by Beth Bolden
They reached the summit, and Izzy stopped in her tracks. A bench, wood with simple wrought-iron lines, stood on the crest of the hill, and stretched out in front of them was a view of the entire valley. The sun had just started to set, its rays touching everything in sight with dappled golden light.
“Wow,” she said quietly, setting down the beer she was carrying on the bench. She walked out toward the edge of his property, and hugged her arms around her chest. “It’s so beautiful.”
She was so absorbed by the setting sun that he figured he was safe enough. “It is,” he said, his eyes never leaving her. “Really beautiful.”
“This place is amazing,” she gushed, finally turning back to him with a smile that he knew he’d remember for a long time. Sleeping, waking, playing ball, he was pretty sure it would be burned onto his brain for maybe the next thousand years. And he’d made her feel that way. He’d given her that smile.
“I come here a lot. To think, mostly. It’s a nice, quiet place,” he said, dropping to the bench and setting the pizza down next to him. The leaves above him swayed with the breeze and he leaned back, enjoying the spring evening and her presence in his favorite place.
“And here I thought baseball wasn’t a thinking sport,” she teased, dropping down to the bench and opening the pizza box between them.
“It’s more than just one unmovable force hitting another, like football or hockey. There’s finesse in baseball,” he retorted, grabbing his own slice of pizza.
She chewed for a minute, glancing out at the sinking sun. “Are you telling me that quarterbacks don’t have any finesse?”
Shrugging, he grabbed a beer out of the cardboard carrier with his free hand. With a perfectly angled swipe, he smacked the cap against the edge of the bench. The cap hit the ground and he took a long gulp. “It’s not the same thing.”
“You think?” she asked with a smirk at the cap lying on the ground.
“I never said I had finesse with everything.”
“You’ve had a lot of finesse lately,” she asked. “What’s been up with you and your current impression of Jack Bennett as Superman?”
“I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t ask me about that,” he said between bites of pizza.
Izzy shrugged, and grabbed a beer for herself. He was about to offer to perform the same finesse on it that he had on his own bottle, but she was too quick. Before he could even open his mouth, she’d dug her keys out of her pocket and had popped the cap off with an expert movement.
“College,” she said by way of explanation, and he wondered if it would be considered out of line for him to genuflect at her feet.
“Other than the fact that you hate baseball, I think you might be a perfect woman,” he said with a grin.
“Is that you avoiding the question?”
Jack took a swig of beer. “Everyone gets streaks. Up and down. Cycle of life.”
“I was actually wondering if you had anything more to say on superstitions.”
“Not really,” he said, even though he hated lying to her. “I meant what I said before. Superstitions are crap.”
“That means you haven’t done anything even remotely crazy to keep your streak going?”
He practically tasted the words in his mouth. This, right here, right now, this is what’s keeping it going. You’re what keeps it going; keeps me going. But he kept quiet and just shrugged.
“Awfully subdued for you,” Izzy pointed out. “From my research, I thought you were like the World’s Greatest Ego, or something.”
“You researched me?” he couldn’t help but ask with a knowing grin. “What kind of research?”
She punched his shoulder, but her smile was so bright he felt permanently blinded by it. In the best way possible. “Basic stuff. Same stuff I did on everyone else,” she said, but she couldn’t quite look him in the eye, and he had a feeling there’d been a lot more to it than she was fessing up to.
Which was perfectly fine with him. There was definitely an undercurrent between them, and as long as she wasn’t completely immune to him, he could work with that. Someday, she’d have to acknowledge what was brewing between them, but he was a patient guy and could wait until she felt more comfortable with the idea.
“So you’re not going to tell me?” she asked again, digging in the box for another slice of pizza.
He sighed and the irrational part of him wanted to confess that he was half convinced he’d struck out because he hadn’t actually talked to her in a week. “The lucky streak is great and all, but how can I crow about something that has nothing to do with me?”
“I don’t believe that,” she said. “Of course it has something to do with you. Or are you saying those three strikeouts today didn’t have anything to do with you?”
He nearly choked on his pizza. “Three strikeouts and a home run that won us the game, thank you very much.”
When he glanced over at her, her expression was pure, pristine innocence. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’ll make sure to let you know if I need mouth-to-mouth,” he grumbled.
She flushed and looked away, her fingers picking at the edge of the label on her beer. “Why are you so sure the streak will pass?”
“They always do,” he admitted. “And I’ll be honest, I’ll be glad when it does. Something bizarre about this one, the way we keep talking about things and then they happen. Honestly, that’s why I was firing up the mower today. I needed a distraction.”
“But I showed up and distracted you from your distraction,” Izzy said, and he could tell she was worried about it.
“Trust me, this is better.” He leaned back and tipped the beer bottle against his mouth. “Much better.”
CHAPTER TEN
Monday morning felt like walking into the enemy camp. Izzy ducked her head low and tried not to look any of the production team in the eye as everyone gathered around the conference table for their weekly meeting. Despite the near impossibility, Izzy almost believed that what she’d done the day before must be written all over her face.
She’d had dinner with Jack Bennett. While it had just been pizza and beer, he’d taken her somewhere totally personal and meaningful. If they hadn’t agreed to be just friends, it totally would have been a date.
Who was she kidding? It had still been half a date.
“Earth to Izzy. You there?” Nearly terrified she’d been caught red handed with increasingly romantic images of Jack flashing through her head, Izzy jumped and turned to see Ina Rosen, Toby’s assistant standing there with an amused expression on her face.
She doesn’t know, Izzy reminded herself, nobody knows. “Sorry,” she stammered apologetically. “Spaced out there for a moment.”
“Monday morning before a long road trip, I totally get it,” Ina said conspiratorially. “Can’t say I blame you much.”
“My first big road trip,” Izzy added with an enthusiasm so forced it was a wonder that nobody saw right through it. Or maybe Ina did because her face softened, and she drew her over to the corner of the conference room. More specifically, on the opposite side of the room from the donuts and coffee where the rest of the crew had camped out.
“Izzy,” she said, the note of sympathy in Ina’s voice speeding up her heart more than was probably healthy, “after the meeting, Toby wants to see you.”
“Oh.” This wasn’t unusual—she’d had lots of one-on-one time with Toby during spring training, while she’d still been getting up to speed—but the timing had Izzy’s pulse racing just a little faster.
“I hate to tell you this,” Ina said and the pity in her voice nearly made Izzy’s teeth ache, “but Toby had some of the guys here really late last night, splicing together video footage of your first week. And then he had me block out the two hours after the meeting.”
Izz
y mentally braced herself. Two straight hours of Toby-level criticism wasn’t exactly minor. A cold foreboding trickled down her spine, almost making her wish that it was Corey Rood’s paparazzi shots that she was most worried about.
“I’m sorry, Izzy,” Ina said, her rueful expression making Izzy feel even worse. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”
“It’s okay. Not your fault,” Izzy said, as Toby stalked into the room and suddenly, the temperature dropped about ten degrees. Staffers rushed to take their seats and as she slid into hers, Izzy reminded herself that this position was only temporary. Not even the thought of Jack could cheer her up, she moped as she despondently stirred her coffee and ignored the start of the meeting the same way that everyone else was ignoring her.
Except, she realized as she glanced up, that she wasn’t being ignored. Exactly the opposite, actually. Every pair of eyes on the place was glued on her, and for a moment of heart-stopping panic, she thought she’d betrayed herself in some way, or maybe that paparazzi of Corey Rood’s did exist after all, but then she realized that Toby had just asked her a question.
“I’m sorry, sir, what was that?” She hated to ask, but the alternative was to sit there in silence, and that wasn’t any better. He already thought she was stupid and bad at her job, Izzy didn’t want to find out what would happen if his opinion of her fell any lower.
“I asked,” Toby ground out, and she could nearly feel the impact of his teeth mashing together from the other end of the table, “what the status was on the Jack Bennett story.”
I like him, she wanted to yell out in the middle of the meeting. We ate pizza and drank beer. It was freaking awesome and I can’t wait to do it again. But not only was that completely unprofessional, it would also get her completely fired.
“I went to see Corey Rood yesterday. He’s the President of the West Barrington Heights Neighborhood Association and let me know of a situation developing with Jack Bennett. Apparently, Mr. Bennett likes to carouse on his riding mower during inappropriate hours, listening to loud music.”
And he likes me. Maybe even as much as I like him.
The table fell as silent as if she’d actually spoken the postscript out loud. Izzy took it as a clear win when what she could say was just as shocking as what she couldn’t.
“A riding mower?” Toby was the first to recover the power of speech and his incredulous expression told her he thought she was crazy or lying or potentially both.
“Yes, sir.”
Toby leaned back in his chair before running a hand through his hair. “What kind of angles could we play with this?”
“There’s the obvious one. He’s a public menace and ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“Too trite,” Toby announced decisively. “Are you always such a killjoy, Dalton?”
“Corey Rood’s a controlling jerk who is trying to use Jack Bennett’s celebrity status against him,” another staffer suggested, but Toby just shook his head.
Izzy spoke up again. This was her story, damnit, even if it was ridiculous and insane, and she wasn’t going to let anybody else steal it out from under her and proceed to twist completely out of context. “What about…Jack Bennett’s a fun guy who’s out to have a fun time playing ball; you should come watch him play it sometime?”
It was a ridiculous angle, but it was also a ridiculous story.
“Not terrible, Dalton,” he finally pronounced, as if he couldn’t actually believe one of her ideas had been halfway decent, and Izzy wondered if his miserly compliment might be enough to give her a little leverage during their one-on-one later. Not likely, she decided, but it was worth a try.
“What other stories are we looking to see play out this week?” Toby asked, and Izzy leaned back in tandem, relieved to have the spotlight off her before she did something stupid and completely uncharacteristic, like defend Jack.
“Pioneers going to play the World Series champs this week,” Bart Bailey said. “Big week for our boys to prove they’re in the same league.”
“They’re not,” someone added snidely and everyone chuckled.
“Okay,” Toby said, “so a tough road trip. Challenges ahead. You taking all this down, Dalton?” Like one of those annoying laser pointers, his attention was suddenly on her, and she was fumbling with her pen and her pad, caught staring off in space again.
Maybe it didn’t matter that nobody knew; maybe it only mattered that she knew, that she couldn’t get Jack out of her head. She’d contemplated calling Charlie on the way home, using him to talk some sense into her. But calling Charlie meant confessing she was doing something that could potentially destroy her career, and he’d warned her once already. Twice wouldn’t be pretty.
She nodded helplessly as she scribbled down notes that meant something to every other person in the room, and almost nothing to her. She’d figure it out later, she vowed to herself, it wasn’t acceptable that she kept feeling and sounding a like a total moron in these meetings. Or even better, she’d ask Jack.
“Next,” Toby announced and the topic moved onto a game later in the week that Jed was crowing could have the potential of a ‘pitching duel.’ At first Izzy had been slightly intrigued by this possibility, only to learn later that aforementioned duel had nothing to do with Inigo Montoya or swords and, instead, was the kind of game where nothing really happened.
And this was not only desirable, she’d thought at the time, it was celebrated. No wonder baseball sucked so epically.
The meeting lasted another twenty minutes, but even those minutes felt interminable, Izzy knew they’d be a huge step up from the next two hours.
“Take a seat, Isabel,” Toby said, gesturing to the chair in front of his massive desk. She sat, feeling more like she was going to a firing squad than she was to a meeting with her boss. Stiffening her spine, she mentally prepared herself for what came next, because whatever it was he had to say to her, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
He settled himself behind his desk, leaning back in his big leather captain’s chair. Sighing, he regarded her.
“I’m not sure what we’re going to do with you,” he said with the faintest hint of a sneer in his already patronizing voice.
Izzy’s hand clenched the edge of the chair she was sitting on. Maybe getting fired wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, considering how much she hated the job.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” She knew it was a testament to her self control and her mental toughness that the words came out of her mouth calmly, with nothing to betray the anger and the hurt boiling inside her.
He sighed again, this one more of a pantomime of frustration overflowing after an eternity of patience, but it was one big fucking lie. He’d never really given her a chance, even after she had come to this job with reluctance but had still given it everything she had. Okay, maybe what she had wasn’t what he’d wanted, but it still twisted her gut that he’d been so fucking unfair when it came to her. She’d tried hard, and she knew he couldn’t say the same. Charlie had met her halfway, if not given more to their professional relationship from the day it started. She’d never had a superior who’d irrationally disliked her from the start—or even a superior who’d irrationally disliked her at all—and this just hurt, somewhere deep that she hadn’t believed Toby Palmer could ever touch.
“I had the video department splice together some footage last night,” he said. “Let’s watch it together.”
She didn’t want to watch herself. She knew what she’d look like. An amateur. Unprofessional. Unpolished. Playacting at being a real reporter. Maybe because she’d never in a million years considered being an on-air reporter; she’d only wanted to craft the message with her words and images and let someone else do the talking.
“Alright,” Izzy finally said as he clicked the play button. She didn’t have a real choice—quitting
wasn’t an option after coming this far. Besides, quitting meant Mitch Hansen won, and she wasn’t ready to give up yet.
Of course, the first clip that played was her interview of Noah and Jack. Her first airtime.
“I know we already watched this, but I want go from the beginning. Here, you were almost close.” Toby gestured to her on-air figure, and Izzy froze.
Watching it for the second time, Izzy couldn’t really deny it. She’d genuinely laughed. She hadn’t gripped the microphone with a white-knuckled fist. She hadn’t stumbled over her words. All because she’d been relaxed. And it wasn’t Noah, who had been specifically picked to do that particular task. It had been all Jack.
Frankly, it didn’t make that much sense, considering how little she knew about him, but down to the marrow of her bones she felt like she knew him. That she could expose even the most marginal parts of herself and he’d just accept them. It went both ways, she knew. If she’d discovered the Corey Rood-sized skeleton in anyone else’s closet, she’d have probably judged. But she got him and she understood the way he ticked, and Corey Rood was a perfect example of that.
She was so afraid that Toby was going to pick up on that and demand an explanation. Not that she had one to give—she’d never really felt this way before, especially not with a man she barely knew. The chances of Toby believing that were slim to none, so Izzy just braced herself for the explosion that had to be coming.
“White linen jacket, gray slacks, with the yellow as your pop of color. A good combination. Who put that together for you?” he asked, diffusing her fear and leaving only confusion.
Izzy just gaped at him. “This is about my clothes?”
Toby gave her a look that clearly said, well, what did you think it was about?