The Lucky Charm (The Portland Pioneers)

by Beth Bolden

  Jack was an equal-opportunity kind of guy. He switched it up, tried to keep it all fresh. Liked coming up with new, inventive ways to piss off the pitcher. He also took a look at a pitchers’ stuff before a game, just to get a feel for what he liked throwing, and in what situations. The hitting coach usually put together some notes before a series, but Jack really liked looking for himself, and he wasn’t above bragging when he found something the coach missed.

  Of course, this hadn’t exactly paid off the last four weeks, but as he sucked in a breath, he tried to let all that stress go.

  It was the top of the order, first inning, and Jack stepped into the box, gave his neck a quick twitch, and adjusted the straps of his gloves, twisting the grip of the bat between his hands.

  Chris Johnston, today’s victim, had a habit of playing with the bag of resin at the back of the mound a lot more than was really required. Jack supposed it was his own pathetic little way of making sure the batter knew who was really in charge.

  Delaying tactics were more difficult to get around, but Jack had worked out a torture for that, too. Way before anybody would normally expect him to be ready, he was suddenly in the box, lifting his bat, and giving Johnston a wide smile that said, “I’m ready. Let’s do this shit.”

  The umpire hustled to get in position. Jack couldn’t see him, but he could feel the mass of him behind the catcher, who he knew had given the pitcher a look of his own.

  It was amazing how much an extra second or two of waiting made the pitcher look like the asshole.

  Once it had worked so well on another pitcher that the ump had actually walked out to the mound and issued a warning to hurry up between pitches.

  That had been a really sweet day. Of course, the crowning achievement had been hitting a home run off the fucker, probably because he’d been pissed off and had gotten sloppy with the location of his fastball.

  Unfortunately, Chris Johnston had a much meaner, much nastier reputation. It was going to be a lot tougher to screw with him, but Jack wasn’t the kind of guy who quit when he was down.

  Johnston finally hit the top of the mound and after a second of bored acknowledgment of Jack’s presence, he threw the pitch. Jack knew that he’d gotten to him because it whizzed just shy of his ear.

  Unsurprisingly, the ump pronounced it a ball.

  Jack wished he could rub his hands in glee at the obvious warning shot, but it was unprofessional to gloat; he resolved to hit something so long and deep, his bat did the gloating for him.

  Stepping back out of the box, he gave the wrist straps on his gloves a completely unnecessary adjustment and then stepped back in. All about two seconds earlier than expected.

  Johnston glowered now, his dark brows practically slamming into his deep-set eye sockets. Jack had a feeling he was shaking off the signs the catcher was throwing him, because it took even longer to get pitch number two.

  Another fastball, full of heat, blasted right past his hands. Far enough out that it could be considered a strike. Barely.

  “Strike!” the ump called, agreeing with Jack’s analysis.

  The question was, Jack contemplated, if Johnston was rattled enough to throw another fastball, or if he’d take the sign the catcher gave him. When their exchange went on about half a second longer than expected, Jack settled back into his stance, and waited for the fastball.

  It came just as he’d expected, a little low and inside, but the impact resulted in a loud, hand-jolting crack, and Jack knew he’d gotten just enough under it that the ball was gone.

  The ball arced through the late-July sunshine, past the infield, floated like a comet past the outfielders, and probably ended up somewhere close to the Willamette River.

  So fucking sweet. Whoever said that hitting home runs didn’t matter obviously didn’t hit them.

  Jack knew the moment the pitcher realized the ball went atmospheric, and the stony expression plus the four-letter word he muttered under his breath was the cherry on top of a really great at-bat. He barely refrained from a douchey bat flip but he did jog to first base at just a hair below the acceptable pace for a young guy who hadn’t yet had a knee surgery.

  He rounded third and came home to slap hands high with Foxy, who could only shake his head in absurd delight. “You’re something else, man,” he muttered quiet enough that the ump and the catcher didn’t hear him. “Some-fucking-thing else.”

  Hector was always first to the left of the dugout stairs, and as Jack passed, he felt a hand slap his ass and he laughed.

  “Felt pretty damn good,” he said, to nobody in particular but he knew Hector had caught it. And it had felt pretty great. For the first time since the All Star break, he felt comfortable and in control, like he’d always used to feel when he batted, and he hadn’t thought about Izzy once. But now that the ball was long gone, and the score was 1 to 0, Pioneers, he smiled to himself and hoped that she’d seen him nail the crap out of that one.

  Foxy was two pitches into his at-bat when Jack looked up at the field. Johnston was clearly rattled and was all over the place. The count was two balls, no strikes. The third pitch was very high, and very inside, and he grumbled a little, as did the other guys standing at the fence. There was missing your spot, and then there was aggression that bordered on stupidity; this asshole was dancing real close to the line.

  Jack crunched a handful of sunflower seeds and spit the shells out onto the dirt and was so preoccupied making sure all the remnants were out of his teeth, he nearly missed the fourth pitch.

  Johnston slipped a little as the ball left his hand, and Jack watched as it hurtled toward Noah at ninety-five miles per hour. Not toward the batter’s box, like it was supposed to, but toward the batter.

  The world slowed to a crawl and he heard the swell of anger and indignation in the stands grow as the ball continued to rise, higher and higher and all Jack could do was shout a warning that was a split-second too late. The ball hit Noah on the edge of the batting helmet, right on the soft, vulnerable spot between his ear and the plastic protection.

  He fell to the ground, and the blood roared in Jack’s ears as the umpire knelt over him and then his stomach churned as he frantically motioned for medical help. The next minute was a blur of medical staff and coaches, and they had Foxy surrounded before Jack could see anything else.

  He gripped the fence, closed his eyes, and did something he hadn’t done since he was ten years old and had decided there was no real higher power to call on, only himself—he prayed. He prayed that Noah would be okay. That his best friend would be returned to him in one functioning piece, and most importantly, that he would play the game he loved again.

  “Is he going to be alright?”

  Jack was still sitting on the dugout bench, even though the game had ended twenty minutes before. He knew he had to get up and shower and deal with the endless questions that had started the moment he’d climbed on that stupid tractor, but right now, his heart felt too heavy to move.

  He didn’t want to blame himself for what had happened to Foxy, but he’d done everything he could to provoke Johnston. If not technically his fault, it was practically his fault.

  Jack scuffed a mound of dirt with his cleat, and didn’t look up at Izzy. If he looked at her, his despair might overflow his walls and then something truly embarrassing might happen. The sympathy on everyone else’s faces was bad enough; on Izzy, it would be devastating.

  “You’d hear more if you were at the press conference.”

  “They don’t know anything yet. Only that he’s at the hospital, getting tested. Scanned, I guess.”

  “Brain scans.” Jack’s voice hardened to stone. “It looked bad enough, but apparently that’s not the worst of it.”

  “He was unconscious, wasn’t he?” He felt her sit down next to him and he clenched the edges of the wooden bench in his
fists. It was do that or pull the bench out of the wall.

  “This is about Noah. It’s about his health and his future. You know I would never tell Toby anything,” she added.

  “He was out.”

  “He’ll be okay,” Izzy said brightly after a telling pause. Too brightly. He didn’t need anybody to lie to him. He knew the potential consequences of the injury. He enjoyed watching football during the off-season and had followed with curiosity the saga of proper head protection and concussions. Anytime balls were being hurled towards him at speeds hovering around a hundred miles per hour, he had to think about the potential danger, but it had always seemed so abstract. He’d personally never known another baseball player to have a concussion in a game. Noah would be the very first.

  When he didn’t say anything, he felt her turn toward him, trying to get his attention with the angle of her body. “And I’m sorry you lost again.”

  “It was kind of inevitable. None of us were really thinking about the game.” Him least of all. The next time he’d jogged onto the field, he’d thought about winning the game for Foxy, but the truth was, fear had taken him over and turned him into a zombie. He’d missed a ball that during any other game, he was 75% sure he could have reached. He struck out another time and ended the game with a line out he’d hit right to the third baseman. Not a good game for him, or for anybody else on the team. They’d been worried, but by the time the ninth ended, he was nearly frantic. Especially when he’d found out that Noah had been unconscious when they’d reached him.

  Foxy was his best friend. Somehow over the last few years, he’d gotten used to having someone else in his corner besides himself. He’d started depending on Noah, and now he was reminded why he’d never done that before.

  Izzy reached over and placed a hand gently on the dirty knee of his uniform. Her touch was so delicate, so hesitant, he could barely feel it through the fabric, but he was still more attuned to her than anybody else. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” He couldn’t help the bitter tone. Just when things had finally been getting back to normal, something horrible had to happen. He was going to have to have words with that bitch, Lady Luck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The phone rang, jolting Izzy out of a sound, dreamless sleep.

  “Hello?”

  “I need to speak to Isabel Dalton, please.”

  Izzy leaned over and flicked the lamp on her bedside table on. There was a formality in the strange woman’s voice that she didn’t like. “I’m Isabel Dalton. Can I help you?”

  “You’re listed as the emergency contact for Charlie Walker.”

  Her stomach plummeted to the floor. “Oh my God. Charlie. Is he okay?”

  “Charlie Walker was just admitted to the University of Washington Emergency Trauma Center as a patient. He’s had a serious heart attack.”

  Izzy gripped the phone in her sweaty palm and tried to process the words. Oh, God, he hadn’t cut back on the burgers and milkshakes or exercised like he’d promised. And she hadn’t been there to force him. Guilt was sudden and swift.

  “Is he…alive?” It took effort but she managed to push the last word past the growing lump in her throat. Do not cry, she ordered herself, at least wait until you’re off the phone.

  “Mr. Walker is currently in serious, but stable condition. He’s asked for you. Are you his daughter?”

  The lump in her throat would have choked a giant, but she managed a grim, “yes.” It wasn’t true, at least not biologically, but what were they going to do? Check her DNA when she got to the hospital?

  Legally, she might only be Charlie’s ex-assistant, but if they pushed her, they weren’t going to like the result.

  “I’m in Portland, but I’ll catch a flight today,” she told the woman. “Please tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Of course. I’m Carol Steele, the head nurse on Mr. Walker’ case. I’ll keep you updated if there are any major changes in his status.”

  “Thank you.” If her luck held, she’d never actually talk to Carol Steele again.

  It was then that it hit Izzy, square in the face. She was going to have to get Toby’s permission to take an extended leave of absence, and wasn’t that going to be fun?

  The game was at noon today, so Izzy drove to the office, knowing that even if Toby never made it to the actual ballpark, he’d still be working. Optimistically, she’d packed already—two suitcases, because just as she’d never been changed as Charlie’s emergency contact, he wouldn’t have anyone else to help him with his rehabilitation—and hoped that she’d be able to leave for the airport immediately after informing Toby of the situation.

  It was still so early the parking lot was almost completely empty, but she spotted Toby’s Mercedes SUV in the corner of the lot. It was also still too early for Ina to be in, so she moved quickly through the outside office and knocked directly on Toby’s open door.

  He was seated at his desk, a frown on his face, and the TV already tuned to the Pacific Northwest Sports Network. This early in the morning, it was reruns of one of their fishing shows, with updates on Foxy’s condition scrolling across the bottom of the screen. She’d seen that he’d been released from the hospital, but was still dealing with concussion symptoms and just yesterday, they’d placed him on the fifteen-day disabled list. Glancing up at the sound of her knock, the lines of Toby’s frown settled into deep grooves at her appearance.

  “Good morning,” she said, even though nothing about it had been good so far.

  After registering her presence, he’d returned his attention to the papers on his desk. Of course.

  “Sir, I had some unexpected and unpleasant news this morning.” Understatement of the century, she thought, but how could a jerk like Toby ever understand a relationship like the one I had with Charlie?

  That didn’t even warrant his full attention. He merely grunted and didn’t raise his gaze to meet hers. Normally, Izzy would have grunted in response and come back later, hoping for a more favorable reaction but she didn’t have the time. She needed to go now. Charlie needed her, and God damn it, she needed him.

  “A family emergency. I need to go to Seattle…”

  “No.” He didn’t even let her finish the phrase, just cut her off right at the knees with a response that could have passed for a sharp implement.

  “For the foreseeable future,” she finished.

  “No,” he simply said again. Nothing else. Panic mounted inside her, because while she’d been afraid of this possibility, she hadn’t let herself consider it. On the drive over, she’d repeated a litany of optimistic thoughts to herself, until by the time she’d pulled into the lot, she had nearly convinced herself.

  Unfortunately, Toby Palmer wasn’t going to be convinced with a bunch of clichés that could have doubled as Katy Perry song lyrics.

  “I have to go,” she stated this time. “It’s Charlie Walker.”

  This time he looked right up at her, and the coldness in his face nearly took her breath away. Panic bloomed inside her, and she gripped the handle of her purse. “I don’t give a shit if it’s the Dalai Lama. You’re going to be at the stadium in three hours to cover this game, and at the stadium at 4:00 p.m. tomorrow for that game, and every single game for the foreseeable future.”

  “Toby, please,” she begged. She hated that she had to do it, but this was maybe the only circumstance in which she’d ever beg Toby Palmer for anything. Charlie needed her. Charlie had asked for her.

  “This discussion is over, Isabel. You’re not going. Charlie will be fine.”

  “He’s not going to be fine!” Izzy couldn’t help the agitation in her voice. “He had a heart attack! He’s in intensive care!”

  But Toby’s face stayed cold and still. He was so unresponsive that Izzy had to assume that he’d alre
ady found out about Charlie’s condition and had anticipated her request this morning. Or maybe he was just what she’d always believed he was—a major asshole.

  She hated it, but her hysteria only seemed to grow, billowing up and out of her like a mushroom cloud. “You don’t even like me doing the sideline reports,” she sneered. “You don’t even think I’m any good.”

  “No, I think you’re terrible,” he said frankly, with as much emotion as a flea, “but for some reason you’re well liked. Plus people associate you with the Corey Rood story and with Jack Bennett. So you’re staying, despite my own personal feelings about the matter.”

  She knew he’d made his decision, had felt it in the finality of his words, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I’m his emergency contact,” she said quietly. “He didn’t change it. He didn’t have anyone else to change it to.”

  But Toby had returned his full attention to the contents of his desk, clearly indicating their conversation was over. She opened her mouth to declare she was quitting, and leaving right now, and that he’d never see her again, but the words wouldn’t seem to come.

  All she had left was to fade out of the room like she’d never even been there. That’s probably true, Izzy thought bitterly, he probably doesn’t even remember you exist.

  She went to her mostly empty cubicle. She could easily count on one hand the number of times she’d even sat in the chair. Sitting in it now, she let her purse fall to the ground and she propped her elbows on the desk, head buried in her hands, and tried desperately not to cry.

  Why hadn’t she just said it? All she’d had to declare was that she quit and it would be over. This trying to be someone she wasn’t; forcing herself to fit a mold that never felt right. If she quit, she would have to finally admit that all the career aspirations she’d had over the years weren’t really her own aspirations at all. When she’d told her story to Jack, she hadn’t mentioned once what she wanted.