The Man For Me

by Gemma Bruce

  “Save it. You’re a terrible liar. So don’t even start.”

  Tommy stood back at the entrance of the runway, the ramp that led to the dugout, and J.T. stepped past him. At least he was a gentleman, even when contemplating the murder of a sportswriter. There was hope.

  The dugout wasn’t much more than a long rectangular pit covered by a corrugated PVC roof. There was the usual dugout fare—a long wooden bench and stack of cubbies, and an orange-and-beige water cooler.

  Two players were slumped on the bench playing cards, but when they saw Tommy, they jumped up and trotted out to the field.

  “You can sit in the bleachers and watch practice. Get your human-interest story. Don’t sit in the ones cordoned off with the yellow tape.” He bared his teeth. It was nothing like his famous smile. “Unless you want to break your neck. Dry rot.”

  Up yours, jackass. J.T. wished she had the courage to say it out loud. He was acting like a spoiled child. But she’d have to put up with it if she were ever going to finagle a story out of him.

  She grimaced a smile up at him. He didn’t miss it. Just said, “Watch your step,” took her by the elbow, and yanked her up the steps to the field. She didn’t need help. She was wearing running shoes, not stilettos. Hell she didn’t even own a pair. But she let him manhandle her while she tried to figure out how to get him to lighten up.

  As soon as her feet touched the warning track, Tommy let go. She didn’t move. Just practiced staying cool. Not losing her temper. And trying not to succumb to his charisma. She was incredibly aware of his body heat. Her elbow burned from his touch. Burned with indignation. Burned with excitement, damn him.

  She longed to wipe his touch away, get back to business, but then he would see how much it bothered her, and she wouldn’t demean herself. Hell, she was twenty-six and everyone still treated her like a child. Except Tommy, who was treating her like she was Lucrezia Borgia.

  J.T.’s cheeks burned. He was wrong. She was a damn good journalist. She just needed a chance to prove herself. To show the world she was more than just the Coach’s daughter. She’d worked hard to move up from local news to national sports coverage. She had what it took. She was sure of it. She’d earned her way, the hard way.

  Yeah by getting caught with your metaphorical pants down and getting sent to the boonies, she reminded herself.

  To hell with that. It could happen to anyone. She was a college graduate. She was intelligent. She could write. And she could hit and throw like a pro. Except she’d choked in her college playoffs. The Coach had actually come to the game. And she’d choked. She’d struck out just like she had at T-ball. The memory still burned in her stomach.

  That’s when she’d decided to go into journalism. Her brothers Roger and Joe had grown up to be professional ballplayers. Her oldest brother Mickey had been injured in college ball and became a sports surgeon. He didn’t get shit. The Coach called him, “my son, the doctor,” and you could hear the pride in his voice. J.T. had never become more than “my daughter.”

  She shuddered, leaned over to zip up her jacket.

  “Yeah, it can get chilly here.”

  Especially when standing next to you.

  She glanced at his profile. She knew everything about him, but she’d never experienced it up close and personal. Until last night. And it had been dark. And exciting. And disastrous.

  Now that they were in the daylight, she reeled under the total impact. His hair was a deep golden blond, a color that the sun had changed to burnished gold. Razor-sharp cheekbones held a hint of tan. Classical nose. And surprisingly, deep brown eyes. It was a winning combination. Unusual, but tempting. It had tempted her. It was tempting her now.

  He glanced back at her, caught her looking. And stepped away.

  The sun went behind a cloud. She resisted using that metaphor in the article she was constantly writing in her head.

  She stepped back, physically distancing herself, so she could get her mind back on her work instead of mooning over a man who didn’t like or trust her. She studied the field. The grass was in serious need of treatment. It looked like someone had taken a match to right field.

  The whole place seemed to be tottering on the edge of collapse. A good quarter of the wooden bleachers were rotten. The press box behind home plate resembled a chicken coop. Less than half the signs that surrounded the field were being currently used by advertisers. Tino’s Pizza, Plaski Dry Cleaners, Aguzzi Flowers, Lojek’s Garage, John Deere, First National Bank, Digby’s Five and Dime. The others were so splintered and faded that J.T. couldn’t even make out the names.

  How could the Beavers stay in business? They’d been sold and bought countless times, but they kept hanging on, shuffling from one league to another, but never leaving Gilbeytown.

  And what was the deal with the little league field? She didn’t want to further antagonize Tommy by asking why the Beavers were playing in a derelict stadium while the kids were yucking it up in style. But what the hell. She asked anyway.

  “New people,” was all he said. “Enjoy yourself.”

  She watched him walk away. She was trying to be fair minded. He was pissed, but the unflappable Tommy B. never aired his feelings in front of the fans. Never yelled at umpires. He’d been wild in his early years, but since his marriage and divorce he’d been discreet, never flaunted women or bad-mouthed them to the press.

  Could she really have pissed him off that much, just for letting him kiss her and feel her up a bit without telling him she knew who he was? His reaction was so way over the top that her reporter’s instinct told her there was more to the story.

  And one way or the other, she was going to find out what it was.

  Chapter 5

  J.T. sat on a wooden bleacher along the first baseline. It gave her a good view of the field and was close enough for her to snag players as they returned to the dugout.

  She took out her notebook. She had a small tape recorder in her pocket, but she found that people tended to close up when they knew they were being taped. For some reason, pencil and paper was a lot less intimidating.

  She took notes on the condition of the field—poor—though there did seem to be an automatic sprinkler system. From the looks of right field, it didn’t work very well. She wrote paragraphs on the quirky habits of each player as they went through the morning drills. And filled two pages with thoughts on Bernie Karpinsky, who was a study in himself.

  She knew a bit about his background. He’d played a few seasons with the Mariners in their early years. He’d managed a double-A team for ten years then returned to his hometown to manage the Beavers. A real downward step for a coach with a solid reputation.

  But it had coincided with his marriage to Antonia Bainbridge. He’d given up a lot for married life. Family was important to ballplayers, but to give up a lucrative career for a team like the Beavers was taking family loyalty a bit far.

  He’d located Larry Chrysler selling cars outside of Indianapolis and convinced the owners to hire him as GM.

  She’d never heard of most of the players. They were young guys who hadn’t been picked up in the draft. Some of them were pretty raw, hoping to work their way up to a minor league contract. For most of them, this would be the only professional ball they would ever play.

  Their chance for joining the “Show” was slim. They would hang on to the lower dregs of baseball until they were forced to retire.

  The only name J.T. knew anything about was Bobby Kurtz. He’d played for a Devil Rays farm club. He’d been sent up and sent down again, several times. For a while it looked like he had a place in the majors, but a series of injuries sent him down again and after five years, the club finally let him go.

  J.T. hadn’t heard anything about him since. It was depressing to find him playing for the Beavers. He’d been something for a couple of years.

  Bernie had come onto the field and he and Tommy were standing behind the backstop, deep in conversation. The pitching coach was working the relief pitc
hers in the bullpen on the outskirts of right field. The infield was running double plays. Several players were waiting their turn at the batting cage.

  None of the players had bothered talking to her or introducing themselves. But she’d seen Tommy stop by each group and talk to them. She was pretty sure that he was warning them not to talk to her. As if the warning last night hadn’t been enough.

  Well, if he thought she’d go running, he could think again. She stuck her pencil behind her ear and climbed down from the bleachers. She passed by Bernie and Tommy without giving them the smallest glance. She was pretty sure they hadn’t even noticed her.

  She stopped beside two players who were standing outside the batting cage, their fingers looped in the mesh, waiting their turns at bat. Inside the cage, a batter swung and missed, while an ancient ball machine spit out pitch after pitch.

  “Hi.”

  They both turned at the sound of her voice. One snatched off his cap and said, “Hi.”

  “I’m J.T. Green. Reporter with Sports Today.”

  “Wow. You’re the reporter?”

  “Sure am. And you are?”

  “Danny Lewis.” He grinned, showing rabbit-size front teeth. He was medium height and brawny with curly brown hair that stuck out in wings from a ridge left by his baseball cap. “Center field.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  The other man, taller and thinner than Danny Lewis, let out a low whistle through the gap in his front teeth. Danny knocked the hat off his head. He fumbled on the ground to retrieve it.

  The man straightened, clutching his cap in both hands. And J.T. saw that he was still a kid with a teenager’s face and body. He’d be lucky if he had to shave once a week.

  “Milo Newton, pitcher. Ma’am.”

  Danny beamed at her. “Wow. This is so cool.” He grabbed the chain link of the fence and rattled it. “Hey, Boz. Time’s up. Come meet the reporter Tommy told us about.”

  Milo nudged him in the ribs.

  “Oh. I forgot.”

  Boz must be Leonard Boskey, the left fielder.

  He turned at the sound of his name. He was big with a carrot-colored crew cut. Cute if you liked hulky types.

  His mouth opened. He tipped the brim of his cap to her. A ball whizzed past, barely missing his nose. He looked startled, then chagrined. He nodded curtly and hunkered down over the plate, swung, and missed another ball. He looked back at J.T. Smiled. Shrugged.

  The ball machine fired off another ball. J.T. saw it but there was nothing she could do to stop it. It caught Boskey on the side of the head. He went down.

  “Jesus,” said Milo, looking at Boskey who was lying spread-eagle on the ground while balls arced past him and bounced against the fence.

  “Boz, are you okay?” Danny Lewis peered down at his prostrate teammate.

  J.T. yanked the gate open. “Maybe you should turn off the—” She heard footsteps running toward them.

  “Somebody turn that damn thing off,” Tommy ordered, trotting up to them. Bernie was several yards behind him, swinging himself between his crutches like a burly pendulum.

  Boskey pushed to one elbow. “I’m all right.” He had one of the lowest bassos J.T. had ever heard.

  Tommy wrenched open the gate and reached the machine in three long strides. It burped out one last ball and whirred to a stop. He knelt by Boskey and held up two fingers. “How many?”

  “Two. Wow, man. You didn’t tell us the reporter was a girl. She’s a knockout.”

  Tommy grunted. “She knocked you out all right. That will teach you to keep your eye on the ball and not on firm little asses.”

  J.T.’ s eyes popped. Was he talking about her firm little ass? He thought she had a firm little ass even though he was mad at her? Was the chill beginning to thaw? She sidled toward them and squatted down next to Boskey.

  “Are you okay?”

  Boskey grinned and nodded his head. A big lump was forming on his forehead.

  Bernie finally reached them. “Lewis, tell Castaldi to get an ice pack.”

  Lewis jogged away. Tommy helped Boskey out of the cage and sat him down in the visitors’ dugout.

  “I’m okay, Coach. Honest,” Boskey said, but he looked a little dazed. “My own dumb fault. I’m fine.”

  Tommy stood up. “Easy, Bernie. Everything’s all right.”

  A minute later, Lewis returned with a tall, gangly teenager holding an ice pack in one hand and a first-aid kit in the other. The cubby, Gino Castaldi. He dropped to one knee and opened the kit, cracked the ice pack, and handed it Boskey.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Just an accident,” Tommy said.

  “We don’t need anymore goddamn accidents.” Bernie swung around on his crutches. “Come on, ya bums, let’s get cracking.”

  Everybody wandered away. No one seemed in a hurry.

  That left J.T. alone with Tommy, Castaldi, and Boskey.

  “What did Bernie mean, ‘more accidents’? What else has been happening?”

  “Nothing.” Tommy lifted his chin at Boskey. “Next time try concentrating on the ball.”

  “Sure thing, Tommy.”

  Tommy nodded, and ignoring J.T., he brusquely walked away.

  So maybe not thawing. J.T. sighed and sat down next to Boskey. “Sorry if I got you in trouble.”

  Boskey shook his head. Winced. “Not your fault. I was already in trouble.”

  Castaldi stood up. “You’ll come around, Boz. Don’t worry.”

  Boz nodded and Castaldi took his first-aid kit back to the locker room.

  “In a slump.”

  “That’s the pits,” J.T. said. “But the good thing about slumps is they never last.”

  Boz perked up. “Hey, yeah. You’re right.”

  Bernie’s voice boomed from the outfield. “Boz, if you can talk you can play. Get your butt out here.”

  Boskey jumped up. “Gotta go.” He detoured to the batting cage long enough to pick up his glove and trotted out to left field.

  J.T. sat back and let out a long breath. She knew what they were doing. Keeping her from talking to the players solo. And why was that? Tommy didn’t want to talk about himself. He and Bernie didn’t want her talking to anyone else. There was definitely something not right going on here. Well, they couldn’t watch her every minute.

  You didn’t try to thwart a Green and get away with it. And for better or worse she was the Coach’s daughter.

  Things didn’t pick up much during the afternoon practice. It didn’t take long for J.T. to see that Boskey wasn’t the only one in a slump. The whole team was lackluster, moved slow, had trouble concentrating.

  Some, like the starting pitcher, Enrique Sanchez, and Danny Lewis struggled doggedly along. Rob Brown, the second baseman, was a one-man cheering team. The other starters went through the motions. They weren’t bad players, they just acted as if they were totally indifferent to the success of the team, which was odd. Their livelihoods depended on the team’s success. The second-and third-string players were barely awake. What they missed in practice time, they made up in napping, scratching, and spitting.

  The only player who showed initiative was Bobby Kurtz. Almost too much. When the rest of the team broke for water, he jogged around the field. Between drills, he did push-ups or jumped rope. His energy bordered on the hysterical. There was a frantic edge to his playing.

  Kurtz, had every right to be nervous. If he didn’t get taken up this season, his chances of making a comeback would be negligible. He was playing well, but his attitude toward the other players was abrasive. When someone missed a play, he yelled. If the runner was too slow, he gave them shit. The more he put it to them, the more sullen his teammates became.

  J.T. didn’t understand why Bernie didn’t put a halt to it. Kurtz’s attitude was very counterproductive.

  Bernie ran the drills from the warning track, swinging back and forth between his crutches and barking out corrections. But even he seemed to be going through the mot
ions. As if he already took it for granted that they weren’t going to take the indie league by storm. They wouldn’t even make a tempest in a teapot with this attitude.

  Gonzales and Nunez, the two players picked up by the INS that morning, had been two of Bernie’s biggest hitters, and with Boskey, whose RBI last year had been 285, in a hitting slump, the coming season was looking pretty bleak.

  She saw Tommy only at a distance. Occasionally he went down to the field and gave a few pointers. The players would rally for a few minutes and J.T. could see the makings of a decent team. When he left the field, though, the energy left with him.

  Twice she saw him take his cell phone out. He’d walk away from the others to take the call. When he came back, he’d be looking grim. J.T. was itching to know what the calls were about. Maybe the cleaners had lost his best suit, but she guessed it was somehow connected to why he was in Gilbeytown.

  It must be important. To leave at the beginning of the season could be professional suicide. Even for Tommy B. Which brought her back to the same question. Why was he here? And how did Daituri Isotori fit into the equation?

  Tommy must be secure in his position on the team or really, really arrogant to take off at this point in the season. And he just didn’t strike J.T. as the arrogant type. Just the holding-a-grudge type.

  Tommy continued to ignore her through the afternoon session. When he wasn’t on the field or taking phone calls, he sat on the far side of the field, leaning back on his elbows with his legs stretched out on the bleacher below him. He was completely relaxed. At home. He belonged. And every pore broadcast his right to be here.

  And you don’t, J.T. told herself as she watched him from her side of the field. You’ll never belong here. No matter how many stories you write. No matter who your father is. No matter how much you want it.

  And that wasn’t right. She was a journalist, damn it. She had every right to be here. And she had a story to get. She wandered over to where Tommy was sitting, eyes half closed.