Clutch Hit

by Faith O'Shea

  Blowing out a sigh of relief that she could procrastinate a moment more, she called out, “Come in.”

  “I’m about to confirm your plane reservations for next week. Just wanted to make sure you haven’t made any last-minute adjustments.”

  She reached out her hand to accept the sheet of paper Lyra was holding.

  The first flight would leave Boston at seven fifty next Monday morning and arrive close to eleven in Santo Domingo. That would give her all afternoon to meet with coaches, players, and the minor league training staff to finalize who’d be attending spring training for tryouts. From there she’d be flying to Puerto Rico, then on to Port Royal, South Carolina, attending to the same tasks. That would be followed up by trips to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and Cranston, Rhode Island. It would have taken her ten days to accomplish it all but suddenly she didn’t want to be on the road that long. She should just suck it up, but instead, she said, “Postpone the local trips until the week after. I want to be home for the weekend.”

  Let’s be honest. You want to be with Mateo.

  “You want to be home by the end of the week.”

  Lyra succinctly summarized her intent, but there was an unwritten question mark at the end of the sentence, as if she couldn’t believe it.

  “Yeah. No later than eight on Friday.”

  “Will do.”

  Just as Lyra was disappearing around the corner and back to her desk, Allie called her back.

  “Get me back by Thursday. Friday I’ll head up to talk to the staff in Portsmouth. I’ll make it a point to get to Pittsfield sometime this week.”

  Once Mac had accepted the Greenie position, the front office had promoted his bench coach to manager. He’d be in his office for the next couple of weeks, putting a game plan on paper and she wanted to check in with him. She thought about taking Mateo with her, show him around one of their affiliate stadiums, give him a better understanding of how the farm system worked. She could almost convince herself it was all part of his development.

  She glanced back at the computer screen, the first page of the plan staring her in the face.

  She’d never written a plan for a third baseman. They’d never had one dedicated to the “hot corner” since she’d taken the job, so most of the plans she’d written had been for utility players, assigned to a variety of positions. Ritter had been their go-to last year and had done an admirable job, but he’d been on edge and stressed a good part of the season, complained about the diabolical topspin he had to wrestle with, the in-between hops he had to handle, the line drives that careened off his body. There was no time to position himself once the ball was hit and his reflexes failed him at times. It was the most misunderstood and underappreciated position in baseball, one very few wanted and not many could do well. What was needed was a strong arm to cover the longest throw across the infield, good range and quick reflexes because any ball hit to them was the most difficult to catch. And, according to Ritter, a large dose of courage. It wasn’t called the hot corner for nothing.

  She took a breath and began filling in the blanks on the questionnaire. She didn’t know why she’d put this one off. It was probably the easiest ones she’d do.

  Does he have the physical stamina to last a season? Yes. According to his physical exam, he is in superior condition. He is strong and resilient and uses his power in effective ways.

  Does he have the tools to compete? Yes. His mechanics are solid, he knows the game, he has the mind of a hitter.

  Does he have the agility to play his position, and the flexibility to make adjustments along the way? Yes. He has a wide range of motion, quick feet, great hands, and the flexibility and mental discipline to adjust as needed.

  Does he have the fundamentals down? Yes. He knows his position and plays it with exceptional skill.

  Was he willing to repeat the drills to improve technique? Yes. He believes practice makes perfect and is willing to do whatever the coaches set out both on the field and in the batter’s box.

  Does the player understand his role? Yes. He knows that he is one of the pillars that will support the team in both baseball skill and leadership.

  Does the player have the awareness to recognize the opponent’s strategy? Yes. He has a fine grasp of the sport and can anticipate where the ball will go with uncanny certainty.

  Does the player think like a champion? Yes. His history with the Cuban national team instilled confidence and a winning spirit.

  Does he have the mental skills to maintain discipline? Yes. He is able to control his movements both on the field and in the batter’s box, doing exactly what needs to be done in any given situation.

  Does he have the kind of work ethic required? Yes. He has consistently put in the hours during the assigned practices without complaint and spends any time he can in the batting cage.

  She re-read her answers. They had been unequivocal. Yes, to every damn thing. No caveats, no asterisks.

  He had the build for power along with the ability to control and execute it accordingly.

  He had the agility to play third base from various positions around it, and the arm strength to get the ball across the field with heat-seeking accuracy.

  There was every indication he would set the standard. She couldn’t see him faltering in any category, but she knew he was human, would have his slumps, his errors, his meltdowns, but he’d always come back better than before because of his self-awareness and self-confidence. He’d bring himself back from whatever edge he found himself on.

  After her meeting with Mac, which lasted a couple of hours, she returned to her office and dropped down into her chair, breathing a sigh of relief. He’d agreed with most of her assessments, and they’d discussed the projections about Buzzley, the new closer, and Napolitano, a veteran infielder who Mac thought might be on his way out. He’d lost his agility on the field and his batting average last year had been abysmal. She’d had the same concerns, but Farina had loved him and wouldn’t have allowed for a trade. Now that they’d acquired dos Santos, Nap might be of use to them for one more season, but Mac suggested she look around at who was available as a utility player. He wanted to know his options.

  She was going to leave that for first thing tomorrow morning. She wanted to pick up dinner and get to Mateo’s place. She had only picked at lunch, and her stomach was growling in protest.

  Usually she would have ordered something to eat here, worked for a few more hours before packing it in, but she meant to keep her promise about Mateo.

  After stuffing some folders into her briefcase, she closed the clasp, put on her coat, and shut off her lights.

  Lyra was staring at her as she walked by her desk toward the elevator.

  “Did someone call?”

  The only reason Alicia would leave before her assistant was to answer an SOS made by one of her guys.

  “In a way. I’ve got to go over some things with Mateo tonight, mostly financial. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When she got to her car, she turned on the engine and blasted the heat. Then taking her phone, she called Mateo’s number.

  “Alicia. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. I just want to know if you’re home yet or still with Seb.”

  “He dropped me off a little while ago.”

  “Good. I’m on my way and bringing dinner.”

  “You are coming home?”

  She let that question hang in the air. They both knew it wasn’t hers, it was his, and even though her name was on the lease, it wasn’t held as joint tenants. Instead, she let him know why she was calling.

  “I’m going to Legal Seafood. After being in Gloucester yesterday, I’m craving some fried clams. Do you mind fish again?”

  “Not at all. Many assume that fish was the main food source in Cuba, but it wasn’t. I didn’t eat it often, so when I did, I enjoyed it.”

  “For me it became too much of a good thing. When I left home, I rarely ate it. The cravings come af
ter a visit.”

  “My father brought home squid or octopus, but once he was gone, it became a luxury item. It was rationed by the state and families were allowed only so much a month. Friends of my mother would occasionally offer it as contraband when they could.”

  Her blood pressure went up a notch just thinking of the man who’d left him behind. What kind of an asshole did that? Her parents might not have had a conventional kind of relationship but neither one of them abandoned their kids. She didn’t have long to dwell on it because he added,

  “What we ate was made with inexpensive ingredients. Rice and beans, black bean soup, empanadas stuffed with ham if we could afford it, lots of sandwiches.”

  “I’ve eaten Cubano sandwiches. They’re delicious. Shredded pork with pickles, cheese, some kind of mojo sauce. I can pick them up for dinner, but not tonight. My heart’s set on clams. Anything special you’d like?”

  “I would try some of your clams.”

  Not on your life.

  “I’ll get you a fisherman’s platter. That way you’ll get scallops, calamari, shrimp, clams, and whitefish. You’ll have your own, so I don’t have to share.”

  “I will set the table.”

  “I’m calling the order in now, so it shouldn’t take me long to get there.”

  “I will be waiting.”

  “Can you have a bottle of beer ready, as well?”

  “I can. See you soon.”

  She didn’t want to admit it, even as her foot eased down on the accelerator, but she couldn’t wait to get there.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Mateo swiped off, he got up and busied himself in the kitchen, getting the plates out of the cabinet, the utensils out of the drawer, and then setting the table. He took a step back and decided that there was too much distance between them. He scooped everything up and transferred it to the kitchen bar, where they could sit closer together.

  He’d been surprised that she’d called so early, knew she worked long hours, and he wasn’t expecting her back until way after dark. Now, he couldn’t wait for her to get there.

  At loose ends when Seb dropped him off, he’d found a salsa station on the TV and, with the music as backdrop, sat facing out to sea, thinking about home and his mother. He missed her. Mariposa Arteaga was his rock. Picking up the pieces of their broken life once his father, Manny, had left the island, she’d become both mother and father, getting him his first real bat and scraping up the money for a new glove when the old one no longer fit. If she had a dollar and he needed it, it was his and she went without. She’d done most of the repairs needed to rent out the room, giving up her privacy to make ends meet, and when her father fell ill and could no longer live by himself, she’d moved him in with them. She’d had to learn how to buy on the black market as every sector of socialist life became involved in it. The federation had still functioned as the control mechanism of the island, but its citizens had learned how to undermine its authority. With nothing available to buy with the ration card, things like hand soap or cooking oil, and with powdered milk costing a small fortune, they had no choice but to find other means of survival. In order to live, they all had to become enemies of the state. He’d known nothing else, hadn’t lived through the boom supplied by the Soviet Bloc, hadn’t been born until two years after it fell. He’d just accepted life for what it was and what it offered. It wasn’t until he traveled to other parts of the world, saw the merchandise available for sale that he began to believe that what his mother told him was true, that the West wasn’t decadent. And even if it was, he’d stopped caring. There was abundance there, something he’d begun to appreciate. He began to plan for his exodus as soon as he’d returned from his last international competition. And for hers.

  He’d been riddled with guilt since his arrival, knowing that he could have gotten her out a couple of years ago and that she could be enjoying the fruits of his labor by now if only he’d defected sooner. He’d looked around the room, at the furniture and all the trappings, and compared it to what he’d left behind. It was where his mother still resided. Before he could sink deeper into remorse, Alicia had called. Her voice had taken him away from his sorrow, and as he poured the beer she’d asked for into a frosted glass, he smiled.

  When he heard the key in the lock, he walked out of the kitchen to meet her.

  She kicked the door closed with her foot, her hands laden down with bags and briefcase, and scrambled past him so she could set the bags down before he could offer to help.

  “We’re eating in the kitchen?”

  “The dining room is too big for two. We would have to yell to be heard.”

  Her expression told him he was crazy, but she gave a curt nod and plunked the steaming bag on the counter.

  “Let me change and then we can eat. I had to breathe in that batter smell all the way here, so excuse me if I’m salivating all over your floor.”

  “I will unpack it so you can dig in when you’re ready.”

  “I will be forever grateful.”

  She hobbled down the hall as she pulled off one shoe and then the other before disappearing behind her bedroom door. It didn’t take long before she was back, her hair down, and wearing, from what he could tell, the same ripped jeans as yesterday, with a different sweater, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. She was ready to dig in.

  He’d put away the plates. The take-out had come in its own carboard containers, and as she leaned over the mound of succulent seafood, she breathed in the aroma.

  “These are almost as good as what you’d find in Gloucester. Someday…” Her eyes flashed up at him as if she’d caught herself just in time.

  “Maybe you will take me to eat there?”

  She lifted the glass and took a long swallow.

  “Maybe. After.”

  He knew the after she was referring to, but for some reason, he needed confirmation.

  “When we are no longer married.”

  He had no intention of leaving her. If she wanted a divorce, she was going to have to file for it. He was going to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening. He’d been serious when he told her he wasn’t going to ignore what he believed was the universe’s contrivance.

  She had a far away look on her face when she said, “When there’s no risk….”

  She stopped herself again, lifted a clam, and popped it in her mouth. When she met his eyes she added, “When there’s no risk that our secret will come out.”

  He placed his hand on her arm, leaned in, and asked, “Would it be so bad?”

  Her eyes shone brightly with what he thought might be fear.

  “For me? Yes. You know that. I’d like to be friends, Mateo. Friendship can last a lifetime. Marriage doesn’t always. But you know that, too. Better than I.”

  She was referring to his father and the people he’d left behind. “I think it would depend on the man. Or woman. Not the union itself.”

  She extricated her arm, freeing herself from his hold.

  “You’re right and this woman doesn’t want to ever be that vulnerable again.”

  He forked a shrimp and put it in his mouth, the coating flavorful, the shrimp moist and tasty. He’d be enjoying it a lot more if he wasn’t so consumed with finding a way into her heart.

  As if wanting to shift the conversation to another vein, she asked, “Do you like the food?”

  He nodded as he forked a piece of the whitefish into his mouth. He could definitely get used to eating this well.

  “I do.”

  She smacked her lips in satisfaction.

  “It’s the one thing I miss about home. There’s a place in Ipswich that has some of the best in New England. Dad used to take us there every Friday night after the baseball season ended. We had him home just a few short months before he was back on the beat. I loved that ritual.”

  She dipped every clam belly into the tartar sauce that came with the meal before placing it reverently into her mouth. As soon as he’d tried it for himsel
f, he understood why. It hit all the right notes, tangy and sweet. Her French fries seemed to be an afterthought because she didn’t touch them until all the clams were gone.

  He let her enjoy her meal in silence, and it was only when she began picking at the potatoes that he asked a question he really didn’t want to know the answer to.

  “Did you love him very much?”

  She pushed her plate away, laid her arms on the counter, and said with a resigned sigh, “I don’t think I loved him at all which makes it even more important I stay away from commitment.”

  Her answer was not what he’d expected, and it threw him off.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If he could destroy my trust in people, just imagine what a man I loved could do. I’m not willing to find out.”

  She rose from her chair and began collecting the remnants of their meal. He gathered she didn’t want to say any more on the subject, so without speaking, he lent her a hand, thinking of ways he could tempt her to give them a chance.

  When the last of the dinner was cleared, she grabbed an accordion folder, along with her briefcase, and said, “Come on, let’s sit at the dining room table and I’ll go over your financials.”

  He joined her, a beer in hand, and poured the contents into her almost empty glass. She gave him a smile of gratitude, took a sip before emptying a manila envelope onto the oaken surface. There was a leather cover, papers, and a couple of plastic cards. She reached down to her briefcase and pulled out a thin silver laptop and placed it within reach.

  As soon as he sat down beside her, she got right to business.

  “We’ve invested most of the money as you requested. The rest is in a savings account tied to your checking. You can make on-line transfers from one to the other any time you want. Your rent, credit cards, and your mother’s monthly stipend will be automatically paid when due, so there shouldn’t be many times you’ll have to use a check.”

  “Please don’t refer to it as stipend. Too many bad memories associated with the word.”

  “How about consideration? I don’t like thinking of it as an allowance.”