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by Brio, Alessia; Belegon, Will

  Although apprehensive at the start, Brad and Eric continued to surprise her with their open-mindedness, generosity, and enthusiasm. Each time she met with them, she watched for signs of conflict. Thus far, she'd found no indication that their triad was anything other than a source of enjoyment.

  Andi couldn't recall any other time when her happiness was so interwoven with that of another—or two others, in this instance. She typically kept the keys to her happiness deep inside, where they were safe. Exposing them, allowing them to dance at the edges of her control, both thrilled and terrified her, in equal measure. Here, she mused, there be dragons. Here, also, unparalleled treasure.

  Flipping open her phone, she checked the time. Jay David was already fifteen minutes late, and Andi fought to suppress a nascent annoyance. Unlike him to be anything other than prompt, if not early. She decided to wait another five minutes before calling. Andi motioned to the waitress, who held up one finger, the telephone sandwiched between shoulder and ear.

  "Sorry," she said moments later as she refilled Andi's coffee cup and automatically fished three creams from her apron. "Had to get that takeout order first. He's one of our regulars, and the way the team's playing, I feel it's almost my, like, duty to reward him with some extra special service. Know what I mean?"

  "Oh, I believe I do. Most definitely." Andi smiled, wondering what the woman would think if she knew the type of rewards Andi delivered. The chirp of her phone interrupted them, and she winked her thanks at the waitress as she looked at its display. Jay David's office.

  "Where the hell are you, bitch?" she answered, not bothering to say hello and hoping that the depth of her concern was masked by the playful tone in her voice.

  A clipped voice followed initial gasp. "Ms. Spring, Mr. Welch asked me to extend his apologies and let you know he's running late. He expects to join you by one o'clock and requests you send him a text message if you wish to cancel." With that, his prim secretary abruptly ended the call.

  One o'clock. Twenty-five more minutes. Having no fixed agenda for the afternoon, Andi decided to wait. She opened her briefcase and fished around until she found the desired report. Immersing herself in its colorful bar graphs and pie charts, the time passed quickly. At the jingle of the bell over the diner's door, she looked up, fully expecting to see Jay David. A feeling of déjà vu swept through her as she locked eyes with Mark Hamilton, the other architect of her lovers' success.

  His eyebrows lifted slightly in recognition, but otherwise he showed no sign of surprise at her presence. Fascinated by his composure, Andi felt an urge she thought she outgrew in college. She wanted to confront him—to force his attention, an impulse she knew to be counterproductive. Men always noticed her. She typically just let them figure out what to do about it.

  The waitress rushed to greet him with an obvious blend of desire and awe. "Coach! We just put your order on the grill. I didn't realize you were so close. Give us five minutes?"

  He nodded, and she beamed as if she had just been granted a reprieve from the governor. Andi returned her attention to the market research report, acknowledging the accuracy of Jay David's prediction. With the fliers being the only variable that had changed, the destinations alone showed a clear correspondence to the GLBT community. A nine percent bump would be minor in one hotel but not when spread over several locations.

  As a figure slid into the booth across from her, she spoke without looking up. "You're late, slut!" Andi blew across the top of her mug and took a tentative sip of the steaming beverage, her eyes still on the paperwork before her.

  "I apologize," Hamilton replied. "The gentleman at table three delayed me when he asked for an autograph. We haven't been officially introduced, Miss Spring, but I do feel like I know you in some ways."

  Andi awkwardly swallowed the hot coffee, ignoring the burning sensation on her tongue while fighting to halt the blush she felt climbing up her neck. She made a show of tapping her papers on the table to distract his attention from her face before replying, confident that she'd prevented him from noticing her discomfiture.

  "I could say the same, Mr. Hamilton. Brad is especially impressed. He credits you with his increased strikeout ratio. Something about correcting an arm-slot difference between his fastball and change-up, whatever the hell that means. He says you're the reason he might see a few Cy Young votes."

  "Interesting. The rest of the staff would probably credit you with his improvement. Not the mechanics, mind you, just the results. Although I assure you Brad is not sharing the reasons for that theory with his teammates, you must admit that it is hard for any man not to notice your presence in a room. It has not gone unmentioned that you've broken your rule against hometown boys—especially with Eric topping ninety-eight for the first time in years. Jack Snyder must be very upset. And please, call me Mark."

  Andi burst out laughing when he mentioned Snyder. She imagined the look on his face when the grapevine delivered the news.

  "I begin to see the attraction. You have a lovely laugh, Miss Spring."

  "Thank you. Call me Andi. I appreciate… Hey, wait! Begin to see the attraction?"

  "It takes more than beauty to hold my interest, Andi. The respect that two pitchers I hold in high regard have for you is one thing, but I always make my own judgments about people. I've learned to trust my instincts, but I prefer to confirm them. They're usually correct." "Alright, Mark. Care to explain that cryptic little comment?" He gave her an appraising look, and Andi felt like he could see inside her. It was the type of scrutiny she associated with high-powered clientele, not ballplayers.

  "I've noticed the pattern—the schedule—Moreno and Olson have as regards you, and I also see a side of them that you don't. It's clear you're being very careful. By now, I expected at least a minor disagreement between them. But, although there is definitely some friendly competition and a boatload of envy from the other players, there is no animosity. I appreciate that—very much. I know your rep. You don't get emotionally involved. Some would call you a cold-hearted bitch with an extremely well-notched belt. You're proving to me that you are more than an adventuress."

  "Thanks…I think." Andi looked deep into his eyes, wondering about his motives. Startling, she thought, how they can be that blue with the rest of his coloring so dark, and there's a spark inside them that… Andi shook her head to dismiss the image of Mark looking up at her with those piercing eyes from a very different vantage.

  "They both want very much to impress you. Plus, Eric thinks you're the reason he's finally going to the playoffs after all the years. You can't imagine what it's like for a player to perform as well as Eric has for so long and not have that experience. He still hasn't forgiven himself for his rookie year. If we can win today and then take at least two out of three over the weekend… Hmm." Mark looked toward the street, but his focus seemed inward. She watched the subtle play of expressions dance across his features, with uncertainty as fleeting and ephemeral as the blink of a firefly on a sultry August night. Once it flickered past, she had to convince herself she'd seen it in the first place. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and spoke while slowly turning his face to her. "Andi, I'm going to follow those instincts I was talking about. You can't tell anyone, even the boys. Not yet, anyway. We're keeping this close to the vest until the Cards announce their rotation."

  Andi leaned forward despite herself, both amused and intrigued by the conspiratorial tone and wanting to hear every word as Mark lowered his voice to a whisper.

  "I'm bumping Brad up a day. He doesn't know it yet, but he's gonna pitch Sunday against St. Louis. I need my very best. The series is just too important."

  While she failed to grasp the strategic importance of keeping such a change confidential, it was clear that he believed it to be critical, and Andi fully understood the value of insider information from a psychological perspective. But, she furrowed her brow, trying to decide why he felt compelled to share it with her.

  "I'm hesitant to buy into the superstitions about
your magic, but Moreno believes. Are you busy Saturday night?"

  Andi's jaw dropped, her reaction split between indignation at the gall it took to suggest that she fuck one of his players on a given night and the trust he exhibited by telling her about the change. Under any other circumstances, such a rude question would've met with the full force of her anger. Instead, she held it in check. Something about his tone and the way his gaze held hers while he spoke made her feel like they were coaches planning strategy. Mark needed to know how to make his game plan, and Andi held a piece to that puzzle. He was asking for her help.

  "You've got a lot of nerve. Not that it's any of your fucking business, but I won't let my boys down." She shook her head again, allowing her disbelief to show on her features. "I can't believe you actually asked me that."

  "Look, Miss Spring…Andi. We all have our ways of dealing with the pressure. Brad Moreno is one very intelligent young man, one very talented young man. He's not like a lot of these guys. A lot of ballplayers think they're exempt from the world. You know this. Brad's not like them. He feels a sense of responsibility. It's part of what makes him so good. But in this case…playing for this team." He shook his head and gave a woeful smile. "Cub fans are nuts. Brad's aware, and he relishes it—but he's nervous. Sunday, he may have a chance to deliver a moment that people are gonna tell their grandkids about. The problem with Moreno is, he knows it. My opinion is he'll be trying too hard."

  "And you believe I can change that?" Andi gave him a leer as she said it, a slight tilt of her head in a flirtatious manner. She expected to get a grin. Instead, he blushed. It seemed out of character.

  "Maybe. I know Moreno does. Olson, too, maybe more so. They both think the world of you. I don't envy you if they ever let the friendly competition between them escalate, although half the women in Chicago will."

  "I'm not looking to choose one of them over the other, Mark. I don't place those kinds of arbitrary limits on myself. You don't really think I would do anything to mess with either one of their heads before the end of the season, do you?"

  "No. And I do think there's something special about you, something that resists explanation. More importantly, they believe it. I don't know what your plans are, and I don't think I should influence them. Not really. I just wanted to tell you my take on the situation, because I think we're on the same team. We both want to see Brad and Eric succeed."

  The waitress walked out of the kitchen and headed for the register, holding a brown sack in her hands. Mark looked up and smiled. "I believe that's my order. It was nice to finally meet you, Andi. I have to give my boys credit for taste." He stood and turned to head for the front, but stopped after a step and looked over his shoulder at her. "I enjoyed this. Even if I did do most of the talking. It's a failing of mine when I'm nervous."

  Andi found herself smiling against her will. He was charming, in a way, even when completely shoving his nose into something that was none of his business. At least he was being interesting in the process… as well as exceedingly easy on the eyes.

  As Mark made his exit, he turned sideways to allow Jay David to slip past. Andi chuckled at the expression of surprise on his face. He took one look at the coach, glanced at Andi and then back at Mark, as though to confirm what he saw. Then, he hurried over and slid into the booth across from her.

  "Sorry I'm late. Looks like you found someone to keep you company, though." His eyes bored into her, desperate for news, and his voice betrayed a mania. "The magic number is down to five over the Cardinals, and you're having lunch with the pitching coach behind my back? You want to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

  Andi sighed heavily at the intrusion of partitionship into her relationship with her best friend. "I don't really want to, JD, but I think I'd better. I wouldn't want to feel responsible for the return of your nailbiting habit. Things are getting more complicated by the moment."

  Jay David bristled at the use of his initials, something he hated passionately. The shock passed over his face quickly, followed by a momentary closing of his eyes and a deep breath. Andi knew from experience that it was his way of pushing the pause button and refocusing. She relaxed, thankful the deliberate trigger deflected his ire. When he spoke again, his voice carried all of the concern, but none of the anger.

  "Well, if it means anything, I think you've done a terrific job of juggling things and keeping everyone happy. I didn't mean to attack you like that, and I apologize. Now, what do you mean by complicated?"

  Andi leapt at the chance to find out why Mark's big secret line-up switcheroo mattered so much. "For starters, what in the world is a 'magic number'?"

  "Okay, you know that the team is in first place. Right?" At Andi's nod, he continued, "A 'magic number' is a combination of how many games they either need to win or the Cardinals need to lose for the Cubs to clinch the division championship. This late in September, time is running out. Every time we win a game, we make it harder for them to catch us. Every time they lose, they waste a chance. So, when we play this afternoon, a win will bring the magic number down to four. The Cards don't play today, so that is as close as we can get for now. That will be especially important this weekend."

  "Why? If the number drops to four—but we only have three games—then we can't possibly win the division this weekend!"

  "Ah, but see, we're playing the enemy. If we win, they lose. A magic number is a combination of our wins and their losses. So these three games count double. If we win, by definition, we reduce the number by two, not by one. If we win two of the three, we go to the playoffs. That's important, too, because we won't win on Saturday. They have their ace going, and he's owned us all year."

  "But if we lose and they win, doesn't the number go back up again?" Andi let the genuine puzzlement show on her face.

  "No, no. It's not about how many games we lead them by. It's about how many chances are left. Imagine it as a race. If I lead you by two laps and there is only one lap to go, you can't win. That's the difference."

  "Alright, I think I get it." She shelved any remaining confusion and moved on. "What other factors are there?"

  "It all comes down to Sunday, really. We'll win Friday, you watch. They'll win Saturday. Sunday will be weird. Wallace is going for us, so they'll have James serve that one-game suspension he's been appealing. He's only got two hits in thirty-one at bats against Wallace, but his backup always hammers knuckballers. That way, the suspension is out of the way, and it doesn't really hurt them. He owns your boys, ya know?" "Owns them?" "Exactly. He's ten for seventeen lifetime against Eric, with four home runs. He's only faced Brad eight times, but he's got five hits including two doubles and a homer."

  "One thing I don't understand, though: if these games are so important, why drop the appeal? You'd think they would want him in all three games."

  "Sweetheart, that suspension was for the fit he threw against us. Remember, he took second base out of the ground and threw it into center field? If they don't announce that he's serving it Sunday, the league might step in and make him do it Friday night or Saturday. Since they don't want to risk that, they'll make sure they tell the league tomorrow, before the weekend."

  Everything clicked in Andi's mind. The reasons for the secrecy came into focus. The team planned to wait for the appeal to be dropped before changing the pitching around. Her opinion of Mark went up another notch.

  Jay David interrupted her mental tangent. "Girl, you better fucking tell me what's going through your mind. The smile that crossed your face just now would have lit up Times Square. C'mon, you know something. Tell me!"

  Andi dropped her voice to a whisper. "What if Brad pitches on Sunday?"

  Her best friend's eyes got round, and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand to stifle an exclamation. "Oh my, that's brilliant!" he whispered. "Is that what…? Oh, my. I can see the reaction on their faces. Plus, it would put him in line to start the first game of the playoffs with an extra day of rest. Did he come up with that?" Jay David cocked his hea
d in the direction of Mark's exit.

  Andi nodded. "He didn't specifically take the credit for it, but I know men. He was proud. It was his idea."

  "It's a masterstroke! Completely unexpected, perfectly effective—as long as they wait until James drops his appeal. Who would have figured that a man with an ass like that had a brain, too?" Andi arched an eyebrow at him. "Oh, like you were so busy fixating on those piercing blues that you Formatted: Line spacing: single didn't notice. Give me a fucking break, girlfriend. It's me! I know you better. Now, what are we eating?"

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  All Andi needed was a trench coat to make her feel as if she'd stepped into an old movie. She rested her head against the taxi's window and inhaled deeply. The smells of late summer rain mixed with car exhaust rising from the steamy streets, bringing to mind images of dapper gentlemen with long umbrellas dancing around lampposts. The neighborhood brownstones, with their concrete stairs framed by wide banisters, completed the picture. During the day, the urban feel would be far more modern, but the early evening storm had chased most of the pedestrians from the streets and brought the streetlights alive hours earlier than usual.

  But the night was far too warm for a trench coat. Andi repetitively smoothed the delicate lines of the peach silk skirt across her lap, chastising herself for being nervous. The activities planned were certainly not new to her, and yet many of the elements fell outside of her experience—outside her comfort zone. As the driver pulled to a stop, she passed a twenty over the seat and waved off the change.