“Excellent.” Crush swung his legs off the desk, took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the mayor’s desk. She shied away from it as if it might explode. His mouth quirked in a way that Sadie had to admit was appealing. “It’s all right, Mayor Trent. It’s tickets to tonight’s game against the Round Rock team. We have some special things going on for Sluggers for Slugs. Your presence would make it all the more special.”
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor.” The mayor rose gracefully to her feet, like a queen dismissing a servant. “But I’m one hundred percent sure I have other plans that don’t involve grown men playing a silly boys’ game.”
If Sadie hadn’t been sitting so close to Crush, she would have missed his flinch. “One of the beautiful things about baseball, Mayor Trent, is that every once in a while you come into a situation where you have to reach down and prove something. Nolan Ryan said that. But maybe you don’t know who Nolan Ryan is, and that would be your loss. I’ll see you at the ball game.”
He addressed that last to Sadie, with a quick wink. When he was gone, so quickly he could have been a real catfish riding the current, leaving a swirl of ripples behind, Mayor Trent collapsed back in her chair.
“That man,” she ground out. “I don’t understand why people get so excited about ballplayers.”
Sadie didn’t dare point out that she looked more churned up than she’d ever seen her.
“No smart woman should go anywhere near them,” continued the mayor. “If we’ve learned nothing else, we’ve learned that, haven’t we, Sadie?”
“So true, Mayor Trent.” So very, very far from true. It was embarrassing, the amount of time she’d spent thinking about Caleb since that encounter in her Chevy.
She cleared her throat. “I’d better get a press release going.” As she stood, the mayor pushed the envelope across the desk to her.
“You go to the game. I want you to keep an eye on things for me. But avoid the press, and for pity’s sake, let’s hope Caleb Hart manages to stay out of trouble.”
Sadie hurried back to the safety of her little cubicle. In her swivel chair, with the familiar smell of ink and vacuum-cleaned carpet, she closed her eyes and made a vow. No more Caleb Hart. Keep it professional. Nothing but professional.
On his way into the ballpark, Caleb ran into Crush Taylor. The owner held a silver flask in one hand, which gave Caleb a shock. No member of the team or the coaching staff would consider drinking this close to a game.
“Nice to see you again, Hart,” said Crush.
Caleb nodded and shook his hand. They’d met a few times, and he always had to overcome a moment of being starstruck. Crush was probably about fifty, and looked fit enough to be twenty years younger. The first scouts who’d watched Caleb pitch had compared him to Crush Taylor. They were both big, rangy Texas kids. They had the same fiery competitiveness, even a similar windup.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the thing in the stands—” he began. If the owner wanted an explanation, he’d decided, he would give him the truth. He respected the man too much to lie. But instead, Crush waved him off.
“Just another wacky day in Triple A. It’s being played as a goofy kicker on the newscast. I’m not worried about it.” Crush offered him the flask. “Like a drink?”
Caleb shook his head no. He rarely drank. And especially not with the thunder of the fans in the bleachers overhead. It felt deeply disrespectful.
“Good man,” said Crush approvingly. “Take care of your body. Very important.”
“I do my best.”
Crush took a swig. “I always had to let off steam. Might have taken it overboard on a few occasions. Managers always lectured me, but I won games for them, which pretty much shut them up. And now . . . well, it’s a good thing not to answer to anyone. I’m enjoying the hell out of it.”
Caleb nodded, though to him, it didn’t look as though Crush was enjoying life much. As the legendary pitcher tilted the flask to his lips, Caleb noticed the deep grooves alongside his mouth and the bloodshot weariness in his eyes.
“How’s that Can the Catfish fiasco going?” the owner asked.
“Well, they haven’t dropped the petition.”
“That damn pain-in-the-ass woman.”
Caleb bristled. “Sadie Merritt? I wouldn’t call her that, sir.”
“No, not her. That mayor.” His frustrated exhale carried a whiff of whiskey.
Caleb relaxed a bit. “Mayor Trent. I haven’t met her. But you can’t blame her for the petition.”
Crush beckoned him to follow as he crossed the parking lot toward the owner’s reserved spot. “Maybe not, but she could stop it if she wanted. Those church ladies put her on a pedestal. They’ll do whatever she says. I’d tell them all to go fly a kite, but the Friars already hate my guts. They’ll jump on anything to get rid of me. But I’m not going to go, Hart. I’m stubborn that way. It’s why I didn’t retire until I was forty-two. I like to do things in my own time, in my own way, and to hell with everyone else.”
He gave a rude gesture, as if flipping off the universe, as they approached an immaculate sports car gleaming in the late day sun. Caleb’s mouth practically watered at the sight. So that’s what three Cy Young Awards and a twenty-year pitching career could get you.
“Saint Wendy,” scoffed Crush. “I saw her today, walked right into the lion’s den. She looks like she’s been carved out of salt. I don’t see the fuss, to be frank.”
“I know Sadie has a lot of respect for her.”
Crush stopped and shot him a sharp look. “Sadie, is it? Listen to me, son. You’re a single guy, right? Never been married? Divorced?”
“No, never been married.”
“I’ve been married three times. It’s a fucking wonder I have any money left. Always wanted kids, but instead I got a baseball team. I could have bought into a major league team if I hadn’t lost my head three times. Why does a guy get married three times, Hart?”
Caleb shrugged. Just what was in that flask, he wondered, and how much had Crush imbibed?
“I got carried away with ideas of love and family. Load of bull. They just wanted the fame and the cash. Real life didn’t match up with their ideas, and they got out with whatever they could grab. I’ll tell you a hard truth, Hart. You ready?” He clicked the automatic key and the silver Porsche answered with a pleasant beep.
Caleb nodded, debating the chances of Crush Taylor asking him to take his sports car for a spin. Right now he’d much rather have the man’s car than his advice.
“Keep your focus on baseball. That’s what’ll get you to the top. The girls are just a distraction. And you’ll get a million of them coming after you. I’m not saying you have to be a monk. Just be smart. And for Chrissake, don’t marry any of ’em. Not until you’ve made your mark. And get a damn good prenup.”
He opened the door of the Porsche and tossed the flask on the front passenger seat. God, it must be close to empty.
“I’ve been watching you. I have my theories about what’s holding you back.”
“With all due respect—”
Crush held up a hand. “It’s your business. Yours and the Friars. I’m staying out of it. But I’m asking you as one lefty pitcher to another. I’m putting a big wad on this Sluggers for Slugs deal. Make sure it doesn’t become a circus, would you? I want to prove that ice statue at City Hall wrong.”
He slid into the driver’s seat, bumping his head on the silver-coated frame.
“Sir, are you sure you should drive? Want me to drop you somewhere?”
“Nice try, Hart.” Crush winked. “You do what I say and you’ll end up with a Porsche of your own.”
“Right.”
Chapter 12
THAT NIGHT’S GAME, the kickoff for Sluggers for Slugs, was standing room only. Even the grassy area beyond right field was filled with picnickers and kids running this way and that, blowing bubbles and playing tag. Not only that, but extra media packed the press box. Sadie gave them a wide
berth, but took note of the familiar local reporters alongside the better-dressed members of the national press.
Sluggers for Slugs banners adorned the box office. At the gate, she had received a little bag of sour gummi worms with a Sluggers for Slugs sticker on it. Mindful of her duty to report back to Mayor Trent, she took pictures of everything. She pocketed the gummi worms for the mayor’s niece.
Sadie’s ticket turned out to be for a seat just behind home plate. Donna was supposed to meet her, depending on when the Shark’s mother got home from work. Part of Sadie hoped she didn’t make it, so she could stare at Caleb nonstop without having to talk to someone.
Excitement buzzed through the packed stadium. The scent of peanuts and cotton candy hung pleasantly in the evening air. The announcer had been stirring up the crowd for a while, leading them in cheers and the Catfish “clap”—two longs, a short, and a long. A microphone was set up in the middle of the field. The Jumbotron flashed the names of kids who’d been selected for the privilege of standing next to the players during the National Anthem. A flurry of kids dashed down the corridors to the gates that opened onto the field. A slim young woman in a cowboy hat led them onto the diamond. She went straight to the microphone and adjusted it to her height.
“And now, please welcome Ms. Daisy Lynn, a member of the Baptist choir down on Main. She’s going to sing our favorite song for us, and your very own Kilby Catfish!” As soon as the crowd erupted into a huge roar, the announcer added, almost as an afterthought, “And give a hand for the Round Rock Express. Hey, they’re from Texas too, they can’t be all bad.”
Sadie rolled her eyes at that, but the thrill was contagious, and she rose to her feet along with everyone else as players streamed onto the field from both dugouts. Right away her gaze arrowed in on Caleb. She’d know that body anywhere—long and tough and rangy. He looked so good in his baseball uniform that her mouth literally watered. She watched him intently as he trotted to the lineup of players and stood next to a thin boy who gazed up at him as if he were the Holy Spirit incarnate.
She couldn’t blame him.
Caleb smiled down at the kid and offered him a handshake. A huge grin split his face, and Sadie couldn’t help smiling as well. In her opinion, Caleb wore the hero worship well. But she had a feeling she was no longer objective on the subject.
The girl began to sing, her pretty voice floating over the hushed crowd, mingling with the first chirps of the evening crickets and the occasional crackle of feedback from the mike. She was just reaching a full-throated finish when the crowd decided she was done, roaring and stomping their feet with wild applause. She didn’t seem to mind. She waved cheerfully, offered a quick curtsey, and skipped off the field, followed by the kids.
“Play ball!” the umpire yelled.
Sadie settled down with a happy sigh and stuck her hand into her box of Cracker Jacks. The atmosphere in the ballpark was pure rowdy fun, and she loved how everyone was getting into the spirit of Sluggers for Slugs. The gummi slugs were a huge hit. The Jumbotron occasionally flashed random facts about the horn-toed slug. “Did you know that the horn-toed slug is a native Texan?” A photoshopped image of a slug in a cowboy hat drew groans from the audience.
All the problems plaguing her faded away as if they’d never existed. What could be better than baseball on a warm summer evening, and a chance to stare at her crush all night long?
She planned to take full advantage of the opportunity. She’d even brought the binoculars her mom once used for watching the hummingbirds on the backyard feeder. The Catfish took the field, jogging to their positions, while the first Round Rock batter loosened up outside the batter’s box. She fixed her binoculars on Caleb, who was throwing warm-up pitches to a very well-built player in a catcher’s mask. She focused on his face, stern and completely focused. He was chewing something and a little muscle in his jaw jumped and flexed. If he was nervous, it certainly didn’t show. He looked cool, calm, and completely controlled. And devastatingly attractive, those silver-steel eyes gleaming with intensity.
Remembering how he’d looked as he made her come, she had to drop the glasses for a second and take a breath. It didn’t seem possible that this confident, unruffled man, the master of the diamond, could have lost control with her the way he had. He’d actually ejaculated in his pants.
She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop an embarrassing rush of giggles.
The elderly black man to her right turned to wink at her. He wore a weathered deer-hunter hat and had a cane propped against one knee. “Don’t be embarrassed, chickie. All the girls are mooning after Hart since he got here.”
“I’m not mooning,” she said, flushing. “I’m just watching the game.”
“Well, if you aren’t, you’re the only one. Lookie over there.” He pointed to a group of girls leaning over the railing above the dugout. With their bare midriffs and teased hair, they could have been extras in a music video. Laughing and hooting, they held up a banner that read, HEY CALEB, COME AND GET US, BABY.
“Ever since he jumped into the stands to go after that man, all the girls are hoping he’ll do the same for them,” explained her neighbor.
Sadie gave an incredulous laugh. “That’s ridiculous. I’m sure that was a onetime incident. Players don’t make a habit of climbing into the stands.”
“Not usually, at least not during a game. But with Caleb Hart, you never know what you’re going to get. Man’s unpredictable as lightning. It’s what makes him so good.”
Sadie raised her binoculars again and filled her vision with Caleb’s intent, rawboned face. “I don’t know that much about baseball. How good is he?”
Blatant ploy to talk about Caleb, anyone?
“That’s a million-dollar question right there. He could be one of the greats. He’s got it all. Hundred-mile fastball, pretty accurate placement, and the kind of hunger like you saw in my day. He’s got that fire in the belly, and can’t no one teach you that. I seen Nolan Ryan pitch, Catfish Hunter, Crush Taylor, and they all had the same characteristic. Know what that is?”
“No, what?” Sadie abandoned all pretense that she wasn’t utterly fascinated by what the man was saying.
“Star quality. When they’re on the mound, you can’t hardly look at anyone else. It’s like they hold the entire game in the palm of their hand. Takes your breath away. Like watching Picasso paint, or listening to Aretha Franklin sing the blues. Caleb Hart’s got it too. You just try to look away when he’s pitching. I bet you a box of Cracker Jacks you can’t.”
“I don’t gamble.”
Besides, that was a bet she’d lose, since she couldn’t even tear her binoculars away from the man on the mound. Caleb gazed over his glove at the catcher, gave a slight nod, then reared back. Quick as a rattlesnake, he flung the ball toward home plate, ending with his right hand nearly in the dirt. She kept the glasses fixed on his face, where satisfaction echoed the applause from the stands.
“Steee-rike!” called the umpire.
The man next to her clapped once. “Good start. When his slider is on, they can’t touch him. Everyone gambles, girl.”
“I don’t,” she said firmly. “I don’t like to leave things to chance. Chance might screw things up.”
The man laughed. “She does have a nasty habit of messing up your plans. Ever heard of a prop bet?”
At that, the young man in the row in front of them, who was sitting with his pretty blond wife and two squirming boys, turned to face them. “I’ll take you up on one of those. I’ll put ten dollars on Catfish Bob’s first bathroom break. Bottom of the fourth inning.”
“Done.” They shook hands.
“Are you supposed to do that?” Sadie leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. On the field, the first batter struck out. Caleb tugged at the bill of his ball cap and circled the mound, waiting for his next victim.
“Sure, why not? It don’t hurt anyone. These games can get awful long.”
The other man winked. “Got anot
her one for you. How long you think our pitcher there’s going to last? Will he make it to five innings this time?”
“Now there you lost me. I won’t ever bet against a pitcher like Hart.”
Just then a mighty crack of the bat pulled everyone’s attention back to the field. A batter had just swung so hard at a pitch that he’d ended up on his knees in the dirt, his bat cracked in half. The catcher, who Sadie now recognized as the guy from the Roadhouse, rose to his feet, the ball safely in his glove. It looked like he was trying not to laugh at the ridiculous posture of the batter. The catcher tossed the ball back to Caleb, then offered the fallen batter a hand. He brushed it off, pulled himself to his feet and stalked toward the visiting dugout. Catcalls and hoots rained down on him.
Along the sidelines, Catfish Bob, the mascot, did a hip-thrusting dance and pumped his fists in the air, inciting more cheers from the audience. The girls with the banner jumped up and down and shrieked Caleb’s name.
Caleb ignored the crowd, keeping his focus on the ball in his hands, which he stared at intently while the next batter came to the plate. What was going through his mind? How did he handle being the center of attention for so many people? Thousands of people watching every move you made, analyzing it, admiring, second-guessing, envying. The pressure must be so intense.
And what about the secret he was keeping from everyone? Did it make him anxious every time he stepped on the mound, that someone might finally recognize him as the son of the notorious Thurston Hartwell II?
The next batter went down swinging as well. Three batters, three strikeouts. The Catfish fans went nuts as the teams headed for the dugouts. Catfish Bob did cartwheels down the third base line. The Katy Perry song “Roar” blasted over the loudspeakers. The first stars twinkled to life in the deep indigo sky beyond the stands. Sadie shivered as an electric feeling took hold.
Magic. She was in the presence of magic.
Feeling like a spy, she swung the glasses toward the Catfish dugout, and then doubled back to focus on the Jumbotron, where a big Sluggers for Slugs graphic had appeared. Want to join the Catfish and help save our local Kilby slugs? Sure, they’re slimy, but you know how good they are for catching catfish, y’all.
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