sure.” She smiled. “According to professional athletes.”

  “I guess I just assumed … you like sports, they like sports. Not a huge leap.”

  “Nah. I have a whole theory on the subject.”

  Benji smiled. “A theory?”

  “I won’t bore you with it.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m a scientist. I live for theories, theorems, hypotheses, conjectures. Don’t even get me started on inferences.”

  “Hmm, on second thought, it’s really more speculation.”

  “Darn, that’s above my pay grade.”

  A door at the end of the hallway opened and a laughing couple walked down the stairs. Cat cleared her throat and pointed toward her apartment.

  “We leave right after tomorrow afternoon’s game, so I better get started on my packing.”

  She dug through her purse, pulled out a key ring and handed him the miniature mailbox key.

  He bowed his head. “I shall defend your mailbox with my life.”

  “Thanks again, Benji.”

  She stole one last peek at his baby blues and wiggled her fingers at him before closing her door.

  16

  Otis Snow didn’t care for the weekly meeting in the boss’ office. The fifth floor was hot, and it was even hotter in his long-sleeved polyester security uniform and nine-inch steel-toe boots. The average high for Las Vegas in late July was 106 degrees. Erich König had given Otis two options: long-sleeves in the Vegas summers or laser tattoo removal. Otis opted to keep his technicolored arms and hid them under the polyester, a choice he regretted every time he stepped into the boss’ sunny suite.

  Boss says tats ain’t “professional,” but me panting around his fancy office, sweating like a whore in church, is all fine and just dandy.

  Otis ogled the wet bar, desiring the ice bucket as much as the scotch. Erich snapped the security guard’s attention away by slamming a glass tumbler on his granite desktop.

  “Ms. McDaniel, anything to report?”

  “She’s not real sociable. Buncha calls to an Ailsa McDaniel in Illinois, the grandmom.”

  “Any other communications?”

  “E-mails back and forth to a broad with the Bulldogs—the ticketing supervisor I think. Pamela or something.”

  “Concerning?”

  “Aw, girlie crap. How she likes Vegas, cute neighbor, what’s new in Porterville. Talking about having her come out here for a weekend.”

  Erich nodded. “Keep me apprised of any upcoming visits so I may offer Catriona a complimentary package at the Palace for their entertainment.”

  “You’re so generous, Boss.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “So when do I get one of them suites?”

  “When I hire you as the delightfully vivacious new reporter.” Erich pointed to his luggage. “Take those down to the car.”

  * * *

  Cat McDaniel’s eyes darted around the lounge and out the window to the chartered 737. Air travel didn’t normally unnerve her. She’d curbed that particular phobia after reading a magazine article that weighed the likelihood of dying in a plane crash versus other fatalities.

  That bird is nothing compared to my one hundred and sixty-two chances to take a foul ball in the eye or the soaring shard of a maple bat to the chest.

  She took one last swig of the stout Black Russian and thanked the bartender. As she headed for the tarmac, she worried her shifty glances and speedy walk were triggering TSA’s watchful eye and tried to slow her speed. Cat’s nerves couldn’t be reasoned with, though. They knew she was minutes away from sharing the cabin with about fifty other individuals, all of whom prevailed over her by virtue of their money, ability and, of course, importance.

  What’s the old saying? It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be really important?

  She took a deep breath and hoped she didn’t pale too much next to her flying companions’ power and prestige.

  Well, except for Dustin.

  He was her only equal on the trip. She doubted the junior reporter was saving a seat for her so they could play Hangman on the way to Chicago.

  That’d go well. “De_th to C_t.”

  Cat stepped onto the plane and made a beeline for a window seat in the first empty row she spotted, praying the spot wasn’t reserved for Erich König or one of the other forty-nine passengers of the utmost importance.

  Er, forty-eight—can’t forget about Dustin.

  She immediately dove into her German dictionary, attempting to remedy her apprehension with incomprehension. Various players passed the row, not a single one acknowledging her presence. Cat pretended the same indifference but couldn’t help stealing a look at each stylish suit as the men made their way down the aisle. She shifted in the roomy seat and cursed both the itch of cheap pantyhose and the team’s strict dress code for travel.

  Eduardo Lopez, a young relief pitcher, stopped at her row, threw his bag in the overhead compartment, and slumped down in the seat next to her. Rap music blared from his headphones. He closed his eyes and scrunched into the headrest. A flood of relief washed over her and drowned the flutter of the butterflies that had nested in her stomach for the last hour. A few rows back, several players chortled as they asked the flight attendant for a round of drinks and started a game of gin rummy. She turned around to sneak a peek between the seats and snickered.

  Emphasis on the gin.

  Erich König entered the flight last, busy barking orders on his Bluetooth as he headed for the back of the plane. Cat exhaled and reclined her seat.

  * * *

  Halfway through the flight, Eduardo removed his headphones and leaned on their shared armrest.

  “You’re the new reporter,
right? Took over for the tall white dude that, you know, offed himself?”

  She nodded, and he stuck out his hand.

  “Eddie Lopez.”

  I know.

  She smiled and returned the handshake. “Cat McDaniel.”

  He slid his iPod into his pocket. “I’m in the bullpen.”

  I know, she thought. I also know you won’t be for long if you don’t stop walking your leadoff batters.

  “Everyone made a big stink about that reporter, you know, what a surprise and all that, but I didn’t think it was that much of a shock. Dude was hanging on by a thread.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A couple of weeks ago, I came in early to lift weights and he was in this shoving match with the doc. I had to pull him off and it wasn’t easy, he was like a cracked-out squirrel. I figure if he hadn’t done what he done, he would’ve been fired. Maybe that’s why he did it.”

  “Wow.” That sure didn’t fit every other description of the mild-mannered reporter. Eddie looked like he was waiting for a better response, but Cat decided to change the subject. “So you’ve been in Vegas for a couple of years now, right?”

  “Longer than I was in the minors.”

  “Got any advice for me?”

  “Oh, mami, I don’t think this flight is long enough.” He kicked his feet up on the back of the seat in front of him. “You been to Orpheus yet?”

  She shook her head from side to side. “The Orpheus?”

  “No, not the. Just Orpheus. You gotta get your booty down there. They got the best VIP room in town.”

  See? Nice to be really important.

  “VIP, huh? One of the interns was trying to drag me to the Strip the other day for Ladies Night.”

  “Now a few of the joints on the Strip are dives, but most can be hella bangin’ any night of the week. We’re talking shorties galore, you know what I’m saying?”

  Not really.

  She nodded anyway.

  “You gotta watch your shit, though, ’cause they get packed in hard and a player can’t outrun the obsessed fans looking for more than just an autograph, you know what I mean?”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Cat said, “but I don’t have a whole lot of trouble with crazed fans. I'm sure you do though.”

  “They all have an assload of muscle on hand so it usually ain’t no thing. You could come with me some time, see what the fuss is all about.”

  “Maybe.”

  Something about the way he was talking piqued her curiosity. His eyes almost glittered.

  Maybe he’d just drunk too much caffeine.

  17

  Despite the first three days of the road trip being a short Metra ride to her hometown, Cat never traveled south of the Dan Ryan Expressway. Not that she had plans to anyway. She already knew the one trip the team would be taking to Chicago, at least during the regular season, was going to conflict with Silver Liners, her grandmother’s seniors-only Bahamian cruise. Ever since Lynette’s phone call to set up the interview on that heavenly Sunday afternoon, Cat had fantasized about taking in a game with the woman who introduced her to baseball so many years ago, this time from prime club seats. After Ailsa McDaniel met a retired pilot whose pension package included free flights, her once homebody grandmother now spent most weekends jet-setting to various cities on the Eastern seaboard.

  Shipping souvenir shot glasses.

  Cat was glad her grandmother was happy, so she’d hid her disappointment under a layer of false cheer. She assured her grandmother the visit was no big deal and begged her not to cancel her vacation plans.

  Now that she was in the Windy City, Cat didn’t know how she would have found the time to see her grandmother even if she had stayed home. After checking into the team’s ritzy hotel on Michigan Avenue last night, Cat had thrown her bags on the convertible sofa, tore off her dress and flung it on the plasma TV. She fell into the plush bed and wrapped the down duvet around her, drifting off to sleep in minutes. Seven hours later, the front desk plucked her out of the feather fantasyland, a paradise that included a sandy beach and a blue-eyed neighbor, with a seven o’clock wake-up call.

  Cat stepped out of the hotel shower and sighed at the spacious Jacuzzi tub, glaring down at the jets she knew she wouldn’t have time to appreciate. She blow-dried her long hair straight and sprayed on an anti-freeze serum to battle the late July temperatures. Then she slipped into a sleeveless gray sheath dress, stepped into her black mock-o-dile peep toes, grabbed her laptop bag, and stumbled out the door. In the lobby she gave a friendly wave to a couple of men drinking coffee; she recognized them as the Chips’ fifth floor scouts she’d met on Erich’s tour.

  Cat hustled down the busy sidewalk to the El station. After a ten-minute train ride, she rushed into the ballpark to catch the team’s batting practice and snag a good seat at the pregame conference. After the game and clubhouse interviews concluded, she spent an hour trying to catch a cab back to the hotel, where she wrote her postgame summary and researched the next day’s matchups. Finally she fell back into bed. Her life was quickly taking on a pattern.

  * * *

  Except for some takeout boxes from Giordano’s and a stack of Navy Pier coupons being handed out in front of the Hancock Building across from the hotel, Cat had nothing to show for her three days in Chicago. The Chips were halfway to Milwaukee before she had a chance to catch her breath on the team bus. Cat followed that breath with a deep sigh and stared out the bus window to the busy traffic below. She sunk into the bus seat’s scratchy upholstery and laid her head against the backrest. Being a thousand miles at sea hadn’t precluded her grandmother from leaving her a nagging voice mail, stating that Chicago was only thirty minutes from the Joliet State Prison and visiting hours were daily from eight to two.

  There wasn’t any time.

  Cat closed her eyes until an image of her dad in his prison-orange jumpsuit forced them open. She leaned her forehead up against the window and blinked the tears from her eyes as she focused on the chaotic roadway.

  * * *

  The second series consisted of three seven o’clock games. Cat had vowed she was going to make time during the days for the Milwaukee Art Museum and a brewery tour, but the closest she got to either was fresh graffiti on Canal Street and a Miller Lite at the ballpark.

  Each evening Cat left the ballpark at one a.m.; each morning she ignored the wake-up call, slept ’til noon and headed back to the press box by three. She whistled to herself as she bounced back through the press box doors on the fifth day; she’d made it halfway through the hectic road trip. Her whistling stopped when she saw Dustin’s chair blocking the aisle.

  “Excuse me, Dustin.”

  He scooted forward an inch. Cat raised an eyebrow. “Gee, thanks.”

  She wiggled past the back of his chair and peeked at the stats on his computer screen. She leaned over his narrow shoulders and saw his back stiffen.

  “Whoa, have you even proofed this write-up?” She squinted and tapped his monitor with her fingernail. “I know I don’t have to tell you Derrek is spelled with two Rs?”

  Dustin toggled the mouse to the document and slammed the R key on his laptop. “There.”

  She looked over his matted hair once again. “That wasn’t a stolen base in the ninth. It was a defensive indifference.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh, yeah I do,” she said. “The Chips didn’t even pay attention to that runner. They completely ignored him and focused on the star at the plate.”

  Dustin stood up, glaring at her.

  “Fine,” she said, “ask someone else.”

  Dustin looked over at a local reporter from Milwaukee. The older man had been watching their squabble with more apparent interest than he had expressed during the previous nine innings.

  “Sorry, Carlyle, they scored it a DI all right.” He offered a shrug for consolation.

  Dustin threw his chair back and sat down, thumping the backspace key on hi
s laptop. Cat pretended to proofread her own article as she watched his lips move in a silent mutter.

  This beats sightseeing any day.

  * * *

  The next day didn’t end so gleefully. The Chips arrived in Pittsburgh an hour after a demoralizing extra-innings loss in Wisconsin. The players’ sulking poisoned the already stale air of the plane, and Cat couldn’t wait for the glum flight to end. The team staggered off the plane, only to trudge back onto another bus. A ten-minute ride brought them to the third lavish hotel of the road trip. As everyone filed into the lobby of the Hotel Coeur, Cat admired the marbled floors that led over to a grand piano. Gazing up at the crystal chandelier, she inhaled the welcoming aroma of fresh lilac and felt calmed by the soft trickling of a fountain coming from the atrium. A parade of bellhops in black uniforms and chin-strapped hats greeted them and began taking their luggage.

  While the press boxes on the road trips couldn’t compare to the amenities at Hohenschwangau, the glamorous hotels more than made up for each park’s lack of free food and airheaded waitresses.

  * * *

  The next morning Cat rolled out of the four-poster bed, brushed her hair into a messy bun and debated whether to order room service or brave the fancy hotel bistro in her ratty velour sweat suit. One look at the old spaghetti stain on her knee and room service won out. She reached for the phone, but before she got there, the ringer sang from its perch on the nightstand.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Cat.” She recognized the deep, velvety voice of Erich.

  Er, Mr. König.

  “Guten Morgen!” The phrase jumped out of her throat.

  He chuckled appreciatively. “Tell me, have you visited the dining room yet?”

  “N-no, not yet, Mr. König. I was actually getting ready to.”

  “Ah, wonderful. Would you care to join me for breakfast instead?”

  “S-sure. That’d be great.”

  “Delightful. I have quite the spread here in the presidential suite. Please come up whenever you are ready.”

  Presidential suite.

  Cat gulped. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you in a few minutes, Mr. König.”