by Faith O'Shea
Clutch Hit
Greenliner, Volume 3
Faith O'Shea
Published by Faith O'Shea, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
CLUTCH HIT
First edition. September 9, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Faith O'Shea.
ISBN: 978-1733571265
Written by Faith O'Shea.
Also by Faith O'Shea
Everyday Goddesses
Magic Bean Cafe
Once There Was a Tree
Tipping the Scales
Can't Be Tamed
Fire and Ice
Consumed by Fire
Skoli on Ice
Heart on Fire
Heart of Ice
Tendrils of Ice
Rekindling the Fire
Greenliner
League of Her Own
Clutch Hit
Out in Left Field
Scalera Family
Finding Joy
Coming Home to You
Standalone
Thrown for a Curve
Table of Contents
CLUTCH HIT
Copyright
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
To My Readers
About Faith
Books by Faith O'Shea
Out in Left Field
CLUTCH HIT
Alicia Nilsson, the Vice President in charge of Player Development for the Boston Greenliners, would do just about anything to see her team win the World Series. And she’d proven it. She had also proven, quite possibly, that she was crazy. But when she bumped into a Cuban player at a bar in Cancun, what else could she do? He was the third baseman she’d been looking for and he came with a strong bat to boot.
Mateo Alvarez couldn’t believe his luck, or how far a woman would go to provide for her team’s future. He chalked it up to some pretty strong existential winds, the kind you don’t mess with.
At least he wasn’t willing to.
Could he convince Alicia that she was the sky he took flight in and his glove and bat might be clutch, but they weren’t the only things she needed?
CLUTCH HIT
FAITH O’SHEA
Copyright
Copyright 2019 Sue Campbell/Faith O’Shea
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in all form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known of hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in an information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author, Sue Campbell writing as Faith O’Shea at [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Jaycee DeLorenzo at Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs
Formatted by Woven Red Author Services, www.wovenRed.ca
Clutch Hit/Sue Campbell writing as Faith O’Shea- 1st edition
Copyright eBook: 978-1-7335712-6-5
Copyright Print: 978-1-7335712-7-2
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my editor, Amy from Blue Otter Editing, for her expertise. She has become a valued partner in my writing life and I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Jaycee DeLorenzo form Sweet ̍N Spicy Designs has done it again. I want to thank her for her patience working with me on my covers.
I’d also like to thank Joan Frantschuk, from Woven Red, who not only formats my work for eBook and print but who has become a valued resource.
And of course, I’d like to say thanks to my family. Jeff, Kait, Juan, Justin, Kathryn, Jaiden, Jakob, Jon-Christopher, Dominic and Liam. They surround me with the kind of love necessary for creating novels that touch the heart.
And it might be time to say thank you to my Dad for introducing me to baseball. I’ve watched our home team for over fifty years. There’s been some ups and downs, some highs and lows, but it’s always been summertime entertainment.
And to all who read my books, I thank you for taking time out of your life, to journey with me.
CHAPTER ONE
Alicia Nilsson approached the Calipari Sports Complex, the knot in her stomach tightening with every step. It was the first time in the two years she’d held the job as senior vice-president of Major and Minor League Operations for the Boston Greenliners that she felt this kind of dread. She usually relished the interaction she had with the men she’d drafted, traded for, or farmed in their minor league system. When she’d taken the job, a rise up the front-office ladder that had her as only the fourth woman who’d risen that high in the ranks of Major League Baseball, she couldn’t wait to put her well-defined plan into action. Dan DeLorenzo, her boss and president in charge of Baseball Operations, had given her the green light to create a manual that spelled out exactly what it meant to be a Greenliner. From clubhouse behavior to how to wear the uniform to rules about facial hair, she’d defined what administration expected from their team members.
The expectations, no longer ambiguous, were clearly stated and she hadn’t stopped there. She culled the scouts until she had the best, and she gave them quantitative measures for what she wanted from them— specifics on strengths, weaknesses, stats, family, attitude, any and all information they could gather about the person in question. And she insisted each player be treated as if he were a precious investment.
Because he was.
She’d done her part, objectively evaluating each of their prospects, discussing their skills and talents and what she thought they’d bring to the team with the managers. She’d had individual sit-downs with each of them, wanting to get to know who they were and how they approached life. She challenged the professionals in the big leagues to be better, and she outlined ways they could achieve those goals. What had surprised most of her critics was that they had all listened. What the naysayers had missed in the gender equation was that she was good at her job.
She’d been talking baseball since she’d been a toddler at her father’s knee, interned with the team in high school, and when she’d graduated from college with a degree in sports management, she was hired as Dan’s assistant. From that moment on, she’d made a point of learning every player’s name, from every league, minor to major, every stat, where the men came from, how they got where they were, and what it would take for them to move up. Every detail was at her fingertips, and she could answer any question Dan put to her. All of her hard work paid off, for as soon as her predecessor had retired, she’d been pr
omoted. Even the owners had given their blessing. Dan knew she’d do anything to help her team win, whether it be working twelve or thirteen-hour days, traveling across the country to meet their rookies, mediating between the front office and her guys, which was what she called the players, or putting organizational goals ahead of anything personal. They had a mission statement in the two-word motto, Bring it. They wanted to win and insisted everyone commit to the kind of team spirit that would accomplish that goal.
Last year they’d almost done it, but almost didn’t cut it. She’d spent most of her time since the loss in October, three long months ago, helping to fill in the missing pieces in their quest for a ring, but she’d gone over and above in one instance. It was what was causing the dread.
With clammy hands, she opened the glass door of the facility and stepped inside. She could hear voices, the crack of the bat, all the signs that a practice was in session. At her request, Leo Quijano, the infield coach, had brought three of their potential stars in two weeks early for a mini-training camp. She wanted to see if her instincts had been right, see if they’d bring it. It looked good from what she’d heard, but she needed to give it a more personal touch, strengthen the connections, show up. The players needed to know she was paying attention, that they were valued. They were the biggest investment the team would make, and in order to earn dividends, she needed to monitor their progress daily.
When she moved to the edge of the field, the dread came with her, increasing in weight and mass. The Cuban she’d rescued from Mexico was standing at the plate, totally focused and she watched, spellbound. He looked so good standing there, and there was an unexpected ripple of pride. His swing was near perfection, and he met the balls that came flying at him with the kind of power she knew would win ball games. It was what his body did to hers that caused the concern. His muscles rippled with each stroke of the bat, and her breath held as he lifted one ball after the other into the nets over four hundred feet away.
He was hers. Her find, her…
Her mind drifted back to the day she’d met him, sitting at a bar in Cancun. She’d needed a break after the World Series loss, needed to regenerate for the hard work that was ahead, so she’d moved forward with her plans, going solo when her usual traveling companion and BFF Casey Calipari, had been unable to accompany her. She’d walked the beach, gotten some sun, slept in late, all those things she’d come for, but by the third day, she’d gotten restless. Scenes from the last game of the World Series began streaming again. It was top of the ninth inning, fucking Rick Watters, the Greenliner closer, one strike away from a win when, crack, the batter sent the ball flying out over the Green Monster, taking back the lead and the Series win. That one ball, placed smack dab over the plate, had ended the team’s run for their first championship in over eighty years and a coveted duck ride through the streets of Boston. The rival team had been touted around the city holding the trophy high in the air, while she was laying by a pool, drowning her sorrows in tequila concoctions. Her team’s victory had been dashed by a single clutch hit. She’d needed to find a new closer, a third baseman, and a shortstop. They would be the pillars on which they could build a winning team, and she’d been chomping at the bit to find them.
After a morning strolling the open markets, trying to decide if she should head home and get back to work, she’d found a cantina where she decided to grab some lunch. It was an open-aired eatery, the rotating fans overhead creating just enough of a breeze to spell relief from the hazy, hot sunshine. After glancing around for an empty seat, she’d claimed one next to a good-looking man at the end of the bar. While sipping a margarita, light-headed from the heat, the potent tequila, and lack of sleep, she’d thrown caution to the wind, and begun to flirt with him. He was dark, gorgeous actually, and she’d felt a burst of heat that knocked her off her stride. She’d been ready to end her dating drought here, far away from those who knew her and all that was familiar, and he seemed to fit the bill. In a big way.
His lips were full, his eyes bits of obsidian, his shoulder-length dark hair brushed back, a widow’s peak framing a heart-shaped face. And he carried himself like an athlete, all muscle and sinew.
She’d leaned over, was a breath away when she asked, “Are you alone?”
He’d met her eyes and she felt another surge of fire streak through her.
“I am. Yes.”
His voice was heavily accented, but his articulation was precise. She was more than intrigued. She’d swiveled toward him, crossed her legs, allowing her sundress to shift up. It gave him a glimpse of some thigh.
“Where are you from?”
He searched her eyes. She felt his hesitation, thought maybe he wasn’t as attracted to her as she was to him, attracted at all. His scrutiny was unnerving, and it caused another flush of heat.
When he said, “Cuba,” all she could do was gape.
She knew some Cubans who had defected to play ball. She’d heard some of the horror stories about their attempts to get to America, the ransom, the threats, and even a death. It wasn’t an easy country to escape.
There was concern in her voice when she’d asked, “How did you get here?”
She’d sensed his body stiffening, as if she were a threat to his well-being.
“A fishing boat.”
His eyes kept wandering to the doorway as if he were expecting someone, or maybe he’d been planning his exit strategy. She still wasn’t sure which.
“When? Recently?”
His eyes had narrowed at her inquisition.
“This morning.”
He’d slid off his stool and took some rumpled bills from his pocket to place on the bar.
“I must go.”
She’d put a hand on his arm. The sizzle that came was mind numbing.
“Where? Where are you staying?”
She hadn’t seen the duffel he had with him until he picked it up and shouldered it.
“I do not know yet.”
No wanting to let him go, she asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I am a ball player and I must find a way to get to America.”
All she’d heard was ball player. She’d whisked him away to her hotel room, all thoughts about physical satisfaction receding into the mist.
She’d sat him right down, pulled his whole history out through a series of questions.
When he’d told her he played third base, she’d felt the hairs on her neck rise in attention.
He’d played for the Camagüey Alfareros, one of the provincial teams, and he’d seen some action on the national team, had traveled to Rotterdam and Canada with it.
She’d known only the best were given that prerogative.
When she’d asked why he left, he’d told her he was tired of playing for no more than blood, sweat, and the glory of the state.
Expecting the worst, she held her breath after she asked if there were any repercussions that came out of the exodus. She let it out when he’d told her he’d landed safely, without any problems. Only later did she find out he’d come with little money and no real strategy on how to get to America.
During the many conversations that followed, she’d asked what he would have done if she hadn’t come along. He had no answer other than he’d waited for a mystical solution. He’d quoted something written by Rumi, about his soul needing to be somewhere else and he intended to end up there.
She’d been stunned by his reply. The man read Rumi. She didn’t know much about him other than he was a poet, centuries back. She’d shaken her head at his faith in the impossible, thought the sentiment might have been wishful thinking, if it hadn’t worked.
It made her wonder if her presence had been fated? She’d almost chosen Cozumel as her starting point. Almost hadn’t gone, once Casey had told her she was needed in Boston.
Unwilling to dwell on it, putting it down to coincidence, she’d gone right to work.
It had taken days to do her vetting, and when she was finally convinced that he might
be the third baseman she’d been looking for, she’d called an agent she knew and got the official ball rolling. It was Keith Zamoutto who’d ultimately helped Mateo apply for a visa and began negotiating a contract with a major league team. Her major league team.
It had taken months to get him here, along with a few sacrifices. She’d put the organization before her own personal integrity.
Now she had to live with it.
Enrique dos Santos’s voice brought her back to the present. He was the new shortstop they’d acquired from the Mets and he was slapping Mateo on the back, obviously pleased with something. Enrique had been a risk. Was a risk. He was known for his partying, disrespect for the utility role, and he’d gotten lazy over the last year. After reviewing reams of information and getting positive feedback from Reid Jackson, their ace and Rique’s brother-in-law, she’d decided all the shortstop needed was playing time. They could give him that. His stale performance spelled tradeable and she’d suggested they jump on it. She didn’t want to take the chance his stock would go back up, so she insisted Dan get right to work negotiating the trade. The deal was ironed out just over a week ago, in time for spring training.
The other man out on the field, Sebastian Layden, had been languishing in the minors, his stats compelling them to move him up, but their man filling the position was still winning Golden Gloves. When Atticus Carleton, their veteran left fielder, blew out his knee, there was no choice but to invite Seb to Sanford for spring training and possibly a permanent placement on their roster. She had no doubt he’d do the job. There was just one tiny little problem. He’d dumped her best friend right before college. She’d have to spend time with him so they could come up with a development plan and she didn’t know how Casey would take that. The only reason he wasn’t completely on her shit list was because he’d done it right. He’d never cheated on her, but when he’d felt he needed some space, he’d taken it. Casey had been singing “Going to the Chapel,” while he’d been humming the tune “Goodbye to You.” It wasn’t his fault she had higher hopes for their relationship than he had. What he’d left behind was a broken heart and…