Big Leagues

by Jen Estes

  Benji’s eyes danced. “Cool. I was never one for folklore. Unless we’re talking about the mythology of the Kryptonian people.”

  A giggle escaped her lips. “You don’t know what you’re missing. The Man of Steel’s got nothing on Cratos.”

  He grinned and grabbed the full box out of her hand. “Let me help you with that.”

  They walked across the parking lot. Benji peered into the box. “Hey, you’re not moving out already, are you?”

  “Oh no. Just bringing some knick-knacks to work. My office is in dire need of a homey feel, since I’m there more than I’m home.”

  “Ooh! Knick-knacks. The perfect icebreaker to any budding friendship.” He held the box with his left arm, using his right hand to feel around and pull out a frame. “We’ve got a picture of an older woman, your sister?”

  “Grams.”

  “You’ll tell her I said sister, right?”

  He waggled his eyebrows, causing her to giggle. He reached in again. “This baseball card of uh …” His eyes squinted as he strained to read the autograph. “Jan Santa.”

  She pried the card from his hands. “Ron, not ‘Jan’. Santo, not ‘Santa’. He’s the best player to ever set foot on a baseball field.”

  Benji shrugged playfully and picked up another item. “In this bottle we’ve got … oh. Hand sanitizer?” He raised an eyebrow at the label. “Ninety-nine percent of germs, my ass. Remind me to tell you the truth about these things later.”

  “I can’t wait. Now if you’re done with the invasion of privacy—”

  “Nu-uh, icebreaking.”

  “Fine, if you’re done with the icebreaking, I should probably get to work.”

  Benji’s voice lowered. “So the other night, the emergency …?”

  She sighed deeply. “Eventful. I’m sure you heard about Jamal Abercromby?”

  Benji set the box on the ground and leaned against her Jeep, crossing his rosy arms over his sweaty chest.

  “That was the player who died, right?”

  “Yup, his heart. He was only twenty-eight years old.”

  “That’s unusual. Did he have a history of heart problems?”

  “Not that I can find out. The team is being kind of … well …” She shook her head and looked down.

  “Kind of what?”

  She looked him in to the eye. “Hush-hush. Like they want the whole thing to blow over.”

  “Well, they are a business. Mourning is inconvenient. And costly.”

  She shot him a speculative look. “Each time I raise the slightest question, everyone starts stammering, like I’m asking if my pants make my butt look big.”

  “Which pants?”

  She answered his playful smile with an eyeroll. “Well, screw them,” he said. “That’s your job.”

  “A very good job. A job that pays my bills and a job I’m very lucky to have at age twenty-nine. Not to mention that this job doesn’t come with a backup plan. I can’t afford to burn any bridges. I have to play by their rules. After all, I’m in their ballpark. Literally, in fact.”

  His expression grew serious, causing her to look down at the pavement. “Is that how you really feel?”

  “I’m not trying to win a Pulitzer,” she said. “I’m going to keep my mouth shut and handle the questions about lineups and trades and take the information they give me.” She raised her head. “Anyway, I better get going.” She picked the box up and shoved it into her backseat. “We’re playing New York tonight. Should be a pretty good game. You watchin’?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve already got my DVR set so I can watch it twice.” Benji grinned.

  “Well, you should.”

  He opened the door to her Jeep, and she hopped in. “Maybe I will.” He gave her a wink as he shut the door.

  24

  Ron Bouvier was slumped atop the dugout bench, legs spread far apart, sunburned arms crossed over his rotund belly, and baseball cap askew. He snarled, “Any other questions, McDaniel?”

  “With Kenneaster in center now, will the team be looking to acquire another outfielder before the trade deadline?”

  “That’s probably more of a question for König, but I wouldn’t say no. We do have some pretty good options in the farm system, though, and several kids will be able to help out when we do our September call-ups.”

  Cat scribbled a few notes and turned off her recorder. “Great. That’s all I got. Thanks, Skipper.”

  Extra thanks for not biting my head off.

  She started up the stairs when the organ began the first chords of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  “Ladies and gentleman, please rise for our national anthem.”

  Cat stopped, laid her hand over her heart and shot a worried glance at the press box.

  “… And the ho-oooooooo-me of the bra-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-ve.”

  Upon the conclusion of the last lengthy syllable, Cat hopped the stairs two at a time and made her way through the exuberant audience, cheering for the local nightclub singer’s melodic rendition of the anthem. She dashed into the press box seconds before the first pitch. As she gasped, trying to catch her breath from the two flights of stairs, she frowned at her colleagues and wondered why she’d bothered to hurry. Not even Andy St. John acknowledged her arrival. Cat slipped into her seat in the front row to find Dustin’s paperwork spread over the entire tabletop. She sighed and cleared just enough room for her laptop.

  “Hey there, Cat! You want your usual?”

  Shannon’s illuminated face peeked in from the lounge, and she brandished her pen, ready for action. Cat found the blinding perkiness refreshing in the somber box and copied her shining smile. “I have a usual?”

  “Well, yeah, iced tea. You’ve gotten one every day so far.”

  “Hmmm … well, I want to keep you on your toes. Gimme a tea with ice instead.”

  Shannon nodded and began writing on the trusty notepad. Cat opened her mouth to tell her an iced tea was fine, but on second thought kept quiet. Watching the waitress’ intense concentration, she decided her mean-spirited amusement might be the only entertainment awaiting her over the next nine innings.

  “Okay, that’s a tea with ice, coming up.”

  Cat’s suspicions were correct. New York hadn’t come to Las Vegas to grieve over Jamal Abercromby, or to offer their condolences. The eastern rivals handed the Chips a 7-0 loss in a painful shutout. The other games in the press box had been bursting with commentary and banter, but the only communication shared tonight was word that the clubhouse would be closed after the game. As the flattened fans moped out of the stadium, so did the reporters. Cat silently packed up her laptop and proceeded to the fourth floor.

  Hours later, Cat sat in her office rereading the memo about Jamal’s funeral arrangements. She looked up to see Erich König whoosh by her office, stop and back up a few steps to the doorway. Cat took in his slim suit. Just once she’d like to see him looking relaxed in a t-shirt and stained sweatpants, though she had a feeling he’d even be sexy in a pair of overalls with a piece of straw jutting from mouth.

  “You have not left? Catriona, the game ended hours ago.”

  “I know. I know.”

  He entered her office, picked up the oak frame that housed her treasured Ron Santo card, and moved the case off to the side to make room to sit in its place. She frowned instinctively but recovered before he took notice.

  “I worry the evening cleaning crew will suspect I keep you chained to the desk.”

  With furry handcuffs?

  She twisted her lips wryly. “I’m just thinking about Jamal. He was so young and had no health problems. It doesn’t make any sense. I feel like his fans need more of an answer. What’s taking the investigation so long?”

  Erich glanced at the papers on her desk. He picked up the top of the pile and absently read the memo regarding the funeral. Cat’s eyes narrowed as she impatiently waited for a response.

  “Catriona, when tragedy strikes, it is human natur
e to search for an explanation. Sometimes, specifically when dealing with natural deaths, there simply is not one. It was his time. Jamal’s death is unfortunate, but we must move on.” After a short silence, he continued, “For the sake of the team, of course.”

  “Doesn’t it seem like there could be more? Something someone might have seen, a clue something was wrong with him?”

  “If there is, the investigators will find it.”

  “You’re right.” She closed the lid of her laptop and rubbed her brow in vexation. “Okay, I’m getting out of here.”

  Erich smiled. “Very well. I cannot have my ace reporter suffering from exhaustion.”

  Too late.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a red leather box. “Since time seems to get away from you …”

  He handed it over. Her stomach dropped the minute she saw the cursive Cartier logo. Maybe it wasn’t, boxes could be deceiving. Sometimes Grams had wrapped Christmas sweaters in empty cereal boxes.

  She held in in her hands. “Oh I can’t …”

  “None of that. Open it.”

  He was the boss, after all.

  She cracked the lid and gasped at its contents. Nestled inside the black velvet interior was a silver watch with sparkling diamonds bordering its onyx dial.

  “Mr. König, this is too nice.” She looked up at him in awe. “I can’t accept this.”

  He waved her quiet. “It is merely a timepiece.”

  A timepiece worth more than her Jeep.

  “I will be insulted if you do not accept it. Think of it as a thank you for everything you’ve done. Your sensitive handling of Jamal’s death. And the skill with which you’ve filled the shoes of our late lamented senior reporter.”

  Cat took a deep breath. She wasn’t raised to accept gifts like this. Then again, no one in her family had ever been offered such an expensive piece. She slipped the watch out of the box, marveled at its beauty, and felt for the clasp.

  Erich reached over and gently took it out of her hands. “Allow me.”

  Cat extended her arm toward him and his warm hands contrasted with the cold metal on her skin. His fingers tickled the inside of her wrist as he snapped the clasp.

  “I had the shopgirl remove a few links. I hope it was enough. You have such delicate wrists.”

  Cat’s eyes flashed back and forth from the watch to Erich. Both were symbols of a status she’d never imagined and yet now, without her resorting to black magick or kidnapping, the billionaire was showering her with jewelry. Not mall jewelry either, but grand, upscale, shiny, can’t-even-afford-to-window-shop-there Cartier.

  He held her hand in his and examined it. “Perfection.”

  “It is.” As he released his grasp, she marveled at the watch and smiled at him. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say. It’s so nice.”

  Erich stood. “Consider it my way of saying welcome to the organization.”

  “This sure beats a coffee mug.”

  Erich chuckled. “Now you have no excuse for working late. Come now.”

  She grabbed her bag, cramming in her laptop as she hurried to meet him. As he escorted her to the elevator, Cat held her wrist out, admiring the way it twinkled under the office lights. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Me and my beautiful new watch.”

  He leaned down and a whisper rolled off his tongue with a hint of German accent, “It’s not half as beautiful as its owner.”

  Caught off-guard, Cat froze. He merely gave her a smile before turning down the opposite hallway. His words repeated in her head all the way down the elevator, through the tunnel and past every stoplight on the drive home.

  * * *

  Dustin clenched the pencil as König and his precious pet Cat walked right by his desk without acknowledgment. In three years, König had never once made mention of the long hours he put in. He sure as hell had never been the recipient of a Cartier watch. He always stayed at Hohenschwangau from sun up to sun down—never took a sick day, never missed a road trip. It was bad enough that Derhoff had always been the one rewarded with cushy coverage of the Caribbean training camps and free tickets to the ESPYs, but when König passed Dustin over for the senior reporter position it was official: the Bavarian had cream pie for brains. If he couldn’t see what a bad choice he had made, then Dustin would have to show him. He glared at her empty office and the pencil finally snapped under the pressure of his grip. The hardened scowl melted off his face and was replaced by a smile. That door would soon read Dustin Carlyle, Senior Reporter.

  * * *

  Cat dragged her tired legs up the stairs. On the welcome mat in front of her door, someone had left a deep purple flower in a tiny red cup. She squatted down to pick the gift up, smelling the flower’s fragrance, a mix of clean and sweet. Cat smiled.

  “You like it?” Benji stepped out of his apartment and walked over.

  “This is from you? It’s beautiful. What’s the occasion?”

  “The occasion? I didn’t know I needed one.” He comically stroked his chin. “Hmm … let’s go with larceny.”

  Cat cocked her head to the side. “Larceny?”

  “I stole the flower from the university’s greenhouse. It’s part of a lily hybrid they’ve been developing for five years. The plant is fascinating, actually. They took a perennial species that was native to South America and, fifteen days after pollination, the embryos were aseptically detached …” He peeked up at her. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, because I’m sure you don’t want to hear the riveting botanical adventures in the horticulture department.”

  She giggled. “All I know is that it’s very pretty. I like the orange speckles.”

  He smiled.

  She unlocked her door and waved him in. “You wanna come in for a beer and, uh, horticulture talk?”

  “Just one. I’ve got an early morning lab. Can’t be smelling like the students, you know.”

  She felt for the light switch along the wall of the dark apartment. “So, what’s it called?”

  “Huh?”

  “This lily hybrid that led you to a life of crime. Does it have a name?”

  “You know, I’m not even sure.”

  “Oh well. I’m sure it’ll be in the court records.”

  Benji chuckled. She set the lily on the counter and gave its squishy container a squeeze. “This little vase is cool.”

  She opened the fridge and grabbed two Leinies from the side shelf. She popped the caps with her trusty magnet opener and handed him a bottle.

  “Oh it’s not a vase. Or not only a vase. It’s a shot glass. Silicone, see? Food-grade.”

  She reached out and ran her fingers over its rubbery surface.

  He demonstrated its flexibility by pinching the sides. “That way you can stick it in your pocket and carry it with you wherever you go. Not that I think you’re some kind of lush or anything. It’s just that you said you collected them. Unless you are a lush, which is cool, too. Liver schmiver, that’s what I always say.” Benji halted his blather with a swig of his beer.

  “Not a lush. At least not yet. These late nights might turn me into one.”

  “I had no idea baseball was such a third-shift occupation.”

  “There’s just a lot going on with the Abercromby death and stuff.”

  “That sucks.”

  She pointed at the lily as she pulled out the chair next to his. “This helps.”

  He smiled and cleared his throat.” So, I watched that allegedly good game of yours earlier.”

  “Oh, yikes. Not our best outing, huh?”

  “I don’t know much about baseball, but do the players usually try to catch the ball with their crotch?”

  Cat burst out laughing, covering her lips with her hand to prevent the beer from spilling out. “I don’t think it’s one of the fundamentals. Let’s just say Pat Kenneaster is now a walking—wait, make that limping—cautionary tale on why even outfielders should wear cups.”

  “I tuned in for the a
ction. I stayed for the comedy.”

  “Then surely you weren’t disappointed.” She sighed. “Their minds just aren’t in the game.”

  “Well they’re probably still mourning. I can’t believe they didn’t get the week off or something. It’s crucial not to rush the grieving process.” He paused. “Or so I’m told. I’ve never actually lost anyone close to me.”

  “Yeah.” Cat’s eyes clouded over.

  “Have you?”

  “Have I …?”

  “Lost anyone?” He put his hand up. “I’m sorry, if this is too personal, I can—”

  “No, it’s fine. Not really. I don’t really have a whole lot of people to lose. It’s mostly just me and Grams.”

  “Oh. My family’s pretty small, too. I’m an only child from two only children. We have a lot of leftover turkey on Thanksgiving.”

  Cat didn’t respond. Benji took another swig of beer.

  “Anyway, time is the best healer.”

  “Hmm. I guess the Chips’ front office didn’t get the memo.”

  “Kinda cold, huh?”

  “In their eyes, it’s all about the show going on. It’s not their fault. We play a hundred and sixty-two games in six months. The scheduling is already so tight, plus they’ve got some away games to reschedule in late fall to make up for the April rainouts.”

  “High demands.”

  “You said it. Just wait until September. The playoff race starts and this town is going to be wired.”

  “Oh you don’t have to tell me about that. Last fall was downright awful. Try getting a lecture hall of freshman to concentrate on a syllabus while they’re trying to eBay playoff tickets. Apparently, kids today would rather be at a baseball game than listen to me explain chemiosmotic phosphorylation. Who knew?”

  She stood up and rinsed her bottle in the sink. “Here I thought our jobs were different. Why, just yesterday my postgame recap compared chemiosmotic phosphorylation to double plays.”

  “Really?”

  “Um, no. Maybe next week.” She leaned against the sink.