by Linda Morris
His father had commissioned that statue when Paul was a boy. He’d been a child of five at the dedication ceremony, holding his grandfather’s hand as his father had dropped the cloth that shielded the new statue from the view of the assembled crowd. Everyone had gasped and applauded, and a photographer from the Plainview Herald had snapped pictures. Paul had asked the man if his picture would be in the paper, and everyone had laughed, without him understanding why.
“Better than that, son. This will all be yours one day,” his grandfather had said with a smile, hoisting him on his bony shoulders so he could get a better look at the statue. “I created this team for you.”
“But you did it a long time ago. I wasn’t borned yet.”
Everyone laughed again, except his grandfather. Grandpa Dudley never laughed at him, except when he meant to be funny, which was why Paul loved him so much. “But I knew you would be born one day, and I wanted you to have a baseball team of your very own, so I made you a good one.”
He’d loved the old man fiercely, almost more than he loved his father. Losing him right after college graduation had been the second-hardest blow he’d ever suffered, right after losing his mom.
His grandpa had taken him fishing when his dad was too busy running the team. Now it was Paul’s turn to be so wrapped up in running the team he never had a chance to go fishing for stripers out at Raccoon Lake anymore.
How Grandpa Dudley would hate to see the state the team had fallen into. As Paul had grown older, he’d realized his grandfather had often disapproved of the way Walter ran the Thrashers organization, but he’d believed in staying out of management after he handed the team over to his son to run.
Unfortunately, Walter didn’t share the old man’s ideas in that area.
The stadium was in dire need of renovation, yet another thing he couldn’t get his father to admit.
“People like the history,” his father insisted.
“People also like to know the grandstand isn’t going to crumble beneath them while they watch a game,” Paul had pointed out, but his father simply scoffed, leaving Paul to get the team ready for the season in the same rundown stadium as last year.
No point in dwelling on it when a hundred emails and voice mails awaited his attention back in his office.
He’d returned last week from another spring training in Florida. Although he’d cursed himself for a fool every time he did it, he’d visited the Crimson Lounge a few times, hoping to see Willow once again. The players had teased him ruthlessly, noting the “old man” was more interested in the nightlife than the twenty-two-year-old players were.
He didn’t think about Willow every day, but she had crossed his mind since then more often than he would have expected. Memories of her laugh, her hair blowing in the salt-scented breeze, her arms around him under the pier. Bittersweet, considering he’d never been able to find her again.
His cell rang and he checked the readout. Fantastic. It was the Thrashers’ new manager, Alex Moreno-Lopez. A bit of a legend in his own mind. At thirty-eight, he was young for a manager, but chronic knee injuries had ended his major league catching career and now he was on the fast track to a major league managing job. Another hotshot passing through the Thrashers organization on the way to somewhere else.
“Hey, Alex, what can I do for you?”
“You can do something about this shitty turf, that’s what.”
His eyebrows rose, and he counted to three, searching for patience. “Nice to talk to you too, Alex. You don’t waste time with preliminaries, do you?”
“Screw that. Reece damn near broke an ankle during a fielding drill today. There are divots in the grass everywhere, and our first game of the season is in three days.”
Great. Another long-standing problem he didn’t have the budget to fix.
“Right. I’ll get the ground crew on it. You make sure you show them where the problem is. Is Reece okay?”
“He’s icing it down now. It’s swollen, but not broken, by the grace of God. Sending somebody out there to patch up a few divots isn’t going to cut it. What you need is new turf. The whole thing needs to be stripped up and replaced.”
Tell him something he didn’t know. He had to think about the practicalities of it, though, not just indulge in wishful thinking. “We don’t have the time to replace the field, with the season starting in three days. Even if we did, it’s not in the budget.”
“Aw, come on, man, get up off that wallet and invest in the players,” Alex cajoled, ignoring the whole bit about how they didn’t have time. “How can we groom players for the majors if they’re worrying about breaking a leg every time they slide into third or go for a deep fly ball?”
Paul gritted his teeth, reminding himself that Alex was a year out of being a ballplayer. He’d never been a businessman or even a manager before. He couldn’t tell you the difference between net and gross and probably had no idea how to make an accounting ledger balance. “Alex, I know you’ve been in the majors for years. Ground crew budgets there run in the millions. Hell, my entire operating budget for the year doesn’t match what the Yankees put into their field in a season. This isn’t going to be a big league–quality field, okay? You’re going to have to adjust your expectations.”
“I’m not going to lower my expectations if it means sitting by while my guys get hurt.” His voice took on a surly edge.
Patience. Paul needed to exercise patience, which he never seemed to have enough of. “I said I’d get ground staff out there to repair the holes, okay? We’re not getting a new turf this season.” He hoped to be able to swing it in the off-season, if they had a good year this year, but that looked unlikely already. Preseason ticket sales were low, and that didn’t bode well for their bottom line.
“Fine. If you can’t do it, I’ll talk to someone who can. I’ll call your dad.”
His hand tightened on the phone. Screw patience. “Like hell you will. I’m the president of this team. If you don’t like the answer I give you, go manage some other team, but you will not go, hat in hand, over my head to someone you think will give you the answer you want, understood?”
After a long moment, Alex exhaled. “Fine. I may not be able to change the turf, but I don’t have to like it. I hope you can live with yourself when that turf causes a serious injury someday.” The phone clicked off.
Paul slid his phone into his pocket. Upstairs, in his office, a host of problems he didn’t have the budget to fix awaited him. The woman he’d been idly daydreaming about for a year had just walked back into his life, but she wanted nothing to do with him. His manager was on the verge of mutiny, and the terrible field conditions he could do nothing about were endangering his players. His father, whom he loved in spite of everything, seemed determined to chase off everyone who cared about him and maybe wreck the Dudley legacy in the process.
Yeah, that seemed about right for an average Tuesday.
*
Back in her motel room, her fingers shook as she dialed the phone. Only one person would understand what she was feeling right now.
She put the phone to her ear and waited, squeezing her eyes shut as it rang.
“How’d the interview go?” Kendra’s voice was warm and familiar. “Willow, what’s up?” Her voice took on a note of concern when Willow didn’t answer.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and took a deep breath, opening her eyes. She wasn’t an ostrich. Putting her head in the sand wouldn’t help. “I think I’m in big trouble, Kendra. Remember my interview was with Paul Dudley? Turns out, he’s that Paul.”
“What Paul?”
Several seconds elapsed as Willow bit her lip and tried to stem the rising tide of panic. “That Paul. From the Crimson Lounge.”
“Holy shit. Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I was.” She started to pace from one brown shag–covered side of the room to the other.
“Oh my God. What did he say?”
“Not much. He seemed kinda interested, but I bl
ew him off. I need a relationship like I need a hole in my head.”
“No, I mean what did he say when you told him about Jack.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing.” She stopped in her tracks, winding one lock of hair around her finger in a gesture that had been a habit since she was a kid. “I didn’t exactly tell him,” she said in a rush.
“Oh, well. I guess you must have been pretty shocked.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“It’s not the kind of thing that’s easy to blurt out during a job interview.”
“Um, definitely not.”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“Ah, I’m not sure about that.” She looked out at the parking lot. Empty beer bottles sat in a ring around an ancient phone booth with no phone in it. That was how far behind the times Plainview, Indiana, was. Nobody had bothered to pull down the pay phone booths. It was the land both time and AT&T forgot.
“You’re not sure when you’re going to tell him?”
“No. I’m not sure whether I’m going to tell him.”
“What?” Kendra’s voice broke on a shriek. “Are you nuts? He’s got a right to know, Willow. This is his kid we’re talking about.”
“I know, I know. Of course I’ll tell him eventually.” She used the same soothing tone she’d used to tell her mother about being pregnant. It hadn’t worked then. Here was hoping for better luck this time. “I don’t know anything about this guy. I need to get to know him a little bit. I definitely don’t want him to know while I’m working on this profile. That would screw everything up.” She let the curtain fall closed and paced toward the bathroom.
“Willow, you don’t know that. You need to come clean and tell him everything. Now. Give him a chance to do the right thing.”
Willow shook her head. Kendra’s relationships hadn’t been one disaster after another. She had the gift of being able to date guys, have a good time, and move on with a minimum of fuss when it was over.
She’d never understand.
“I gave Tony a chance, remember? That relationship not only went to hell, but it took my career with it. I’m not letting that happen again. I need this job. Do you have any idea how much debt I have?”
“Every man is not Tony, hon.” Her friend’s voice was soft with sympathy, which, oddly, only hardened the steel in Willow’s spine.
“Some of them are. Look, I’ll probably tell Paul everything after this project is over. But for the next few weeks, I’ve got a job to do, and I’m not going to let Paul get in my way. You know I need this job, Kendra. The stakes are high. I have a kid to support. How many more chances do you think I’m going to get if I blow this one?”
“I know, I know. I also know a child needs a dad. I grew up without one, remember?”
The reminder stopped Willow cold. Kendra’s father had gone to jail for armed robbery when she was three. He’d been stabbed in a prison fight three years into his sentence and never come home. She didn’t talk about it much, but Willow knew it still haunted her.
“I’ll think about telling him after the project is over, Kendra. Not until then. Don’t push me.”
“It’s not only me who’ll be pushing you if you don’t tell him. Someday, Jack’s going to have questions. Better make sure you have good answers for him when the time comes.”
*
Opening day at the ballpark. On a warm spring day, was anything better? The tang of fresh-mown grass blended with the scent of beer and hot dogs roasting in the concession stands to create an aroma Willow had loved since she was a little girl. The town of Plainview seemed to agree. The stands were more than three-quarters full, even though the opener fell on a weekday afternoon.
She’d begged off of Paul’s offer of watching the game from his executive box, explaining she wanted to sit in the bleachers and interact with fans to get local color for her story. The fact that it allowed her to put a little distance between herself and Paul was another plus.
“The stadium needs a face-lift, badly, but that doesn’t dampen the spirits of the crowd here for opening day.” Willow spoke into her digital tape recorder, earning an odd glance over the shoulder from a chubby dad in a Thrashers cap in the next row.
Tracy Rice came up the stairs and greeted her with a wave. “I see you got the press credentials I left for you at will call.”
Willow held up the laminated card on a lanyard around her neck. “I did, thanks.”
“Want some company? My boyfriend couldn’t come to the game today.”
“Sure—have a seat.” She gestured to the empty spot on the bleacher bench next to her.
In the row in front of them, a father bounced a toddler on his knee, tugging a hat down over the little boy’s eyes to shade him from the bright sun.
The brief moment made her miss Jack with a pang that was almost physical pain. One day her child would be getting baby teeth and losing them in turn. He’d be going through shoes and long pants in months, and running up her grocery bill with his voracious appetite, all without a father to scold him and take secret pride in how much trouble he caused. Her trouble must have shown on her face.
“You okay?” Tracy asked, eyeing her closely.
“Sure.” Looking for an excuse for her expression, she rubbed the small of her back. “Sorry. The bed at the motel wasn’t my friend last night.” It was true enough. She’d spent the night tossing and turning on a bowed, thin mattress, and had the aches and pains to show for it.
“The Painview Motel. That’s what everyone here calls it. Since you’re going to be in town for a while, you should rent a house. I know of a duplex that’s cheap. Much better than that dive.”
“Really? That would be wonderful,” she said with a sigh, rubbing a sore spot above her tailbone. Her back had troubled her during pregnancy, and it still hadn’t gotten back to normal. A night in a good bed sounded like heaven. “As long as it’s in my budget, of course. My per diem from Screwball isn’t much.”
“Oh, I’m sure Paul would let you have it for a song. Nobody’s lived there for more than a year at least.”
“Paul? Paul Dudley? He owns it?” Her voice rose, nearly taking flight.
Tracy side-eyed her. “Well, sure, but don’t let that bother you. I’m sure he’d be happy to rent it to you. He wouldn’t wish six weeks in the Painview on anybody.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right. I don’t mind the Painview, er Plainview Motel that much.”
Tracy gave her an odd look at her about-face. “Are you sure? He wouldn’t mind. It’s been sitting there empty since Sarah moved away.”
“I’m sure. No problem.” The last thing she needed to do was to live under Paul Dudley’s roof, even if he wasn’t under it at the time. She seized on Tracy’s last words. She knew from being in the industry that Sarah and her fiancé’s school for up-and-coming pitchers, both boys and girls, had opened a year ago on Chicago’s north side and had immediately been hailed as a groundbreaking step forward in biomechanical training for young pitchers. It stressed proper form and technique, both for effectiveness and to prevent injury and burnout. “How did it go over when Sarah left the team for the academy?”
Tracy’s eyes went back to the field, where the third Thrasher up to bat had struck out, bringing on the next inning. Nothing was happening on the field, yet Tracy’s eyes were glued to it.
“It went over well. The school has been a big success and Paul is very proud of her.”
Hmmm. That sounded like a canned answer if she’d ever heard one. Tracy had suddenly grown allergic to eye contact as well. Apparently something about Sarah leaving the team carried a whiff of controversy. Could Paul Dudley resent his sister’s success? Maybe, if he’d been left behind to steer the sinking ship to its watery grave. Willow made a mental note to follow up on it later.
“Will I be able to get player interviews lined up in the next week? I’d like to get to know some of the guys, talk to them one-on-one. And the managers, too, especially Alex. He’s an in
teresting story.”
Tracy’s eyes widened, not a lot, but enough for Willow to notice. “I thought you primarily wanted to observe the players as they go about their daily business.”
Hmmm, good recovery, but Willow still sensed something was off. Tracy didn’t have enough of a poker face for her job yet.
Eventually, she’d learn not to trust reporters. Willow hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to teach her that lesson.
“I do want to observe, but I need a frame of reference. I need to talk to the players, let people get to know them. It gives the story color. People don’t want to read about strangers. The story of whether the Thrashers rise or fall is only interesting if readers are invested in the people.”
“I guess.” Tracy sounded reluctant.
“Is it a problem that I want to interview the guys one-on-one?”
“I’ll have to clear it with Paul.” Tracy’s smile showed a bit of strain. “He can be funny about publicity. He’s a private guy. I have to admit, I thought you were fighting an uphill battle to get approval for this project. I still can’t believe he approved you so quickly. It must be because of your past history, I guess?”
“What history?”
Tracy looked confused. “I don’t know. I thought you guys had met before?”
“Oh, sure. That history.” Her hammering heart slowed. Tracy hadn’t meant anything in particular. Willow had better shut it before she revealed way more than she wanted to.
“I was so surprised when he approved you like that. I thought I’d have to twist his arm.” Her eyes flickered to the recorder in Willow’s lap. “You aren’t going to quote me on that, are you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to. This conversation can be off the record.”
Tracy’s shoulders drooped, her relief unmistakable. Maybe Tracy wasn’t as trusting as she’d thought. Was Paul Dudley such a hard-ass that this sweet young woman feared for her job if she made a misstep?