Big Leagues

by Jen Estes

  It was two o’clock in the morning before the national sport websites broke the story, releasing no more information than her statement. Cat kept her eye on various message boards to monitor their reactions. She spent an hour absorbed in the fan sentiment:

  MadDog3482inNY:

  WHOA!!!!!! Car wreck? Crunked?

  CrosstownWS2011:

  So who’s playing CF for the Chips now?

  SmittyBaller:

  My fantasy team is screwed.

  Sox4Life:

  ’Roid rage. No doubt.

  The comments were mere sparks compared to the blaze to come in the morning, but they gave Cat early insight into the fans’ gut reactions, specifically with the “s-word.”

  Steroids.

  This was not the first time she’d heard the rumors about her team. The Chips’ instant success had come easy, but where “easy” went, suspicion tagged along. Suspicion set its target on the roster.

  The roster, where has-beens rebounded to comeback heroes.

  The roster, where potentials turned into overnight idols.

  The roster, where injuries healed in half the estimated time.

  The roster, where deep-pop flies turned into winning home runs.

  Just one of those strokes of luck would spur whispers of performance-enhancing, and the Chips had struck the jackpot with all four, three years in a row. Suspicion lit the torches that witchhunters intended for Hohenschwangau Stadium, and their flames had been burning since the team’s inaugural season.

  Cat rolled her eyes. The scripted response played through her mind. Drug testing had become so commonplace and precise in the last few years that it was difficult for one player to get away with as much as an unapproved Flintstones Chewable. The idea that an entire team could be using anabolic steroids or growth hormones without detection was ridiculous.

  Nevertheless, the skeptics and cynics couldn’t be dissuaded. Baseball chat rooms were packed with disbelievers from eight to eighty years of age, and they all pointed accusatory fingers at their hated rivals. They claimed the commissioner was blackmailed, that the organist was in on the scam, that even the hot dog vendors were being paid off. They went so far as to declare that modern baseball was one big sham. Hiding behind screen names and avatars, they failed to take into account that such a conspiracy would not benefit anyone outside of the Chips organization. The cynics glossed over the fact that the drug testing was conducted by a reputable laboratory with no connections to any of the teams and that the tests were monitored by the commissioner’s office. The skeptics never examined why—if a massive conspiracy did exist—no former players or disgruntled ex-staff cashed in on what would indeed be an incredibly profitable exposé.

  Cat found the whole idea silly. However, silly or not, the message boards proved she was going to be busy fielding the same suggestions about Jamal Abercromby. The fans were going to have a lot of questions. Responding to those questions was the least dreamy part of her dream job. She jotted down everything she read online, even the most offensive implications, and added a few concerns of her own. She rubbed her eyes and looked out her open door to the dark, empty fourth floor. When had everyone left? The emergency exit sign shrouded the deserted desks in a soft green glow and created more shadows than light. The silence said it all.

  Go home, Cat.

  * * *

  Before she left, instead of taking the usual right turn to the parking lot tunnel, Cat swung a left and strolled down to the clubhouse.

  Maybe just one last look at Jamal’s locker.

  The open cubbyholes were the only personal space the players had on the entire grounds. That notion struck her as very wrong. Without the players, Hohenschwangau wouldn’t exist, and yet, their claim to the whole stadium was a mere eight cubic feet. She entered the doorway and looked toward the southwest corner. Just last week she and several other eager media hounds had crowded Jamal Abercromby to gush about the spectacular catch that had robbed the opposition of a home run.

  “Jamal, many consider you to be the frontrunner for Rookie of the Year. Do you have any feelings on that?”

  The outfielder had shrugged and offered a modest smile. “Aw, I try not to hear that stuff and just do my job. There are lots of good rookies this year. Cobble in Chicago, Andres in San Francisco, not to mention Robards and James right here in this clubhouse. Just to finally be up here and in the mix with all these guys, that’s all I need. I’ve been waiting quite a while to be—”

  Cat smiled, remembering how his teammates had snuck up behind him and slapped a shaving cream pie in his face before he could finish.

  As she neared his locker, her smile faded, taking the memory with it. She looked around the empty clubhouse in dismay. Jamal’s locker had already been cleaned out. Even the nameplate, Jamal Abercromby #34, had been removed, with only a faint rectangular outline of dust left in its place.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  Cat jerked around, her copper hair whipping around her face. Three men in gray jumpsuits stood in the doorway.

  “Sorry, miss, didn’t mean to scare you. We’re here to pick up the uniforms? Fancy Pants 24/7 Cleaners.” He pointed to an embroidered patch on his chest.

  Cat shook her head. “Dry cleaners?”

  “And custom tailors.”

  The clubhouse manager came rushing out of the back room, a key ring jingling on his belt. He pushed a laundry cart full of Chips uniforms.

  The largest of the three men grinned and stepped forward. “Ernie! You’re keeping us in business, my man.”

  Ernie stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to Jamal’s locker with sad eyes. “I’m afraid so. I already spoke with Lee but—just so we’re all on the same page—the new one’s gonna go right here.”

  He lifted a uniform top out of the cart and pointed to the opposite sleeve of the pinstriped shirt. The large man checked his clipboard.

  “By tomorrow afternoon, right?”

  Ernie nodded. “That’s right. Four o’clock. No delays.”

  “You got it, Ern.”

  They rolled the laundry cart out to the service entrance and waved to Cat. Her gaze fell on the pile of polyester as the uniforms passed by.

  Yet another patch for the Chips.

  It were a nice honor to show the fans, but she doubted a patch did diddly for the players who would wear it. Jamal was still gone. This was a guy with whom they shared not just a roster, but laughs on the field, hugs in the dugout, tears in the clubhouse and stories on the plane. He was one of those players who always managed a smile after a tough loss and passed credit to everyone else after a victorious win. He gave his all every single day as a teammate first and a player second. His memory couldn't be summed up with just a little thread and a piece of material.

  She twisted around to see the deflated shoulders of Ernie as he headed back to his office. She sighed and hauled her tired feet toward the parking lot tunnel.

  22

  Cat slept a mere five hours before her alarm clock jolted her out of bed. The sunken eyes, flat hair and sallow skin that greeted her in the bathroom mirror were an even ruder awakening.

  From the shower, she went to rummage for her favorite jeans, still stored in the cardboard box from Porterville. She had been planning to tackle the rest of her unpacking today, but instead she’d spend her day off clocking overtime. Cat tugged the soft denim from the bottom of the box. Under the circumstances, she doubted she’d catch any flack for instituting her own casual Friday.

  When she rolled into the stadium at eleven o’clock, there wasn’t a single player’s car on the lot. The spicy scent of pepperoni filled the fourth floor, and Cat’s stomach rumbled. She spotted the piles of pizza boxes in the lobby and snatched a couple slices on her way into the office.

  Dustin noted her arrival with a sneer, staring pointedly at her blue jeans and Chips jersey. “Nice outfit. Let me guess, the dress code no longer applies to you?”

  She bit into the slice of cold pizza, rolling her eyes back
as her taste buds hummed in approval of the Hawaiian-style thin crust. Through a mouthful of pineapple, she said. “Not when I’m running on empty. I was here until five in the morning, you know.”

  She slapped the other slice down on his desk. “Brought you one, too.”

  Dustin pushed the peace offering back a few inches with his bony finger. Cat shrugged, retrieved the piece of pizza and headed for her office.

  * * *

  What had started as a determined mission for another cold slice ended up as an elevator ride down to the bottom floor of Hohenschwangau Stadium. The sound of her tennis shoes squeaked on the concrete and echoed off the cinder blocks lining the long hallway. Surveying the bare rooms, Cat reflected that this was the first time she’d seen the clubhouse completely empty in the middle of the day. No players lingering in the weight room or staff members bustling through the hallways running errands. Seeing a lone light in the midst of the ghost town, she continued on to the corner office, tumbleweeds be damned.

  “Dr. Goodall, you there?”

  The head of the portly doctor popped through the door. The bags under his eyes resembled her own.

  “Uh, Catriona.” Seeing her step into his office, he slammed the file folder shut and rolled his chair back from the desk. “What do you—how can I help you?”

  “Well, I’m trying to get more info on Jamal. Would it be possible for me to look at his medical history?”

  “I’m afraid not. His personal health information is confidential. That’s an HIPAA regulation.”

  “Oh. Even when a person’s dead, huh?”

  “Yes, privacy rights extend to the deceased, no matter what tabloids will have you believe.”

  “Oh. Well, can you tell me if there was anything unusual in his records, then?”

  “Again, Catriona, I can’t discuss anything without his family’s permission.”

  “I thought Mr. König had a conversation with them earlier.”

  “Over the telephone. We’re still awaiting written authorization. That’s procedure. I’m sure you understand that we don’t want to stress his family just hours after his death.” The doctor took off his glasses and began to clean them. “I can assure you that in the case of any unusual findings, Jamal would’ve been tested and treated appropriately.”

  “Yeah, I understand.” She motioned toward the empty clubhouse. “One more thing. Have you seen Kirby?”

  “None of the trainers are coming in today.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “Um, no. I was just going to ask him if he noticed anything unusual during Jamal’s workouts.”

  “Again, if he had, I would have been privy to the issue.”

  She smiled awkwardly and walked out, happy to abandon the lower level ghost town to rededicate herself to the pursuit of pizza.

  LVthreepeat11:

  This is tragic! My heart goes out to Jamal’s family and to the entire Chips team.

  Chipsaholic98:

  Total disaster. Any word on what the Chips will do with his roster spot?

  VininTx:

  Deepest thoughts and sympathy to everyone who knew Jamal. Let’s try to remember he was a person first, and a ballplayer second. Everyone needs to leave the speculation up to the Chips and offer condolences to the family.

  Cat scanned the replies to her recently posted blog entry about Jamal’s memorable moments with the team. She was surprised at the hundreds of comments from fans left within an hour after she’d published the post, each sharing their own messages about the beloved outfielder. A light rapping at her door drew her attention from the computer screen. Erich König stood in the door frame, back to his usual polished self after last night’s brief dishevelment.

  She closed the lid to her laptop and folded her hands on top. “Mr. König, hello.”

  “You know you can call me Erich.” He took a step inside the room. “I read your article. I wanted to tell you how caring and considerate I found your words.”

  Her face flushed with pride. “You did?”

  “Exactly what our base needs to hear. What you authored was perfect.”

  “I guess it was easy enough to write. I’ve been a fan a lot longer than a reporter, so I just wrote what I felt, what I’d want to hear.” She watched his face carefully. “I’d really like to give them more information on his death, though. They’re all so curious.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Have the police said anything more—”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What about the autopsy? Any word on when—”

  Erich pulled up his sleeve and pointed at the face of his platinum Cartier. “Catriona, it is nearly six o’clock. I noted on the security log you were here until dawn this morning. Please, go home. Get some rest. This is an off day, after all.”

  “I know. It’s just that I keep feeling there’s more to this story that needs to be told.”

  “These things take time.” He inclined his head toward the door. “Come on now, I shall walk with you to the elevator.”

  He pressed the down button and the door immediately opened.

  Even the elevators bow to Erich König.

  He held the door open with one hand and held his other out. She gingerly slid her fingers into his hand and let him guide her into the elevator like it was a ballroom dance floor.

  “Furthermore, beautiful young women such as yourself should be preparing for romance at this hour.” He raised her hand lightly to his lips.

  Her heart leapt to her throat as he tenderly released her hand. The gesture took her by such surprise that the hand immediately went up to her own lips, where she stifled a girlish giggle. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  He backed away from the elevator and stood in front of the doors, giving her a single wink before they shut in front of him.

  Cat slumped against the back wall and caressed the top of her hand where his soft lips had been. She closed her eyes and could almost feel his feathery breath dancing up her arm and down her body, telltale goosebumps following its steps on her hot skin. The doors dinged and glided open. She gave her arms a quick shake before stepping out and leaving her naughty thoughts behind. She’d mentally violated enough of the Employee Conduct Code for one night.

  Cat tossed her purse on the countertop and answered the persistent ring of her cell phone.

  “Hey Grams.”

  “Catriona, that player on the news, they said he was on the Las Vegas Chips.”

  “Yeah, he was a player on our team.”

  “Oh no. That’s awful. How’s everybody taking it?”

  “Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, the whole place is just a big mess.”

  “Have they told you what happened yet?”

  “Not really. Everybody’s really upset and nobody knows anything.”

  “Isn’t it your job to find out?”

  “Well, it is. I guess. I don’t know. The team isn’t giving out much information.”

  She started a bath while her grandma launched into lecturing mode.

  “Now you listen up. You’re a McDaniel and you know what that means? You have to work for what you want in this world. Nobody’s gonna give you anything. You go in there and you dig and you dig until—”

  “I know, I know. Keep digging until they take away the shovel. I think you should cross-stitch that on a pillow for me.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know you are. It’s just not that easy.”

  “He was so young. That’s such a shame.”

  “Yeah, very young.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had a busy day; I won’t keep you.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting ready to turn in. I’ll see you soon.”

  “When? This old lady needs something definite. I want you to come for at least a week.”

  “Well, that won’t be possible until November unless the Chips don’t make the playoffs.”

  “Will they?”<
br />
  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “All right, honey. I love you.”

  “Okay, love you, too.”

  She slipped out of her clothes and crammed them in the hamper, wishing she could trap her sighs inside the woven wicker with them. As she sank into the rich cloud of bubbles, Cat inhaled the warm vanilla and allowed the hot water to seep into her tired bones. Leaning her head back against the tub’s edge, she closed her eyes, meditating to the rhythmic trickle of the leaky faucet.

  23

  Cat, hey!”

  She stepped out into the building’s parking lot and squinted into the coral sunrise. Pink stripes swirled through the blue sky over the mountaintops. A bouncing shadow appeared in the tranquil skyline as Benji jogged up to the sidewalk, removed his earbuds and shoved his iPod in the waistband of his nylon shorts. Her eyes followed the path and drifted down the rest of his body.

  “You run.”

  Benji’s athletic build had escaped her during their previous meetings but now, with his wet sleeveless t-shirt clinging to his broad chest and his shapely calves exposed, she didn’t know how she could’ve been so blind. She dragged her eyes up to his. They were a vivid blue—the precise shade of the sky to come—and the black hair sticking to his flushed skin was the perfect frame. Bending over, hands on knees, he drew in a few deep breaths.

  “Run? Well, I start out that way, but by the tenth mile I like to end with stumbling and panting.”

  Her eyes widened. “Ten miles? Is that your norm or are you training to be a Greek messenger?”

  He rose and tilted his head to one side. “Messenger?”

  “Oh um, Ancient Greece. Legend has it Pheidippides was sent to Athens to announce the Persians had just been defeated in the Battle of Marathon. He ran the entire distance, twenty-six miles, obviously, and then he collapsed dead upon delivering the message. Hence the modern day usage of the word ‘marathon.’ ” Cat stopped rambling and cleared her throat. “I used to be really into mythology.”