Long Relief (Hardball Book 1)

by Abigail Barnette

  “Uh-oh, Skipper’s headed out to the mound,” someone near the window said, moments before the announcers pointed it out on screen.

  It wasn’t a good sign. The pitching coach had already been out to speak with the starter the inning before. A second visit, from the manager, usually meant a change was coming. The cameras had caught Ken Holmes on the phone to the bullpen in the third when Andy DeSalvio gave up two runs. Now, with the bases loaded on a walk, it looked pretty certain he was going to pull relief.

  Over the box’s speakers, the park announcer called Chris’s name.

  Maggie’s stomach turned over at the ripple of boos that broke through the few cheers from the fans. On the television, the cameras got a close shot of Chris’s face as he took to the mound. There was nothing, not a flicker of emotion, positive or negative, but Maggie knew that behind the cool, focused stare, he couldn’t feel good about being jeered on his home turf.

  “And the crowd is not happy to see Thompson,” Luigi stated the obvious in his nasal drone.

  On his heels, Ted chuckled. “You’re right, Luigi. They don’t not have long memories.”

  “These guys are terrible,” Maggie whispered to herself.

  Turning away from the television, she went to the sleek glass doors and, nodding and smiling at the guests assembled inside the owner’s box, stepped out onto the balcony. Ignoring the stares of the fans seated below, she focused her eyes and folded her arms as Chris threw his first pitch. It was an unspectacular slider that missed the strike zone by a country mile. The fans were not impressed, to say the least.

  “That’s a shame,” a voice said at her elbow. She didn’t know who the woman standing beside her was, or why she’d been invited to opening day in the owner’s box, but Maggie had left the invites up to Molly. The woman was about 5’3”, with her highlighted brown hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Her sunglasses were huge, and her coral jacket perfectly complimented her deep beige skin. She stuck her hand out. “Eva Colchado.”

  “Maggie Harper.”

  “I know who you are.” Eva reached into her jacket and produced a press pass.

  “Excuse me, but I’m not giving interviews—”

  “I’m not, either. At least, not with you. Your assistant invited me.” Eva pointed through the glass doors at Molly, who hovered around the catering table, sneaking nibbles. “Cute girl.”

  “I’m sorry, I grew up in the game. I see one of those badges and I think you’re trying to scoop something. Or catch me doing something I shouldn’t be doing,” Maggie laughed, her gaze falling back to the diamond. Chris threw a change-up strike, and the tightness around her ribs loosened a bit.

  “Are you doing something you shouldn’t?” Eva asked, her tone so shockingly serious that it took Maggie a moment to realize she was joking. “No. I’m really just here for the food. I reached out to Molly earlier this week about sitting down with you in the near future, though. I’ve profiled some of the self-made millionaires who come from Grand Rapids. She thought readers might be interested in hearing about one who brought that success back.”

  Score one for Molly. It would probably be a brilliant way to boost fan morale—and most importantly, attendance—after the depressing end to the last season. Maybe she’d be able to make people forget that horrible story in the paper.

  “I’d be happy to sit for an interview. Set something up with Molly.”

  It had gotten warmer since the last time she’d been outside, and Maggie took off her jacket, hoping the reporter wouldn’t write about pit stains in her next column. She shielded her eyes from the glare to watch as Chris struck out the batter, and the next up, too. As the teams changed sides and Chris disappeared into the dugout, Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.

  Until she noticed that the players were in position, but there was still a heck of a lot of motion in the outfield.

  “Are those…” Eva’s voice drifted off.

  “Birds.” That sinking feeling that had started right after the national anthem and had disappeared during the fourth inning was back, but with a new and improved plummeting sensation. “A hell of a lot of birds.”

  “It looks like some seagulls are dropping in on the game,” Luigi chuckled from the television inside, as a few guests came out to the seats to watch the spectacle.

  “The grubs,” Maggie whispered in horror.

  Of course. Hadn’t the groundskeeper, Sheff, warned her about grubs? From here, she couldn’t see anything on the field, but seagulls could. Soon, there were so many of them, both teams had no choice but to abandon the outfield.

  The stands descended into chaos. The players retreated to the dugouts while the groundskeepers ran onto the grass in an attempt to shoo the birds away. Near home plate, the umpires stood in a tight circle, heads bent to avoid their lips being read on camera. Not that Maggie needed to read anyone’s lips to know what was coming.

  “Maggie!” Molly burst through the cluster assembled around the doors. “I mean, Ms. Harper. You have Mr. Morgan on the line, and Mr. Thorgerson trying to get through.”

  Forcing her very bravest smile for her guests—and the reporter standing far too close at a moment this catastrophic—Maggie nodded. “Put them on hold. I’ll take the calls in my office.”

  * * * *

  “This is bullshit.”

  Maggie took a deep breath. She’d anticipated that the Bengal manager, Ken Holmes, might show a flash of his famous temper over the seagull incident, but she’d had no idea he’d take it out on her. After all, hadn’t it been Thorgerson’s cut-throat groundskeeping tactics that had gotten them into this mess?

  From his seat across the desk, Thorgerson flipped through documents on his iPad. “I have assurances that by the time the team returns from New Orleans, the field will be grub-free and ready to play.”

  “They’re going to let us make up the other games in the series,” Maggie tried, knowing her good intentions were falling on anger-deafened ears.

  Not one to mince words, Ken pointed an accusing finger and snapped back, “It’s an embarrassment, and that guy right there is the cause.”

  “I resent the implication that this somehow falls on my shoulders.” Thorgerson didn’t sound particularly resentful. Just bored. “I’m trying to run a ballpark that will raise money for the team, not suck it all away. If I can’t get thirty dollars a head out of these customers at the concessions stands, I can’t justify the grounds staff we have now.”

  “I can justify it. We have to play out there! Those ‘customers’ are fans who are not going to come to this park and buy thirty dollars worth of peanuts if there isn’t a god damn game!” Ken stood and headed for the door. He stopped halfway and turned that angry finger on her. “You’re a nice girl, Maggie, and I liked your dad. But I like my team more. You get this clown sorted out.”

  It took a lot of willpower not to slouch down in her chair in front of Thorgerson. He looked up with a sympathetic, condescending smile. “He is a notoriously difficult man.”

  Maggie ground her teeth. “Get rid of the grubs, get the field in order.”

  Thorgerson wisely took that as his cue to exit, and Maggie sank down in her chair for real. Would every season be this big of a fight? Her dad had never let on that “team owner” actually meant “person who writes checks and gets yelled at.” She would be counting the days until she returned to her New York office.

  She needed to get out. After instructing Molly to hold her calls, Maggie practically ran through the underground employee parking garage on the way to her car. Molly’s pink VW Bug was parked in the space usually reserved for her boss; her assistant had bought a huge birthday cake for one of the secretaries in the front office, and Maggie had taken pity on her and switched spaces. The extra walk was doing her some good to clear her head. The hot breath of car fumes in her face was the sweet air of freedom. Maybe she would go get a beer. Hell, maybe she would go get a whole bar. It was that kind of day.

  A door slammed somewhere in the garage,
and her gaze snapped to the black BMW parked ahead. Her stomach dropped when she saw the man reaching into the trunk.

  She couldn’t face Chris. Not after what she’d said to him before she’d left his apartment. She’d basically let slip that his career was over and crushed any hope of ever sleeping with him again in one fell swoop. You’re not supposed to hope to sleep with him.

  He’d seen her, too, and now he walked toward her, his jaw tight, expression otherwise neutral. He didn’t speak as their intersecting paths brought them closer.

  It was too awkward. He was one of her players. She had to say something, or be horribly rude. “You looked like you were in good shape out there the other day. Before the seagulls.”

  “Thanks.” He passed her, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking a hell of a lot better than the beer she’d been wanting earlier. Then, he stopped and called, “Sorry your first game was a bust.”

  “Sorry your first game was a bust,” she repeated, her steps slowing despite the neon yellow warning lights flashing in her head. “I’ve got assurances that it’s going to be under control by the time you get back from Nola.”

  “I hate playing down there. The humidity is crazy.” He stopped a few paces from her. “Checking out for the day, then?”

  “No, just taking a little break. What are you doing here?” Unbelievably, she’d stopped walking, too. What the hell did she think she was going to do, stop and have a polite chat with the guy she’d so thoroughly pissed off a few days before? “I didn’t think you guys had practice.”

  “We didn’t. I was coming in for some exercise, maybe watch some of Jacobson’s at-bats from last season. He’s playing for New Orleans this season.”

  “I remember. He got traded from Atlantic City.” It hadn’t been easy, stepping in as team owner in the middle of a flurry of trades and new contracts, especially when she was still so steeped in grief over her father’s passing. But strangely, all the little details had stuck with her, who had gone where and why. She owed Casey Morgan, the team’s general manager, a huge debt for helping her navigate the process. Next year, she’d be ready to be more involved.

  Chris looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. “Well, have a good—”

  Her heart was doing the stupid flip-flops her brain knew better than to acknowledge. Her brain was an idiot, that was the only explanation for why she interrupted him with, “Do you want to go get a beer?”

  His expression alone told her that he would have been less shocked if she’d stripped off all her clothes and done a fan dance right there in the parking garage. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking as though he was torn between asking if she was stupid or drunk or both. “You do remember what happened with us, right? I told you I’d like to start seeing you, and you told me you weren’t going to renew my contract at the end of the season.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just heard a rumor and I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “It’s been a terrible day.”

  “I can imagine.” He sounded truly sympathetic, and that eased the smarting of his rejection a little more. “Grubs.”

  “I just thought,” she took a deep breath, laughing at herself before she finished her sentence. “I don’t know. Maybe talking to someone who understands the business. It might help.”

  “It’s kind of unfair to ask that of someone you personally and professionally eviscerated while he was naked,” he pointed out.

  She couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his fault that her psyche—and her libido—had somehow fixated on him. Every hour of the past few days that she hadn’t been wound up in baseball business, she’d been thinking about Chris. Not in moony daydreams, but with real regret. Of all the people in the organization, Chris was the only one who’d been around it as long as she had. She’d stupidly destroyed that bond by turning him into a one-night stand. “Yeah, you’re right. Have a good one.”

  As she turned to walk away, he caught her hand and held it a little longer than he’d needed to once she faced him again. He stroked his thumb over her palm, then reluctantly released her. “Look, I really do need to do some homework here. But I’ve got a day off after the next road trip. Give me your number, I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “As friends,” she prefaced gently, before reciting the number for him to punch into his phone. “I mean, I don’t want to lead you on and be more of an asshole.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t think you could be more of an asshole.” He winked and pocketed his phone again. “See you later.”

  She watched him walk toward the security door and laughed in disbelief, shaking her head. When she got to her car, she stopped trying to repress the giddy shiver that went down her spine and just gave into it. How ridiculous could she possibly be? She’d lived out the dream of every American female, to have sex with, then blow off, her first crush. But sleeping with Chris hadn’t cured her of the crush she’d harbored all those years ago. On the contrary, it had returned all of her factory settings to default lusting after Chris mode. It was colossally unfair.

  Midday traffic was light, and so was the crowd at the little Irish-themed pub down by the riverside. She parked behind the building and was almost to the door when her phone chimed with an incoming text. Closing her eyes and wishing super hard that it wasn’t Molly with another emergency, cake or baseball-related, she unlocked the screen.

  It wasn’t from Molly. It was from a number she didn’t recognize. The only clue to who had sent it was the message’s contents: “Mitten Brewery on Leonard has good fries to go with that beer.”

  A smile touched the corner of her mouth. Okay, she was going to be friends with Chris.

  She could totally do this.

  Chapter Five

  After an uncertain winter, Chris had to admit that it felt good to be on a winning team again. They easily swept New Orleans. Hell, their outfielders had made it look effortless. At times, he’d wondered if they’d even broken a sweat out there.

  Folding his 6’ 2” frame into an airline’s idea of a seat sized for a human body, he grimaced. He’d only been on the mound two innings in the last game, but his shoulder would ache like he’d pitched a full no-hitter the entire ride home. That… felt less good. He’d thought he’d come to terms with the reality of what was most likely his last season, but it was harder to face when he was coming down off a winning high.

  The bullpen looked good, provided they kept the kids they’d brought up from the minors. Jackson, a tall, spindly Oklahoma boy, was getting deeper into the game now, which took the pressure off the relievers. Chris regretted that he wouldn’t be around next year to see what the kid would do in his second season.

  Passengers were still boarding, so he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his email. He took a breath before opening the message he’d already gone over and over what seemed like a hundred times. Jake Frankel, formerly a player with the Bengals, now managed the Charlotte Gators. He’d suggested Chris as a replacement for their retiring pitching coach. It should have been exciting to Chris, but after so many years in Michigan, he didn’t look forward to packing up his life and moving down south.

  And it has nothing to do with Maggie, he reminded himself firmly. It didn’t, because it couldn’t. Only an idiot would turn down a good job offer because he was holding out for a woman who had no interest in a relationship, and Chris was no idiot. He was, however, perpetually distracted by the thought of those golden blonde curls and her tight little body. And her blistering competitive banter. And her sense of humor.

  He didn’t meet someone like Maggie every day.

  He’d never met anyone like Maggie.

  Most of the guys on the team were married. If they weren’t, they definitely took advantage of the panty-dropping power of a well-timed, “I play professional baseball.” The girls who hung around the park after games weren’t usually looking for more than an autograph and a fun night; it was the models and the friends-of-a-friend a guy re
ally had to watch out for. It had been years since Chris had spent serious time with a woman without feeling like he was wearing a big, dollar-sign shaped target on his back. But Maggie probably made more in a year than he did in an entire contract.

  It was nice to know what she wasn’t after, but it still left a lot of questions as to what she was after. He didn’t mind being friends, but he didn’t know why she would need a player as a friend. That could be as messy and complicated as sleeping with him.

  What had she done to him? He’d slept with her once, and he was ready to turn down a legit offer from another organization because it would take him away from her. What kind of sick infatuation had he come down with? Maggie had seemed pretty certain that this was Chris’s last year with the Bengals. Tenuous friendship or not, he couldn’t come right out and ask her, at the beginning of the season, to force a decision on next season, especially when he wasn’t sure his arm was up to another contract, anyway. It would be beyond stupid to pass up even an informal offer of employment.

  He opened a text message and quickly tapped out, “I’ll be back in town tonight. Dinner?”

  He’d just reached to turn off his phone when it buzzed with Maggie’s reply.

  “Can’t. Dinner with Morgan.”

  Chris sucked in a breath.

  Casey Morgan. General manager of the team. A former heavy hitter from the days of THG, still in ridiculous shape for his age, probably dyed his hair. The guy wore too much cologne and very expensive shoes. He was exactly the type of guy Maggie should be going out with.

  “Sir?” The flight attendant leaned down slightly when she spoke to him like he was a child. “The aircraft door is closed, I’m going to have to ask you to turn off your device.”

  “Yeah, no problem.” First, though, he flipped back to the email and hit reply. His “I’ll take it,” was headed to Charlotte before the plane taxied onto the runway.

  * * * *