The Man For Me

by Gemma Bruce

  “What the hell happened?” Bernie saw J.T. His eyebrows rose, but he only nodded before turning his back on her. “Tommy, could I see you for a minute?”

  Tommy stood up and followed Bernie across the room. J.T. scooted to the edge of her seat and strained her ears to listen. They were talking quietly, but intensely. Tommy was doing most of the talking. Bernie kept shaking his head.

  She could see a vein in Tommy’s neck throbbing. J.T got a mental image of Tommy fighting with an umpire, which she’d never in her life seen him do. It was not a Tommy B. kind of thing to do. He must be really pissed. What had happened to Sanchez was deplorable. But why was he taking it out on Bernie?

  Bernie’s voice rose in consternation. “I can’t help it. The insurance just covers the time they’re with the team. They can opt to pay for personal injury. Sanchez opted out. It’s not my fault.”

  Tommy growled and stalked back to the admittance window, pulling his billfold out of his jeans pocket. He opened it and placed a gold credit card on the admittance desk. “Brenda. I just learned that Sanchez’s insurance doesn’t cover this hospital stay. Put his payment on this.”

  The admitting nurse nodded and took the card.

  Bernie looked over Tommy’s shoulder. “Tommy. You don’t have to do this. And you can’t expect the team to pay. It’s not the team’s fault that Sanchez wasn’t looking where he was going.”

  Tommy took his card back and turned on Bernie. His anger made his voice come out louder than he meant. “You think it was an accident that your starting pitcher gets knocked down by a hit-and-run a week before your opening game? Open your eyes.”

  J.T.’s journalist radar went on red alert. Tommy thought the driver had meant to hit Sanchez? It was absurd. The chances of the Beavers winning against the Drillers was slim with or without Sanchez. Who would go to such extremes to make sure the Beavers lost? And why? Hit-and-run carried a hefty prison sentence.

  Tommy’s cell phone rang. The admitting nurse pursed her lips and pointed to the NO CELL PHONES sign above Tommy’s head. He mouthed, “Sorry,” and took the phone outside.

  When he came back a few minutes later, he looked poleaxed. His face was drained of color. His eyes were no longer angry; there was a hunted look in them.

  J.T. went cold.

  Tommy nodded to Bernie to follow him. They started off down a wide corridor. J.T. felt no compunction about skulking after them. Something major was going on here and she was going to find out what.

  They came to a stop. J.T. ducked into a door well and plastered herself to the door. They were being ridiculous. Why didn’t they just confide in her? She could help.

  She peeked out from the shallow recess. Tommy and Bernie were almost nose to nose. Tommy was doing the talking, but he didn’t seem angry anymore, just intense. Bernie stood there with his mouth open.

  Tommy wound down and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then Bernie grasped Tommy’s arm and clapped him on the back with his free hand. The clap changed to a quick hug. J.T. slunk back to the waiting room.

  Tommy passed her without a look. Something had happened. Something bad, she guessed, because Tommy looked like he might cry. He got to the door; it opened. But instead of going out, he came back to where J.T. was sitting.

  He looked at her, his expression confused and a little afraid. And her insides starting churning.

  “I just wanted to say, thanks for the evening. Sorry, but I have to leave. It isn’t you.”

  “Then what is it? Is it about Sanchez? What’s going on?”

  He shook his head.

  “Tommy, I have a right to know.” She didn’t, but she was hoping he would tell her anyway.

  “You want something for your article? Find out who’s sabotaging this team.” And without another word, he strode out the door.

  Chapter 13

  Sabotage. Not accidents, not random vandalism, but a concerted effort to bring down the Beavers. She’d already considered it. Tommy had confirmed it.

  So why did he run off without elaborating? It occurred to her that maybe he was having second thoughts about their evening, but she pushed them aside. It was better to think about sabotage.

  She’d get him to fill her in tomorrow.

  When she inquired about Sanchez, the nurse in charge said he was staying overnight for observation. No. He couldn’t have visitors. Maybe tomorrow.

  The whole emergency room had emptied. Bernie was gone. There was nothing for J.T. to do but go back to the motel and wait for the morning.

  She had lots to think about. An investigation to begin. And, she thought sadly, no time to waste reliving the evening she’d spent with Tommy. She could smell his aftershave on her hands.

  She flushed. Had Bernie smelled it? Had anyone else?

  Her whole body suffused with heat. If she’d been hanging out in the Pine Tree Tavern with the team, she would have been on the scene when Sanchez was struck down. Instead she’d been having sex with Tommy B. Not a part of the job description.

  And now he was acting weird. She hoped it was because of the phone call and not because he was regretting their little fling. After being Mr. Fun and Games all evening, he’d gotten angry. Well, that was natural. Someone had nearly killed Sanchez.

  Who would want to sabotage the Beavers? They were barely surviving as it was. She was no investigative reporter, but she knew how to follow a lead. Except that she didn’t have one. Only a few disparate facts. The mayor wanted to lure a triple-A team to town. They would have to build a new ballpark to accommodate them. The Beavers would have to relocate.

  If Gilbeytown was like other towns, it owned the field and leased it to the team. They could take it back, but why now? The Beavers had survived for twenty years. Were a part of the town’s history. It’s the only thing that is theirs. Tommy’s words about the teenagers.

  And someone else saying, the mayor wants a new ball park, a triple A team. Maybe someone was helping the mayor’s plans along. Pushing the Beavers into folding in order to facilitate the reclamation.

  Is that why Tommy was here? Family loyalty? Love of his hometown? It would be like him. But what on earth could he do?

  Who, what, why, when. Four little words. Four little words that just might lead to a big story. Or not. Did anybody give a rat’s ass what happened to the Beavers?

  She did. As bad as they were, she wanted them to make it. Wanted them to succeed, so that Sanchez would be picked up by a minor league, so that Kurtz—whom she didn’t even like—could have a second chance, so Lewis and Oblonsky and Hector Dela Rocha would have a place to play. To act out their dreams.

  Shit, if someone was trying to destroy this team, they’d have her to contend with. And your story? her inner editor asked. She’d get her story. Even Skinny would have to admit that this was newsworthy. Hell, Sanchez might have been killed. As it was, they didn’t know the extent of his injuries. He might not be able to play…ever again. And what would his poor family do?

  He hadn’t even been able to afford the extra insurance. He might be lying in the charity ward right now if it hadn’t been for Tommy. And there was another story. How ballplayers took care of one another. It went beyond team loyalty. There was something intrinsically good about baseball.

  The bumper stickers didn’t say MOM, GOD, AND BASEBALL for nothing.

  She drove back to the motel, opened her laptop, and started to write. She started from the beginning. With her arrival in Gilbeytown, her first impression of Gilbey Field. She described the team and the fact that they were in last place. She portrayed Bernie as the curmudgeon he was, swinging his cast across the infield to give pointers to one of the young players. The dugout banter. Boskey breaking his slump. Pisano being mugged, Sanchez, hit by a car. She filled pages with stories of loyalty, camaraderie, the competitive spirit, the determination to play ball.

  She held off from mentioning the presence of Tommy B. It would be hard not to have him take over the whole article. If Skinny found out he was here,
he’d demand that she pump him for the reasons, and the rest of the article be damned, and she wanted this installment to be about the Beavers.

  About the players, virtually unknown, who were bringing baseball to a town that had so little left. How baseball brings together the old and new—the old-time residents and the new bedroom communities. At least she assumed it did. Hoped it would. She’d know more about it after the opening game.

  She didn’t mention sabotage. She knew better than write something that couldn’t be substantiated. She ran Spell Check, read through what she had written, and decided to wait until the morning to e-mail it to Skinny.

  Tomorrow she’d pin Tommy down on his theories about the sabotage. She’d ask some questions and begin her investigation. But tonight she would relive her evening with Tommy B.

  And what an evening it had been. She got a rush just thinking about it. Even Sal’s was a sensuous experience, the juice of the ribs dripping down her hands, the fresh crunch of the coleslaw, the tang of barbeque sauce on her tongue. The taste of Tommy.

  She said a prayer for Sanchez and climbed into bed. She snuggled under her new comforter and imagined Tommy’s arms around her as she fell asleep.

  He must be nuts, thought Tommy as he threw socks and underwear into a suitcase. He’d had a tiny moment of panic during that phone call and it had caused him to rashly blurt out that stuff about sabotage. And then he’d walked out without another word. He’d been too bushwhacked to stay.

  It was done. Isotori had signed. They wanted him back in Portland pronto. For a press conference before the news leaked out. It was management’s way. The big splash. The right spin.

  Everyone, including his family, would be shocked. There would be a press conference, lots of mutual praises. Then a mad scramble for interviews. He’d be congenial, tell them all the right stuff, that he’d had a good run; it was time to move on; he had other interests he wanted to pursue.

  He wouldn’t tell them he was quaking inside.

  He’d be headlines for a few days. And then? Baseball had been his life for so long, he was afraid he might flounder without it. That he might regret not seeing it to the end, even with the pain, even with his diminishing ability. But he didn’t want to be like Kurtz who’d hung on too long.

  Tommy didn’t want to end an illustrious career playing or even coaching a team like the Beavers. He loved the team because it was a part of his memories of his father; it was his uncle’s team and it kept the family close.

  He was content to stop while he was at the top. And hope to hell he wasn’t making a gigantic mistake.

  And what would J.T. say? Would she drop him when he was no longer a baseball star? He had a feeling that former stars didn’t carry the same kind of allure that current stars did. He was about to find out.

  And why was he thinking about J.T.? They’d had one night, hell, barely an hour of passionate, mindless sex, that had ended sitting in the emergency room waiting to hear news of Sanchez.

  But what an hour it had been. The memory of her touch set off a reaction in his groin. So best not to think about her. He’d need all his wits for the next few days.

  No. He wouldn’t think about J.T. anymore, but he couldn’t keep her from invading his dreams.

  The first thing J.T. noticed the next morning when she arrived at the field was that Tommy’s Beemer wasn’t in the parking lot.

  Maybe he’d overslept. Well, no wonder. He’d troubled her sleep all night. Maybe she had troubled his? A reminiscent smile flickered across her face. She pushed “those” kind of thoughts away; she was in reporter mode. She’d sent off her article a few minutes ago and wanted to have a second one ready to go.

  She went straight to Bernie’s office. Bernie was sitting at his desk, his cast propped up, looking like a man with no problems while he smoked his cigar. A cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee sat next to it. A copy of the Beaver County Times was spread in front of him, opened to the sports section.

  “I don’t know how you can smoke that thing so early in the morning,” said J.T., making a face and blinking watery eyes.

  “That’s what Nonie says; that’s why I read my paper here.” He gave her a look.

  “Okay, no more bitching. Where’s Tommy?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but it was better to get it over with so she could get on to the real questions.

  His answer made her forget what those questions were.

  “Portland. Where he oughta be.” J.T. swallowed, trying to stop the buzzing in her ears. “He left?”

  “Yep. Drove to Pittsburgh this morning. Caught the first flight out.”

  J.T. sank into a chair. He’d made love to her and left town. She’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. “He’s not coming back?”

  Bernie spit out a tear of tobacco. “Why should he? It’s baseball season.”

  “Oh.” Her head was reeling. She was sure her face would betray her sense of loss and embarrassment.

  She cleared a tight throat. “Well,” she said, trying to sound bright and on top of the world. “He said something strange last night at the hospital.”

  Bernie put down the newspaper, heaved a long-suffering sigh. “How come whenever there’s a woman around, I never get through even one measly page of the sports section. It’s just gab, gab, gab. You’d think a man could have a little peace and quiet in his own damn office.”

  J.T. had learned by now that Bernie’s bark was worse than his bite. She sat down.

  “How is Sanchez?”

  “Concussion. Bruises. No breaks. That’s good. He’s out for two weeks though. Damn drunk drivers.”

  Here was her opening. “Are you sure it was an accident?”

  Bernie narrowed his eyes. Took the cigar out of his mouth. “It was an accident.” He stuffed the cigar back in his mouth and picked up the paper.

  “Before Tommy left last night, he told me to find out who was sabotaging the team.” She realized now that he’d blurted that out, not because he was mad, but because he was leaving. He knew and he hadn’t told her. The bastard.

  “Is someone sabotaging the team?”

  Bernie slapped down the paper. “Look around you, miss big-city reporter. What’s to sabotage?”

  He knew something he wasn’t telling. J.T. sensed it. A thrill of journalistic excitement displaced the post–one-night-stand humiliation. “Come on, Bernie. Fess up.”

  “Hell, then will you leave me alone?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s just some damn fool idea Tommy got. I guess it’s my fault. I called him for advice. Next thing I know, he’s hopped a plane and hightailed it back here. You’d think he was Magnum P.I. or something, the way he was poking into things. Taking this family loyalty thing a bit too far, but that’s Tommy for you.”

  He ruffled his paper. “Now can I read the sports page?”

  “In a minute. How did you fall off the ladder?”

  “The ladder was thirty years old and I ain’t as thin as I used to be.” He slapped his stomach. “A rung broke and I fell off. I broke my leg. Good thing it wasn’t my head. But it was my own damn fault.”

  It sounded reasonable, but she was a reporter. “Where’s the ladder now?”

  “Damn it, J.T. Don’t let Tommy’s imagination get you all juiced up. It was an accident.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, exuding exasperation.

  It didn’t intimidate J.T. in the least. “Where?”

  “Probably got thrown in the Dumpster. But before you go getting your outfit all mucky, they picked up the trash last week.”

  “And the pipe that broke and flooded the clubhouse?”

  Bernie’s eyes shifted away from hers. “The pipe broke. Old pipes break. Look at this place.” He waved his cigar in the air. “It could fall down around our ears this afternoon and it wouldn’t be sabotage. We’re dying here, okay? We don’t win. Our fans are fed up. The new people would rather go watch little league. Larry can barely make the payroll.


  “I got some good talent. But the whole situation is depressing as hell. Being jinxed doesn’t help the morale. And unhappy players play like shit. Now I don’t have a decent starting pitcher. You get it? We’re dying.” He suddenly grabbed the neck of his jersey and yanked it like he was being hanged. “Dead. Done in. Don’t tell the team.”

  J.T. shook her head. She couldn’t believe Bernie was giving up. She’d seen him in action. “You don’t believe in jinxes, do you? Come on, Bernie. What’s really going on around here?”

  “Nothing but bad luck.” Bernie picked up his paper and held it up until she could only see the curl of smoke from his cigar rise above it.

  “I’m not going to let this go, Bernie. If this team folds, it won’t be because I stood by and did nothing.” She stood up. “Now I think you better get your nose out of the paper and your butt off that chair and start preparing Hector Dela Rocha to start.”

  The paper came down. “Dela Rocha? He’s a relief pitcher and barely that. I’m going with Milo.”

  Milo Newton. The baby of the team. She’d watched him in the bullpen. He might be good someday, but for now he was erratic as hell. He still had the gangly coordination of a teenager. Dela Rocha was small, didn’t have speed to speak of, and he might not have a lot of innings in him. J.T. had watched him, too. He had one nasty slider.

  “Humor me. Try out Dela Rocha.”

  She left the office before Bernie could laugh in her face. She doubted if he’d play Hector. After all, what did a girl know about baseball? Especially since she’d only been here a week. But there was one good thing about being Abe Green’s little girl. She had her father’s eye.

  During the lunch break, J.T. drove into town and bought a bunch of flowers for Sanchez at Aguzzi’s Florist. Mr. Aguzzi said, “So you’re the reporter that’s gonna make the Beavers famous,” and gave her the family discount.

  Sanchez wasn’t allowed visitors, but she convinced a nurse to let her drop off her flowers by saying that she was Sanchez’s cousin. The nurse didn’t buy it for a minute, but she thought that a visit might cheer him up.