by Beth Bolden
Jack reached over the table and gently took each clenched finger off her mug of tea and wrapped her hands in his own. “I know you were, but I still would have wanted to know. And not so I could have more than five minutes’ warning.”
“I know.” She understood; he didn’t get how hard it was to take that wall separating her from the world down. “I’ve just been on my own for a long time now.”
He squeezed her hands. “But you’re not anymore.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was the one week in the Northwest when the weather hit the boiling point, and Izzy sat in the very back of the broadcast booth, hiding from the sizzling sun and reviewing her notes for the upcoming week. Two hours before tonight’s game, nobody was in the booth and she could have a few minutes of blessed peace—something she hadn’t had much of since her interview with Corey Rood.
“Izzy! Jed told me you were in here.” Pilar practically floated into the room, all lanky legs and long, dark ponytail, caught up through the back of a Pioneers cap. She doesn’t even look hot, Izzy glowered, feeling her skin nearly sizzling despite the sunblock she’d slathered on this morning.
“And here I am,” Izzy said, disappointed that she’d been found, but trying to force a smile for one of the few people who’d actually been nice to her this year. Even better, someone who knew her secret and had kept it, despite a million-or-so reasons not to.
Pilar strode right to the front of the booth, nuclear death rays be damned, and gazed out onto the field. “I’m actually jealous of your view,” she remarked.
“Unfortunately, it’s not exactly my view,” Izzy corrected. “It’s Jed and Bart’s view. I’m only borrowing it.”
“Then I will borrow with you,” Pilar said, collapsing onto the chair next to Izzy. “Besides, I wanted to come congratulate you on the ESPN spot last night. Sportscenter lead story. Toby must be a very happy man.”
Izzy put down her notes and gave Pilar her full attention. “It all seems a little surreal. Like it’s become bigger than me. Maybe even bigger than Jack.”
“Chica, Jack Bennett is larger than life. It’s the perfect size.”
“If it gets people in seats,” Izzy said with a shrug. “I heard today and tomorrow tonight are sold out.”
Pilar nodded, her eyes gleaming conspiratorially. “Have you heard what they’ve planned for tonight?”
Between Sportscenter and media requests of her own, Izzy had barely had a minute to sleep. Twelve hours after their sushi date, the story had gone viral, and two days later, she’d still barely seen Jack. Izzy shook her head.
“I told Hector to tell those marketing idiots to forget it, but you know him. He wouldn’t stoop to their level. But then I just heard from the grounds-crew leader that it was actually Jack’s idea. You need to keep him on a shorter leash.”
“What’s he doing now?”
Pilar’s smile was mysterious and a little infuriating. “Oh, I wouldn’t ruin this surprise for the world.”
“Should I be expecting another phone call from ESPN?” Izzy had wanted the story to go big, but when it actually had and landed her on the biggest sports channel on the planet—during primetime, no less—she knew she should have been a lot happier than she was. Now she eyed Pilar dubiously and hoped that Jack hadn’t somehow caught celebrity fever and was going to pull some sort of ridiculous stunt to get them back in the spotlight.
Pilar just laughed. “I’m not going to remind you that you started all this.”
Sighing, Izzy leaned back in the chair and tried to exhale her tension out with her breath. It didn’t work.
“Sooner or later, chica, someone is going to put two and two together and actually end up with four.”
And that was exactly her fear. The tightness in her neck intensified, like a rubber band shrinking.
Still, she tried to keep her voice calm. Pilar had kept quiet so far, but there wasn’t any guarantee that with the heightened exposure of both her and Jack, she’d continue to stay silent.
“Oh?”
“Darling, red just isn’t your color.”
“I thought it looked okay,” Izzy said stubbornly.
Pilar gave a wave of one be-ringed hand, slender and tipped with blood-red nail polish. “Hector nearly went postal when I read him the stories. You are lucky his blood pressure is excellent.”
Her own blood pressure wasn’t doing all too good lately. “You told Hector.”
“Darling, I had to,” Pilar said apologetically. “He was sure Jack was renting you by the hour.”
Izzy winced, but Pilar continued to twist the knife. “There are very few times when a woman doesn’t want the world to know she’s seeing a famous man. That would be the most common reason. But Hector was very pleased when I told him there is another, less common, reason. He likes you.”
“Because I’m not a professional?”
Pilar gave an expressive shrug. “You deal with Toby. He is an asshole.”
“Is Hector going to tell anyone?”
“Of course not!” Pilar sounded surprised at her question. “Hector is with me. This is your own private business. He’d rather die than breathe a word of it to anybody.”
Personally, Izzy thought Pilar was assigning a lot more dramatic action to her husband than he was capable of, but she didn’t have a lot of choice but to believe she was telling the truth. Besides, he’d apparently known for a month already.
She continued. “But this is not why I am here. To see you…of course and to see your face when you see Jack’s surprise, but also to warn you. Someday, someone is going to learn how to add, and then you will be in big trouble.”
If Izzy had had time to sleep in the last forty-eight hours, she probably would have lain awake thinking the exact same thing. Eventually, this was all going to come to an abrupt end, and the more media scrutiny around Jack and his movements and his actions and the people in his life, the sooner they’d have to face the music.
“I had to do it,” Izzy finally sighed. “Toby wanted the story about Jack’s mysterious girlfriend, and I couldn’t exactly tell him it was me.”
“Chica, I know. This is so deeply unfair. Who Jack Bennett loves is only business for Jack Bennett.” She stood up, unfolding her long, slim limbs so gracefully from the chair. “I came by, too, to say my thoughts and my prayers are with you. Every day.”
Izzy felt the beginnings of tears prick the corners of her eyes. “Thank you, Pilar.”
Izzy was on the lower media platform during the game introductions. She was supposed to give a “Jack Bennett update” in the middle of the first inning—except that the “update” was complete bullshit and was Toby’s excuse to keep the national story on the forefront of everyone’s thoughts.
Also to remind everyone that she and the Pacific Northwest Sports Group had been the initial source of the story. She glanced down at the story notes in her hand and wasn’t all that surprised to see Toby’s fingers all over the last-minute edits, emphasizing that the origin had been more of the latter and less of the former. Even when she did something right, he still found a way to screw her.
It was still boiling hot, even at 7:00 p.m., and Izzy fanned herself with the pages, praying that her makeup didn’t simply melt away by the time they reached the first inning.
She glanced up in the stands, and there did seem to be a lot more fans there tonight. Even though the game had yet to actually start, she could only see a handful of empty seats. Personally, she could think of much cooler things to do than attend a baseball game in ninety-five-degree heat.
Typically, the announcer giving the starting lineup wasn’t a reason for people to be in their seats, but looking a little closer, Izzy could have almost thought they were waiting for something to happen. Briefly, she wondered if their anticipation had anything to do with th
e stunt Pilar had said Jack was pulling tonight, but before she could even begin to speculate on what that might be, a roar went through the crowd.
No. No. He wouldn’t.
Izzy shaded her eyes with the notes and squinted into the sun toward center field.
She hadn’t been wrong; maybe Pilar was right after all—maybe Jack was just big enough for this story.
Out of the double-wide doors smack dab in the middle of center field, Jack Bennett emerged riding a mower, waving to the crowd as his figure was greeted with wild applause.
It was a ludicrous sight, made even more ridiculous by the fact that he appeared to be taking a long, leisurely jaunt around the entire circumference of the field. Every once in awhile, he’d reach into the bag on the seat next to him, and toss a few balls into the stands. When he finally made it around to where she was standing, she couldn’t help but smile as their eyes met.
He was so crazy. So crazy, and yet so right for her.
After he’d passed her by, she began looking around, trying to gauge the crowd’s reaction and to her surprise, they couldn’t seem to get enough of him. He seemed to generate a genuine roar of acceptance and delight wherever he went, wherever his gaze touched. He’d always been generous with her, sharing his personality freely when she hadn’t even understood it. And he was doing it now with the crowd, opening himself up and letting them laugh with him.
It was a perfect Jack Bennett gesture.
She had no idea when he’d be able to escape the media swarm after the game ended—he’d gone 1 for 4, a measly single that hadn’t helped or hurt, really—but of course, he was still the only person on the team who the reporters wanted to talk to. They all wanted a quote. They all wanted to grab their own little piece of his warmth, his personality, his humor. His infallible sense of self.
It wasn’t anything new to her. She’d wanted her own piece of him for a long time now, but tonight, all she wanted to do was get a few hours of uninterrupted, blissful sleep, and so she went home to her own bed, alone.
But even that wasn’t meant to be. Her phone woke her out of a deep, dreamless sleep and for a moment she’d thought she’d imagined it, sitting up in panic in the dark, the shrill ringtone echoing in her ears. Unfortunately, as she closed her hand over her phone and felt the vibration, she knew it wasn’t a nightmare after all. A glimpse of the clock told her it was 3:00 a.m.—not nearly time for the alarm to go off, and only three hours since she’d managed to pass out.
“Hello,” she answered groggily, not even bothering to look at the screen.
“I woke you up.” It was Jack, buzzing with adrenaline. “I’m sorry.”
Izzy scrubbed a hand over her face, wiping her hair back from her eyes and tried to focus on his voice. “No, it’s okay. What’s up?”
“I have big news. Big news. And I need your advice.”
“Breakfast. Tomorrow morning.”
“It can’t wait,” he said, and for a nauseating moment, she thought maybe one of those many reporters swarming him had managed to put her and a red wig together and come up with four.
But he wouldn’t be so happy about that, the cool, logical side of her brain reassured. Or would he?
“Where are you?” she asked.
For a moment, he hesitated. She could feel it over the tenuous connection.
“I’m in your driveway, actually,” he said.
Breath hissed through her clenched teeth and she glanced back at the paradise of her comfortable bed as she slid out of it. “This better be good, Bennett.” Clicking the phone off, she grabbed a pair of yoga pants and pulled them on. Even though she’d had the air conditioning in the condo on for hours now, it was still warm and Izzy decided that she didn’t need to throw anything over the long sleeping tank she’d worn to bed.
She padded down the stairs and wrenched the front door open. He was standing in the pool of light made by the sconce in her entryway, and he almost looked ashamed.
“Well?” she asked testily. “Aren’t you going to come in?”
“I shouldn’t have woken you up,” he apologized, as he followed her into the kitchen. She flicked on the light and tried not to grimace at the sudden brightness. Leaning against the counter, she took in the jeans and polo he was wearing—a typical after-game outfit—and while his eyes looked a little bloodshot, mostly, he looked just the same. None of those horrific under-eye circles that she tended to get when she didn’t get enough sleep. That wasn’t fair.
“I’m awake now. What’s this big news?”
“My agent called me during the game. I called him back right away and well…” He paused. “It’s big, Iz. Really big.”
“I get that. It’s big,” she said irritably.
“John Deere. They want to make me their new spokesman. I came here as soon as I talked to Bryce. He’s already got the bare bones of the deal they’re offering and it’s pretty amazing.”
She could barely hold back the smirk. “Well, you’re a big star now, Jack. With your own entrance and everything.”
He had the nerve to look only a little ashamed. “It was just a bit of fun. Didn’t you think it was fun?”
“It isn’t my opinion that matters. John Deere clearly loved it.”
“They did,” he said, and the excitement in his voice was almost catching. She wanted to celebrate with him. She really did. But her exhaustion was bone deep and she was so tired of hiding and pretending and faking. For a brief moment, she’d thought they’d escaped it, but in reality, their solution had only created more problems.
“When I got the news, when Bryce told me what they’re offering, all I wanted was to tell you. Get your take on it.”
Even through her tired brain, she registered the sweetness of the thought. She loved him so much—and so much of what she loved was his unending devotion to her. He was loyal to a fault, so good and right and perfect that it wasn’t a huge surprise that John Deere would want him to sell their tractors. He’d do a stand up job of it.
“You’re going to do it, right?”
“Should I? Do you think I should?”
“For the right price, yes. Absolutely.”
“I’ll have less time at home. Less time on the road to spend with you. Less time to myself in the off season. It’s a big commitment.”
She hadn’t told him yet that she wasn’t going back to this job or any other job in broadcasting next year. She also wasn’t sure she was going back to Seattle, either. But those two facts meant she had to find something else to do instead, and after the last six months of hell, she wasn’t willing to settle. Not ever again.
“This is more important,” Izzy said. “This is the beginning of your brand.”
He frowned, as if he’d never considered the possibility. “What if I don’t want a brand? What if I only want to play baseball?”
She sighed. “Jack, the moment you got on that tractor today, you waved that possibility goodbye. The only question is if you’re going to make any money off it.”
“I guess that would be the smart thing to do,” he said slowly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“It would,” she reassured him. “Just make sure you’re getting adequately compensated. John Deere’s got lots of money and they’re going to make a shit-ton more off you.”
“I’ll let Bryce worry about that part,” Jack said, brushing the subject of money away like it couldn’t have mattered less, which Izzy supposed was fairly accurate. He lived simply and had more than enough income already from his major-league contract. He didn’t really need the money. She, on the other hand, couldn’t live more than a few months without a real job. She’d tried to save when she realized she’d have to quit at the end of the season, but Toby was a cheapskate. She’d never made much to begin with.
Stress made her head and her heart ach
e, but he’d come here tonight to share something special with her, and as grumpy as she was, she couldn’t quite turn him away. She guessed that was what made love so special; she wanted to give Jack what he wanted because suddenly she wanted the same thing.
In the end, it was inevitable. He shyly glanced up at her, all hopeful puppy dog, and she finally held out a hand. “Come here. Let’s go to bed.”
“Finally,” he said with a blinding smile. “I thought I was headed to the doghouse tonight.”
“My bed’s not as big as yours,” she warned as she tucked her hand into his and tugged him toward the stairs that led to her bedroom. “And it’s still the doghouse for you if you hog the covers.”
“I can give you at least 33%,” he offered in mock seriousness.
“How about 40%, and it’s a done deal.”
His fingers gripped hers and she felt the words ghost across her skin, even if he didn’t speak them out loud. I didn’t want to sleep alone. Thank you for being here. I love you. Izzy’s heart clenched and she was suddenly, and helplessly, afraid. If she had to give him up, how was she ever going to live through it?
Jack loved the way the world slowed when he entered the batter’s box.
He loved the dust settling on his tongue, the way his hitting gloves bit into his wrists, the weight of the wooden bat in his hands.
A lot of players let the pitcher set the tone of an at-bat, but Jack was somewhat fanatical about making sure that he and nobody else, was in charge when he stepped up to the plate. Sometimes that meant walking to the plate a fraction slower than good manners demanded. Sometimes that meant taking an extra moment to go through his mental and physical routine between swings. Sometimes that meant giving the pitcher one of his patented fuck-off glares.