Perfect Game

by Collette West

  Great. What do they want now?

  "Go ahead," I say sharply.

  "Carrie, we need you down by the dugout. If Harper comes in to score before the inning's over, we want you to ask him how he feels about extending his streak."

  "On my way," I reply, my voice curt.

  "Jesus, is the whole family hightailing it outta there? Stop them, McKenzie. We want you to talk to his parents the next time Harper's up at the plate."

  "Yeah, they're calling it a night, but I can always get them at another game," I respond, struggling to hold on to my professionalism.

  "You don't know if there's going to be a next time, McKenzie. Bonehead move, letting them slip through your fingers, and now, San Diego just hit into a double play so there's not gonna be a one-on-one with Harper till after the game. We were supposed to have wall-to-wall coverage of this hitting streak as it enters its final week, and now, we're dropping the ball big time. This is not what we hired you for."

  "I know. I'll try harder. I promise." I bite the inside of my cheek, struggling to hold in my retort.

  "This isn't the Kings' network, McKenzie. No one's gonna cover for you when you fail. The only thing we've got going for us is that the public's just as interested in you as they are in him thanks to those damn kissy-face photos. We'll check back with you in the sixth. Try to get some fan reaction or something to fill the spot."

  "Okay. Will do," I reply until my anger gets the best of me. "But you shouldn't have shown Bob Harper's legs. That's not what he agreed to."

  "So now, you're the one directing the show?"

  "No, I just—" I sputter, but they won't let me finish.

  "He's an injured war veteran. It's Memorial Day weekend. Hello! That's what people wanna see. C'mon, McKenzie. Get with the program. The guy probably has people staring at him all the time. That's life."

  I try again. "But it's not—"

  I know I'm fucked when the senior producer hits the comm button and goes all apeshit on me. "McKenzie, you wanna keep telling us how to do our jobs, or do you wanna quit sucking at yours? Your call."

  "Fine," I respond tersely, realizing that, no matter what I say, they're never going to admit that what they did was wrong. They took advantage of my connection to Scott, plain and simple.

  "Get down to the dugout and see if you can convince San Diego's manager to put on a set of headphones so we can chat with him between innings."

  Great. He's probably drunk, hungover, or—more likely—a combination of the two.

  "He usually doesn't do things like that," I protest, but just as I thought, talking back to them gets me nowhere.

  "Lean over and give him a good view of your cleavage, sweetheart, and I'm sure you'll change his mind."

  The cameraman lowers his head, embarrassed for me, and I can't say that I blame him—because I've never been so ashamed of myself in my entire life.

  The pictures of me kissing Scott's bat were nothing compared to this.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Scott

  I grind my teeth as the post-game barrage by the media drags on.

  "Scott, what was it like having your brother here tonight?" questions a San Diego newspaper reporter who's been pretty fair to me so far.

  I smile for the cameras. "It always gives me a boost to know that Bobby's in the house."

  Until a jackass from one of the local affiliates asks, "What exactly happened to your brother that night in New York, Scott?"

  I give him a tight grin, ready to dismiss him. "Sorry. I don't talk about personal matters."

  "Does he suffer from PTSD?" he presses with a cocky glint in his eye. "Can't you tell us something about how he got injured?"

  All right, asshole. Here's the hundred and forty characters or less version. Go tweet your little black heart out. "His Humvee hit a land mine, and I thank God every day that he survived."

  There are so many people back here that I don't even recognize the gal who asks me the next question. "Do you know why your brother didn't stay to watch the entire game?"

  "No, I don't," I respond, not caring to elaborate.

  But that same asshole who already got his face time with me doesn't let that stop him from speaking over everyone else. "Did he have another episode here tonight?"

  I ball my hands into fists, doing everything I can not to betray even the slightest hint of emotion. Otherwise, they'll be all over me, endlessly running the clip where Scott Harper mouthed off to a roomful of reporters.

  "I'm not going to discuss my brother's medical condition with anyone."

  But when a red-haired chick from CNN steps forward, it's clear that she's done her homework. "But, Scott, your family has an incredible ability of handling pressure under fire. In the first Gulf War, your father crash-landed his F-16 onto an aircraft carrier. In Operation Enduring Freedom, your brother survived an insurgent attack by the Taliban. Now, you're in the middle of breaking one of the longest held streaks in baseball history. Where do the Harper men get their grit and determination from?"

  I run my hand across my jaw, thinking this girl must be on crack for even mentioning my name in the same category as Bobby and my dad. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to speak calmly. "Please don't compare what I'm doing to what my father and brother did. No one can equate what I'm hoping to achieve with the sacrifices they made and the courage they showed. I'm just playing a goddamned game."

  I storm off the podium, my blood boiling as they call out behind me, "Scott! Scott! One more. Scott!"

  But I keep going, turning the corner and bumping into the one person responsible for all this.

  "What the hell, Care Bear? You put Bobby on TV? What the fuck?"

  She grabs my arm, pulling me aside. I stare at her, my nostrils flaring.

  She looks up at me, a trace of fear in her eyes. "He got a little rattled with the crowd and had to leave, but your mom assured me that he's going to be okay. It was just a lot for him when everyone started hovering around."

  "You should have never let him do that interview," I spew out.

  "But it was his idea," Carrie replies, and I see red. "He wanted to surprise you."

  "Yeah, and I'm sure you and Alex had nothing to do with it," I snap at her, knowing I'm right. "Carrie, he's not ready for this."

  "Scott, he can't help it if his brother's the biggest sports story in the country right now," she responds, and I turn away from her. "He knows how hard the rest of this week is going to be for you as you approach the fifty-seventh game. Tonight, he just wanted to be there for you."

  "But I swore that I'd never put him through something like that again," I seethe. "You and Alex are pushing him way too hard."

  "Quit blaming my sister," she retorts, her anger rising. "She's been nothing but good to him, Scott. And now, Bob couldn't wait to get away from her after she let it slip that she was at that game in New York."

  "Shit, Carrie. You know how wrapped up he is in trying to impress her," I argue. "He's so caught up in thinking about her when he should be thinking about himself."

  "Maybe that's the problem," she huffs. "Maybe he needs to stop thinking about himself so much."

  "How dare you say that," I growl at her. "After all he's been through."

  "But you said yourself that he's been wallowing in his misery for too long," she says, hurling my words back in my face—words I said to her in the intimacy of my bed. "At least Alex snapped him out of it. Isn't that what you wanted?"

  "Yeah, but I didn't expect you to throw him in the line of fire like that," I counter, not letting her talk her way out of this. "You should've known better, Carrie. You know what a circus this hitting streak has turned into. You didn't have to drag Bobby into it just so you could make a name for yourself in front of a national audience. SportsTV knew Bobby wouldn't give an interview to anyone but you, and you let them play you."

  She drops her head, muttering, "I can't speak to you when you're like this."

  "What? When I'm being honest with you?"
/>
  If I can't trust her to protect my family, I don't know where I stand with her anymore. How could she violate my faith in her like that? Like her career comes first and I have no right to get mad just because she claims that she "had to do it" on account of her job.

  She turns on her heel, marching away from me. "I'll see you on the plane."

  "Fine with me!" I yell back at her. "I gotta try to call Bobby and tell him he doesn't owe you McKenzie broads another goddamned thing."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Carrie

  "Alex, how's Bob doing?" I ask the minute I can hide behind my hotel room door.

  From San Diego to Los Angeles, Scott ignored me on the bus, on the plane—from the stadium to the airport to the hotel. I've never seen him so mad before—not even when Terry traded him. Then, he was just down. Now, I can't tell if he's more disgusted or disappointed by what I did. He has it in his mind that I caused this, even if I feel just as betrayed as he does. My backstabbing producers turned what should've been a good thing into a nightmare, and I don't know how I'm going to be able to keep working for them after this. They went back on their word, breaking Scott's trust in me in the process. I feel like I'm losing on all fronts, and I just hope that Alex doesn't hang up on me too.

  But she answers, her voice sounding so tired. "Scott said I should take Bob out to the bungalow, so that's what I did."

  "Wait…" My heart stops. "You talked to Scott?" I guess he's still on speaking terms with the other "McKenzie broad."

  "Yeah. He called me as soon as the game was over. Why, didn't he tell you?" she asks, genuinely surprised.

  "No," I sigh. "He kind of blew up at me over what happened."

  "He's just being protective of his brother. He'll get over it." She downplays it because she didn't see how angry he was.

  I rub my eyes, slumping down against the door. "Are you still mad at me?"

  "Not anymore," she responds, lifting my spirits somewhat. "I know you're only doing your job. I just wish they didn't have to go and exploit Bob like that. You know that never would've happened if you were still with the Kings' network."

  "Well, Grandpa doesn't own SportsTV so they can do whatever they want," I remind her.

  "It just sucks that they care more about ratings than treating someone like Bob with the respect he deserves," she huffs.

  "C'mon. It couldn't have been that bad," I moan, stretching my legs out and toeing my shoes off.

  "You haven't seen the interview yet, have you?" she questions me.

  "No. Why?" I ask, my pulse starting to race.

  "They zoomed in and took a close-up shot of his legs before showing a photo of the explosion he was in in Afghanistan," Alex says, and my stomach drops. "The twisted metal, the fire… I couldn't even bring myself to watch it. There's no way I'm letting him see it. Not if I can help it."

  "Those fuckin' assholes," I groan, realizing just how bad this really is.

  "Bob didn't want me to come inside the bungalow once we got here," Alex informs me. "But I insisted after he nearly tripped trying to make it through the door by himself. He didn't even want to talk to me. He went right to bed. He was tossing and turning for nearly an hour, but I think he finally fell asleep a little while ago."

  My heart clenches. I may not only be screwing up what I have with Scott, but also what she has going with Bob.

  "Alex, how come you never told him you were at that game in New York?" I whisper.

  "Because I didn't want to embarrass him," she says in a rush. "It was just a stupid coincidence that I was there that night for my internship with the training staff. He's not that guy anymore. I know that. He's come so far, and I didn't want him to think that I was pitying him for wanting to get to know him better. I really like him, Carrie. I really do."

  She breaks down on the other end of the line, and I feel my throat constrict.

  "Are you okay?" I ask, wishing I were there to give her a hug.

  "I just hate what this war did to him, you know?" Alex sniffles, and it tears me up that she's crying.

  "But you're with him now. That's all that matters," I reassure her.

  She rambles, sounding scared. "But, Carrie, he's mumbling things into his pillow about being burned and evac protocols and—"

  "Stroke his brow and ease him out of it," I respond, advising her the only way I know how. "Talk to him. Let him follow your voice to a happier place."

  "I will, but I gotta go. He's getting restless again," she replies with a tremble in her voice.

  "If it gets to be too much, you call me, okay?" I demand, worried to death about my little sister. "Or at least call Scott."

  "I've got it, sis," Alex replies, somehow finding her courage. "He's safe with me."

  "You're an amazing person, Alexandra," I tell her, meaning it with my whole heart.

  "See? I can care about more important things than clothes and shoes," she says with a shaky laugh.

  "I know you can," I respond, pride welling in my chest.

  "I hope you can smooth things over with Scott," she says, a note of sadness creeping into her voice again.

  "Yeah, me too," I whisper back softly, looking at the big, empty bed in front of me. "Me too."

  ***

  I arrive at the stadium for the fifty-first game on little sleep and cringe when the first thing I hear is, "What's this? Your boyfriend starting to crack?"

  But I keep walking. "What are you talking about, Reisenberg?"

  "You were there, weren't you? You saw him walk out on all those reporters after the game."

  "Those reporters were out of line for asking him shit about his brother."

  Reisenberg cocks his head to the side. "The brother whose legs you interviewed on national TV?"

  I glare at him, forcing him to step aside. "Screw you. It wasn't like that."

  "You can't have it both ways, sweetheart," he says, keeping stride with me.

  "Quit jumping to conclusions," I respond, blowing him off.

  "You're right. I can't see a guy like Harper giving you any more exclusives after that," he remarks, a lewd smile on his lips as he scopes out my boobs.

  "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  "Or maybe I do," he drawls, making my skin crawl. "Honey, I've been around the game a long time. And let me tell you, I live the life you just talk about for a living. Harper's a player—always has been, always will be. You can't mold him into the kinda guy you want him to be just to sanitize him for the masses. He's always gonna do stupid shit. But I think you already knew that, didn't you?"

  I don't even bother to dignify him with a response. Instead, I walk away, wincing when I feel his eyes on my ass the whole way down the hall.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Scott

  I'm halfway to emptying the mini bar in my hotel room after the fifty-second game, heartsick over the way Carrie was looking at me in the clubhouse, so I barely hear my phone ringing in the middle of my drunken haze.

  I clumsily hit the speaker button, and my former closer's voice comes roaring through. "Dude, have you lost your mind?"

  "Jilly?" I hiccup.

  He wastes no time tearing into me. "You know who it is, dickwad. What the hell did you do to Carrie?"

  "Nothing," I respond dully, my arm clinking through the tiny, empty bottles surrounding me on the bed.

  "Don't bullshit me, man. Her eyes were all red and puffy when she gave her report. I can't believe SportsTV let her go on the air like that. She looked like she'd been crying, or didn't you bother to notice?"

  "So?"

  "So? What'd you do to her?" Jilly repeats, his hostility rising.

  "None of your damn business," I respond defiantly.

  "Are you drunk?" he presses.

  I take a swig from one of the bottles. "Yep."

  "I knew it," he sighs.

  "Jilly, she set Bobby up with that interview, all right?" I respond like that should be explanation enough. "He flipped out at one of my games again
, and I couldn't even talk to him before I had to get on a plane and leave town. None of this would've happened if she didn't get involved. He's in a very volatile place. Anything can push him over the edge."

  "But I saw your parents sitting next to him during the interview. Why didn't they put a stop to it?" Jilly drones on.

  "Because they're all about Bobby moving forward and making progress," I tell him, repeating the line of bullshit they gave me. "They don't wanna keep holding him back."

  "Dude, I don't think Carrie would ever intentionally hurt him," he responds, saying what I already know deep in my heart.

  "Of course she wouldn't," I snarl. "It was those dickhead producers of hers, milking Bobby's injury for ratings."

  "Then why are you taking it out on her?" he questions me, his frustration with me evident.

  "Because…" I moan. "She was rushing things along, and he's not ready."

  "Or you're not ready?" he asks, catching me off guard.

  "We're not talking about me, Jilly," I growl at him.

  "I think we are," he rebukes. "Carrie's getting more deeply involved with your family and it's scaring the shit out of you because you know this isn't some stupid fling anymore. It's serious."

  "I just don't want her to have to deal with how fucked up my brother is 'cause I don't even know how to handle the way he is now." I run my fingers through my hair, messing it up even more. "At least, not until he sorts himself out."

  "And what if he doesn't?" he asks. "You're just gonna pretend his problems don't exist?"

  "No," I whine. "That's why I thought her sister could help before she opened her big, fat mouth."

  "You involved Carrie's sister in this too? Why the hell would you do that?" Jilly practically screams at me.

  "'Cause she's a physical therapist, and I thought she'd be a good person for Bobby to talk to. So I hooked them up," I say, raising my bottle in the air.

  "Jesus," he sighs. "But go back a minute. What do you mean about her shooting off her mouth?"

  "She told him she saw what happened last year," I respond, not having to elaborate since Jilly is one of the few guys who know about it.