Come Back to the Ballpark, Maisy Gray

by Cynthia Tennent

  The crickets were just beginning to chirp, but it would be short-lived when the rain hit Comeback. He looked out at the growing darkness for signs of Maisy returning from her run.

  After dinner, Sam had asked for the Grays’ Wi-Fi passcode so he could watch the Turbos game. When her dad insisted that Sam watch the game on the large television in the family room, Maisy had dropped her pan in the kitchen sink.

  Bobby had explained, “It’s his job, Maisy. Sam has to watch the game.”

  She’d said nothing, but the moment she finished the dishes, she ran past them for the stairs. “I’m going for a run.”

  Sam frowned at his phone. Maisy was going to get caught in the rain if she didn’t return soon.

  Dinner tonight had been interesting. The Grays were the kind of tight-knit family that reminded Sam of the sitcoms he grew up watching. A mother and father who didn’t fight. A family meal with homemade food. Friends who felt at ease inviting themselves to dinner.

  Underneath the homey surface was a crackle of electricity as the Grays carefully monitored Maisy’s reaction to the talk of the Turbos. One thing had become obvious as he’d heard the old stories. That asshole had done a real number on Maisy Gray.

  What kind of douchebag made a girl sit in the same seat each game? Even during her prom and softball tryouts? No wonder she didn’t want to go to another game. He pictured her the night of the no-hitter and realized what seeing Halderman must have cost her. It must have been awful to sacrifice so much only to get dumped like that. He had never experienced that kind of loss…well, not the loss of a lover.

  She was one hell of a tough woman.

  When Maisy had realized who he was earlier, she had faced him with the kind of determination that gave underdog teams a winning edge every time they played. Whether she was trying to change a channel or arguing that she wouldn’t come to the ballpark, she didn’t bother with any bullshit layers of protective armor. He admired her honesty and the way she she wore her emotions on the outside for anyone to see. And right now, she was walking up the porch steps with a wariness that made him wish things were different between them.

  “I thought you were watching the game?”

  “Rain-out.”

  The dim light cast shadows across her face as she raised it to the sky. “The stars are coming out here. Maybe it’s just passing.”

  He held up his phone. “The radar looks pretty solid.”

  “Was it before the fifth inning?” He wasn’t surprised that she knew the rain-delay rules.

  “Yeah. We’ll have to schedule another game.” Another thing to handle when he got back to Indy.

  He moved over in the swing. “Care to sit down?”

  She hesitated, making him feel like the wolf coaxing Little Red Riding Hood farther into the forest. “I promise I won’t talk about baseball.”

  “I’ve been running. I need a shower.”

  “Maisy, I spend half my day around sweaty men—” He stopped himself. “Sorry, I said I wouldn’t talk about that.”

  She laughed and sat down gingerly, nodding to his foot. “You should keep your foot elevated.”

  “It doesn’t hurt so much right now.” It was true. He wasn’t thinking about his foot or the pain at the moment.

  “So, you’ve never broken a bone before?” she asked.

  “Lots of bruises, but no broken bones.”

  “Bruises?”

  “Everyone thinks they can slide through you when you are about to make a tag— There I go again. Baseball. Sorry.” He couldn’t believe he’d mentioned baseball again. She must hate him.

  She surprised him with an easy laugh. “Oh, just forget it. You can talk about baseball. I won’t die or anything. Besides, it’s not like we don’t have it in our house, with my brother and all his friends.”

  The sound of the nightly news drifted through the doorway. Sam inclined his head toward Maisy’s father, who was watching the television from his easy chair in the family room. “Sorry about the game and the television earlier. I didn’t realize.”

  “It’s fine. Dad knows he can watch it any time he wants.”

  “But he doesn’t, does he?”

  Her knee was bobbing up and down, vibrating the swing. Sam reached out and stopped it with his hand and a burst of energy shot up his arm. If he could capture it, he’d make millions.

  “Since you are feeling guilty already, I get to ask you a question,” Maisy said.

  “Ask away.” He didn’t like interviews, but he’d make an exception for her.

  “How did you end up becoming the general manager of a Major League Baseball team at such a young age?”

  Realizing his hand was still on her knee, he removed it and crossed his arms. “Long story. Short version is that I grew up loving the sport. I hoped to make the majors like any other kid.”

  “What position did you play?”

  “Catcher.”

  She made a low whistle. “Impressive, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s only the most physically and mentally demanding position on the field.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. Catchers do everything. They control the pitching game and the running game. They have to know the strengths and weaknesses of each pitcher they work with, as well as each hitter on the opposing team.”

  “Don’t forget the part about being an on-field manager, a backstop, strategist, and therapist,” he added.

  “No daydreaming in the outfield for them.”

  He searched her face in the darkness, surprised that she understood the position so well. “Somehow, I thought you would have been more partial to the guys on the mound.”

  She flipped her ponytail and her knee started bobbing again. “They’re divas. They don’t even call the pitches.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I know because I played catcher.”

  “You?”

  She smiled and relaxed against the back of the swing. “Loved it. Unfortunately, I ended up quitting my team and catching for only one pitcher…”

  The softball tryouts she’d missed. He didn’t pursue it.

  She poked him in the shoulder. “Hey, no turning the tables. I want more about your rise to the top, Mr. Hotshot Manager.”

  He chuckled. It polished his pride having Maisy recognize the importance of being a catcher. Usually he was the guy on the field the cute girls didn’t recognize when the mask came off.

  “I loved the position because I loved being in charge. Unfortunately, a guy with a better glove and a longer throw came along.”

  “Did you get cut?” she asked.

  “Long story. Do you really want to hear it?”

  “It’s not raining yet. We won’t melt if we stay out here,” she said, holding her hand over the porch rail.

  Sam sighed. He was rusty at talking about himself, but if it made her feel less threatened by him, it was worth it. “Actually, I took myself out of the game. My college coach was in and out of the hospital for kidney problems all season. As the captain of the team, I kind of stepped into the unofficial coaching role. The players and the assistant coach encouraged me. And it was a power trip calling the plays even when I wasn’t on the field. I spent the season on the bench, and the year after I graduated from college, the team hired me as a manager.”

  “But you’re not in the dugout anymore. You’re in an office, right? Does it bother you that you can only watch the games now?”

  “No.” A horse whinnied in the distance and Sam wondered if Faygo was crying bullshit. “I enjoy the background negotiations in the business of baseball. I worked my way up to the front offices of the Boston Red Sox. Stayed there for five years. And the rest is history.”

  “Don’t you just want to run out on the field sometimes?” She kicked the
ground and he put his foot down to keep the swing from moving.

  “I work with a large team that’s a lot bigger than a twenty-five-man roster, you know.”

  “Is managing as wonderful as you thought it would be?”

  Why was he pausing? The answer should have rolled off his tongue. Being the general manager was wonderful. And it wasn’t.

  “I’m working on that part.”

  She rose from the swing and held out her hand to help him up. “Sorry, but I can’t make your problems any easier.”

  He waved her away. “If you’ve got a catcher’s brain, then you know when it’s time to make a good bluff and throw off the other team. Just think about coming to the game, Maisy.”

  “Oh, no, you have it wrong, Sam. I was also a good hitter. And I know when I see a curve ball.” She stretched her quadricep and touched her toes. She might not play softball anymore, but she moved like an athlete. “The fans will calm down and this will all be nothing by the end of the month.”

  “I don’t know. You said it yourself. Fans can be crazy.”

  “And fickle. They’ll forget about me by next week.” She pointed to his foot. “Do you need help getting upstairs?”

  Sam shook his head. “I have a few more phone calls to make and then I should be fine on my own.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want the old crutch my mother offered?”

  “I’m sure.”

  In totally different circumstances, he would be confident and flirting his ass off. But sitting in old sweat pants and a ragged T-shirt had him feeling grumpy and out of sorts. He was reminded of the days when he would wear wrinkled secondhand clothes to school. The girls in class would feel sorry for him, while the boys would laugh about his Brady-Bunch-era shirts.

  “You’ll feel better tomorrow for sure.” Maisy gave him a sad smile as she moved toward the door.

  He would feel better tomorrow if she decided to come to the ball game.

  When she left, Sam straightened the old T-shirt and grimaced. He kicked the porch floor with his good foot and let the swing rock unevenly.

  Maisy was convinced this would all go away in time. Maybe that was true. But he didn’t have time to wait. His boss wanted Maisy at the ballpark. Those were marching orders. If he didn’t carry them out, he was one failure closer to losing his job. He needed to increase the pressure.

  The swing slowed as he scanned his cell phone directory. He hit the contact he was looking for. When the call was answered, he kept his voice low. “McLean, it’s Sam Hunter.”

  “Hunter?” Luther McLean sounded surprised. “Did you change your mind about doing that interview with me?“

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Sam paused. “I was wondering if you had gone to press yet.”

  “No. The rain-out tonight leaves us with a hole in the middle of the first page of the sports section. Why? You got a trade you want to tell me about?”

  Sam shifted so that he was facing away from the door. “I tell you what…I’ll give you an exclusive interview whenever you want if you put another article in the Star about our good luck charm.”

  Luther chuckled on the other end. “Maisy Gray? Now you’re talking. I want a full hour exclusive.”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Thirty,” Sam said.

  “Shit.”

  Sam smiled. Always negotiate with the end in mind. He had planned thirty minutes all along.

  “But I get to pick the time, Hunter. I call whenever I want. You talk.”

  “That’s a deal. But I want this article tomorrow.”

  “That gives me twenty-five minutes to write it before my editor has a cow. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Sam ignored his whining. “Don’t forget to add the part where the fans are the big losers if Maisy Gray doesn’t come to the game. But don’t blame her. Understand?” He wanted to guilt her but not turn her into a scapegoat.

  “Okay, I’ll blame you,” Luther said.

  “Whatever.” Luther was going to feel like shit when the team lost with Maisy in the stadium.

  “So, Sam, you’re using me to do your dirty work? Tug on the heartstrings so far I might reach a little town in northern Indiana? What’s it called again?”

  “I think it’s Comeback.”

  “Weird name,” Luther said. “Why don’t you just get off your ass and go talk to her yourself.”

  “That would mean I actually would have to work.” He covered the speaker as the damn horse whinnied in the barn again. “Better get back to your computer, McLean. Time’s a-wasting.”

  The other man swore before hanging up.

  The first raindrops started falling. Sam couldn’t help the smug feeling that he was safe and dry from the coming storm. Not only was he about to solve the problem of Maisy Gray, but Kevin Halderman was going to look worse than ever when he couldn’t win even with his good luck charm in the stadium. Sam had also dealt a blow to Luther McLean. Luther would look like an ass when the Turbos lost.

  His original strategy was almost back in play.

  ***

  Maisy stood under the shower and tried not to scream as the hot water cascaded down her face.

  Stupid baseball. It wasn’t fair that this was happening to her. Just when she was feeling strong again, Mr. Hot General Manager had shown up in Comeback. His logic was twisted, but it made weird sense if she admitted it. Baseball fans were incredibly loyal, sometimes fanatical, but never dumb. As superstitious as they often were, they were also the first to admit an error. That’s why they put a big E on the scoreboard when a player made a mistake.

  If she showed up and the Turbos lost, this whole thing would disappear.

  Forget it. She wasn’t going. She didn’t like baseball anymore. Things had changed.

  It was Dad who had taken Maisy and Chad to see their first game. He’d let them skip school for a home opener at Wrigley Field. He’d bought them each a glove for catching foul balls and taught them the rules of the game. Maisy had fallen in love with the game right away, long before she’d fallen in love with Kevin. She’d read Baseball Digest as avidly as other girls read Tiger Beat and Seventeen. She’d kept score, memorized player stats, and hung posters of the greatest on her bedroom wall.

  At first, Dad had been excited about Kevin’s opportunity to play for Major League Baseball’s newest expansion team. He’d adopted the Turbos as his number one team and shared her excitement as Kevin rose to the top. That enthusiasm ended the day Maisy showed up on her parents’ doorstep, suitcase in hand, tears still fresh on her face. That was the day the Turbos had disappeared from the Grays’ house.

  Tonight, with the flick of another damn channel changer, baseball was back. Sam Hunter was to blame. And just like that, she was mad all over again.

  Maisy was still cursing the Turbos and their general manager fifteen minutes later when she left the bathroom. From the bottom of the stairs, she heard Sam talking to her father. “Thank you for your hospitality, Bobby. I’ll be better in the morning.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help you?” Bobby asked as the downstairs lights dimmed. Dad and Mom had built a master bedroom addition on the first floor years ago.

  “I’ll be fine.” Sam said.

  “Our wing is pretty far from the upstairs bedrooms, but don’t get scared if you hear something that sounds like a chain saw in the middle of the night. Bobby’s snoring is pretty loud.” Mom laughed and a door closed.

  The upstairs hallway light sent shadows across Sam’s tall figure as he shuffled up the first step.

  Maisy leaned over the railing. “Do you need any help?” she asked with as much enthusiasm as her students showed for table-cleaning duty at lunch.

  He waved her off. “I’m just slow. I’ll get to the top of the stairs
before morning.”

  “Okay.” She ignored his joke and made her way toward her bedroom. Then she stopped. As irritated as she was, it was her fault Sam was still here. Well, Faygo’s, to be more specific. She should have kept the hose pointed away from his head.

  Maisy waited with her arms crossed. When Sam finally reached the top, she said, “Good job.”

  “I told you not to wait for me.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “It’s a toe, not a broken leg.”

  “Well, I’d hate to get up in the morning and find you facedown at the bottom of the stairs.”

  He tilted his head sideways and his gaze drifted from her head to her bare feet. She wiggled her toes. She wore an oversize red T-shirt with a picture of a bunny on it and black Nike shorts. She was conscious of her face fresh from the shower and her damp hair falling around her shoulders.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Is there a problem?”

  He let his mouth curl up in a sly smile. “Busted.”

  He was teasing, of course. But she couldn’t help the goose bumps that made her body tingle at inappropriate points. Namely two. Or three if she included her lower half.

  He was going to be sleeping in Chad’s bedroom tonight. It was right next to hers. There would be just one wall separating them. Did he sleep in the buff? Or would he wear that sexy pair of boxers she had washed and folded on Chad’s bed earlier? It had felt weird and intimate to wash his clothing. Even stranger to think about the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything beneath the sweatpants now.

  Teasing was definitely called for at a moment like this. “Let me know if you need to borrow a night shirt. I have a pink Beyoncé one somewhere in my drawer. Or Chad might still have some footie pajamas.”

  As if he could read her mind, he said, “No, thanks, I sleep nude.” He snickered and moved past her, toward her brother’s bedroom.

  She swallowed and came back with her own reply, “That makes two of us.”

  He stumbled.