by Pamela Aares
She turned and scooted down the tunnel, the image of Scotty’s puzzled look emblazoned in her mind.
“Hey!”
She turned at the sound of his voice. She hadn’t felt comfortable speaking with him in front of all the other players, hadn’t been sure she could control her voice or face.
“Hey, yourself.”
“I was really sorry to hear about your dad.”
“Thank you.”
They stood under one of those fluorescent lights that made everybody appear like sleep-deprived zombies. Except Scotty. He was as robust and handsome—and off-limits—as ever. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t look.
“What brings you out to the ballpark today? Thought you’d be teaching.”
She came to her senses. He didn’t know, hadn’t guessed. She had to tell him. It wouldn’t be right for her to have spoken with him face to face and not have told him. It was important to her that he heard it from her and not second-hand, not read about it in the press.
She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. She pivoted toward the wall.
“Hey.” Scotty captured her arms with his strong hands and turned her to face him.
She wanted to fold into his arms, to burrow into the warmth and strange bliss that sang in her whenever he touched her. Tears pooled at the back of her eyes. She was not going to cry. Not now. And not during the meeting. And definitely not at the blasted press conference. She was pretty sure she’d be crying later tonight in the condo her father had left to her. But that was her business.
She stepped back. She couldn’t think with him touching her. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to touch her. She wasn’t supposed to touch him. There were going to be way too many things they weren’t supposed to do. Until she sold the team. Even then any relationship between them would be dicey.
There was no gentle way to say it.
“He left me the team.”
Neither of them moved.
She saw the significance register in his eyes. She’d had a week to get used to the fact that she owned him—really, truly, legally owned him. He hadn’t had that luxury.
“Jeez.”
“Yeah,” she said, letting out the breath she’d been holding. “Jeez.”
She wanted to tell him that she was going to sell the team, but that news wouldn’t have been appropriate. As she fished around for something to say, she recognized that nothing about their relationship had been appropriate.
What she would’ve said, she’d never know. The Sabers’ manager, Charley Kemp, barreled down the tunnel and took her by the arm.
“Go work on your fastball,” he said to Scotty. “I’m walking this girl to a meeting.”
She put Scotty out of her mind as Charley hustled her through the hallways of the stadium.
Dick Fisher met Chloe and Charley at the door of the conference room.
“I’ve got this, Kemp,” Fisher said with a dismissive nod to Charley.
“I asked him to stay,” Chloe said.
Fisher stiffened. “That’s not necessary.”
She could’ve walked the line of tension between the two men. The day had gone from bad to worse.
“Miss McNalley can decide what’s necessary,” Mike Thomas said as he walked up behind them.
Chloe tracked her fingers to her throat, rested the tips along her collarbone, as the four of them entered the room. Under her fingertips, her pulse beat faster than she liked. Maybe she’d just imagined the tension between Charley and Fisher. But there was no mistaking Mike’s tone of disdain.
She headed for a seat at the side of the conference table, but Mike squeezed her elbow and led her to the head of it.
“You’re the boss,” he whispered.
She was glad for the ritual introductions. Even more thankful that she’d taken Mike’s advice and sent an email a few days before, calling the meeting and announcing that she owned the team. At least she hadn’t had to break that news face to face.
Many of the staff around the table were new to her, especially the front office people and the marketing honchos. Everyone minced around her as if she were fragile, foreign, as if she might shatter and send shards of glass lancing through them. Though they tried not to show their doubts, the tone of their words made it painfully clear they were less than sure about having her at the helm. Mike poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. The cool glass felt good against the heat of her palms.
She listened to their plans, but found focus hard to maintain. The look in Scotty’s eyes when she’d told him she owned the team haunted her. She dragged her focus back. A staff member halfway down the table was saying something about the advantages that keeping the team in the family would provide. She nodded politely and gave a half smile. She wanted to tell them not to spend too much time spinning her to the press since she planned to sell the team.
But she wasn’t ready to tell anyone that, not yet.
Mike had cautioned her to keep her plans to herself. He’d said there was a buyer who’d been lurking for over a year—the man had the money and he was hot to get the Sabers. She’d already had Mike set up a meeting for next week.
Dick Fisher, the GM, sat next to her. He had smooth manners. Maybe too smooth. He was impeccably dressed, as if there were a store where you could walk in and tell them to make you look rich, powerful and polished. He probably didn’t have a humble bone in his body. But as he gave her another toothy, gleaming smile, she realized sports teams didn’t need humble. They needed leaders with chops.
The guy probably had chops, certainly more than she did. But he’d only been with the Sabers for six months. She knew little about him. Her dad had rarely talked about Fisher, but as she sat next to him, she began to vibrate with a creeping unease. Maybe it was the way some of the staff held their bodies as they spoke to him, or maybe it was the strange tension she felt coming from Charley. Wherever it came from, it was palpable.
She forced herself to sit back, unclench her fist.
She wrote her unease off to jitters and her fear that she was in over her head. She wished George Ellis, the former general manager, was still with the team. He’d been with the Sabers since day one, since the day her dad had thrown out the first pitch as owner. But George had a right to retire—he was pushing seventy.
The meeting ended and several of the staff offered condolences. Reliving her sadness with each statement, each glance turned away, was exhausting. Who knew that grief required so much effort? When her mother died she’d been young. Maybe it’d been exhausting, but she couldn’t remember.
And she still wasn’t done for the day. Next was a grilling by the press. She suspected they wouldn’t push too hard this close to her father’s death, but that didn’t necessarily mean they’d hold back either. She gulped down a last sip of water, popped a mint into her dry mouth, flexed and massaged her hands a couple of times, and stepped into the hall.
Mike Thomas and Dick Fisher flanked her as she walked into the press conference. The lights were blinding and the room was hot. Forty reporters crowded close to the raised dais. There’d been only a few women baseball owners in the history of baseball, and Chloe’s heart went out to all of them in belated support as she stepped onto the dais and stood in front of the cameras and microphones.
“What about the trade for Scotty Donovan?” A grizzled reporter in the front row called out in a voice that boomed above the others. “How’d you get the Giants to give up a star pitcher?”
Chloe looked over to Fisher and waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, the silence grew awkward and all eyes turned to her.
She willed her blush to recede, but it didn’t obey. She didn’t know the details of the deal, and she didn’t want to talk about the team, about her, owning Scotty. Nabbing Scotty from the Giants had been a coup, but she had no idea what had lured the Giants into giving him up. The minor league players traded in the deal had been first-round draft choices and the cash the team had laid out must’ve been very enti
cing.
“The details of that trade are confidential,” Fisher finally replied.
“Since when are trade details a secret?” the grizzled reporter shouted out.
“Ignore him,” Mike whispered to her.
A woman stepped forward. She was Chloe’s age and impeccably dressed. She had the bright eyes of someone on the track of something important.
“Amy Peroni from KRGX,” the woman said, politely identifying herself. “Miss McNalley, the city council has yet to approve the three-hundred-million-dollar loan and the zoning for the build-out of the Sabers’ new stadium. Any thoughts about how your father’s death might affect their vote this summer?”
Chloe wanted to say it wasn’t any of the woman’s business, but it was. The Sabers were a major employer in San Jose, and the World Series win had put the city on the map as more than just a high-tech enclave. She knew the real question was whether the city had any confidence in her. She looked over to Dick Fisher, but again he just nodded back at her. She had no choice but to field the question. She’d been so focused on the team, its composition and its members, that she hadn’t had time to review the numbers for the new stadium deal in any depth.
“Everything’s in place,” Mike whispered to her.
Chloe leaned her palms against the podium. Her insides trembled, but she did her best to keep her face composed and her voice steady, and hoped that it wasn’t too obvious that she wasn’t used to being in the limelight. Her familiar classroom loomed as a refuge she couldn’t wait to return to.
“I assure you,” Chloe said, “that all funds committed by the McNalley Corporation for the build-out of the stadium remain in place.” Her voice sounded flat, but that was better than shaky. “We remain fully behind the plan for the new stadium.”
“Rumors are flying that you might sell the team,” Amy said.
Chloe felt her skin flush a deeper red. She hadn’t talked with anyone but Mike about her plans, and he wouldn’t have leaked anything to the press. It occurred to her that the reporters were assuming she couldn’t or wouldn’t handle the pressures of ownership; maybe everyone was. But whether she sold or not, she’d make sure the team was in good shape and that the city had the confidence to vote the loan through.
“The Sabers are the heart of San Jose.” Chloe leaned closer to the bank of microphones. “I intend to make sure they stay just that.”
“There’s a game to cover,” Dick Fisher said with a wave of dismissal. “We’ll see you all out there.”
He turned to Chloe and motioned for her to follow him away from the podium. She was grateful when Mike offered his arm as she stepped down and then walked with her out of the room.
“It’ll get easier,” Dick Fisher said as they walked back to the front office. “You just make a couple of photo-worthy appearances, hang out in the owner’s box. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve got it all covered.”
He flashed his smooth, toothy smile. Chloe was sure she saw Mike glare at him, but maybe it was an effect of the lights.
“You can probably finish out your semester,” Fisher went on in a light, friendly tone. “I imagine you want to do that. I can handle everything from here on out.”
The guy said all the right things to give her the creeps.
Chapter Eight
Three days later Chloe walked back into Mike Thomas’s office. Bill Halliman, the venture capitalist Mike had said was hot to buy the team, was already there. She’d seen a Maserati in the parking lot. Why was it that they always had to be red?
Both men stood as the receptionist ushered her into the room. Mike introduced them and as she sat, they did too.
“Mr. Halliman has met the terms we discussed,” Mike said.
Chloe focused on Mike. His face was smooth, untroubled, but she knew from his tone that something wasn’t right.
“I’ve agreed that you can keep a share in the television revenues,” Mr. Halliman jumped in. He spoke as though he’d already cut a deal. Worse, his tone was almost patronizing.
“I take it you like the game,” she said.
“I like all sorts of games, Miss McNalley. You may have heard I just bought a majority share in the expansion hockey team.”
She hadn’t heard. They were here to discuss baseball. To discuss the future of the Sabers.
“What do you think of the Seals?” She asked the question in her sweetest voice, wanting to get the full measure of the man. The Seals were the triple-A team in the Sabers’ minor leagues. Her dad had worked hard to develop the Sabers’ farm system. At every level they cultivated talent, and the quality of the program was one of the team’s greatest strengths.
Mr. Halliman lifted his hands and appealed to Mike. He clearly knew nothing about the Seals.
“It’s the bush league’s strongest team,” Chloe said, intentionally using the less glamorous nickname for the minor league system just to see his reaction.
“I don’t do bush league.” He laughed. It didn’t appear to disturb him that neither Chloe nor Mike appreciated his joke. “In fact, I heard there are some great Japanese players willing to play for cheap. Bringing some of them in will be great for ratings. People love novelty.”
“My father preferred to bring players up through the ranks—”
“That style of development is old school and takes too long. Gotta go where the market leads, my dear. People want flash.”
He’d cut her off before she could add that the minor league system was a way to build team leadership as well as skills.
“People want a solid team, Mr. Halliman,” she said.
“Yes, well, of course that.”
He’d said that like a solid team was a commodity. As if a team was something you could put together with PR clippings and Twitter feeds, something you could buy, like parts for a car. She fisted her hands in her lap and tried not to grit her teeth. She shot a knowing glance to Mike, but he didn’t say anything. She was on her own.
“I’ll think about your offer, Mr. Halliman.”
He gave her a look here, little lady look. “I was under the impression that we could seal this deal today. I have to be in New York tomorrow.”
“It’s nice in New York this time of year,” she said, just barely keeping the bile out of her voice. She stood and though she didn’t want to, she offered her hand. “As I said, I’ll think it over.”
After he left, she whipped around to Mike.
“I can’t believe you thought he’d be a good owner for the Sabers.”
“I never said he’d be good. I just said he had an offer. You were in a pretty big hurry to dump the team last week.”
“He’s a jerk. You heard what he said. He’d pull the team apart in less than a month. He has no respect for the farm system.”
“Apparently not.”
She studied his bland expression, the lips he was obviously fighting to keep closed. “Why am I getting the distinct impression that you and my dad cooked this whole thing up for reasons of your own?”
“It was his wish for you to have the team, Chloe. I had nothing to do with it.”
She sat back in her chair. He wouldn’t tell her more, but she was still suspicious. “And why is that box here? It belongs in our library at Woodlands.” Her library now. But it did belong there. It’d sat on her dad’s desk at the estate all her life. She felt her grief sticking like cotton in her throat. Mike was great, but without her dad, she felt alarmingly alone.
“That box will be opened by you on the day you marry.”
She couldn’t believe he’d said it. Just like that.
“Perhaps Dad failed to tell you that there are no prospects for that particular activity?”
“In any case, it’ll be here for you.”
He walked around the desk and handed her a tissue for the tears starting to spill.
“He had strong ideas, your father, most of them good. But what he cared about most of all was that you’d be happy. He didn’t want you to be alone.”
&n
bsp; “Funny way of seeing to that,” she sniffed. She wasn’t sure what she meant. But as she sat staring at the box, she made a decision.
“I’m keeping the team, Mike. You may have to bail me out more than you like, but I’m keeping it.”
“Atta girl.”
Chloe stared at the papers she had spread over nearly every surface in the San Jose condo. It was the condo her dad used when the team was in town. She’d decided to sleep there a few more weeks. There was no way she could move back into Woodlands, not just yet. She’d gone over a few times, met with the house and grounds staff, but it’d be a while before the walls stopped reminding her of every happy memory of her dad. Besides, this place was close to the stadium. And she’d hardly spent any time in it, so there were fewer memories to haunt her.
She’d passed most of the morning reviewing reports, memorizing rosters and reviewing box scores, surprised at how much she remembered. She gave a silent prayer of thanks for those evenings at Woodlands when her dad had let her read in a corner, listening. She’d soaked up more than she’d realized. And those times had been more precious than she’d realized.
The scouting reports sat on the counter right where he'd left them. She read through the stack. She expected the task to be more of a challenge, but it didn’t take more than an hour to get the gist of them.
It struck her as odd that her dad had been paying such close attention to these sorts of details, but he was an owner who liked to keep a hand in every aspect of the game.
Chloe tapped her pencil on the granite counter. Thank goodness Charley Kemp appeared to be in robust health. Charley she could trust.
She wasn’t so sure about Dick Fisher.
Maybe it was just a personality thing, but she’d seen the way Fisher spoke to Charley and had logged Charley’s stiff responses. Charley’s reaction sent fists of unease deep into her belly.
When George had a stroke and had to retire the previous summer, her dad hadn’t had much time to replace him. It amazed her that he’d had any energy to do anything given the advanced stage of his cancer. But he’d fooled them all. He’d fooled her. It still hurt that he hadn’t told her, hadn’t wanted to talk about what he was facing, to let her share his challenges. But he was like that. She’d have to make her peace with his decisions.