by Faith O'Shea
Today, the underground space was eerily quiet. Within a couple of months, the place would be a buzz of activity. He could almost smell the aromas that would permeate the tunnel once it was open to the public, things like hot dogs, pizza, greasy French fires. They had gourmet selections, but he always went for the standard fare which was reminiscent of his younger days. It sparked something primal, and he quickened his footsteps, wanting to get down to business.
He stood at the threshold of the locker room, scanning the space, wanting to fit in, wanting to contribute.
Today, the green cubbies were empty, no names assigned, no uniforms hung from the hooks with care, no equipment littering the space. By the beginning of April, the room would be jam-packed with his teammates dressing or undressing, smiling or scowling depending on whether they’d won or not. A TV screen was attached to one of the walls where the manager or coaches would show videos of missed plays and missed opportunities.
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He couldn’t wait to get back out there.
“Right on time.”
Leo had come up on him, a cap in his hands. He had a full head of hair, graying along the edges, and Rique wondered if it was a coach’s curse to age before his time.
Scowling, he said, “Strip that shirt off now. I’m sure I can scrounge up something less fucking ugly.”
Enrique did as told, and within a couple seconds, a ball of cloth hit him in the chest and he grabbed it.
“Glad to see your reflexes work.”
After scrambling into it, Enrique tucked it in.
“We need to talk about a number for you. Have a preference?”
It was the first thing he’d checked out as soon as the trade was a done deal. Some players were fanatical about what number they wore. Him not so much. He was willing to take anything between zero and ten. When he saw the number, he’d worn while he was at Michigan was available, he looked no further. It had served him well.
“Has anyone taken two?”
“Nope. You’re the first newbie who’s arrived, and around here it’s first come, first served. Have anything to do with the Yankees’ shortstop?”
“Not really, although it’s another reason it works for me.”
“He’s your competition?”
They might not play against each other often, but he’d be the benchmark for success, and Rique’ would be comparing their stats all season.
“He is.”
Rique dumped his gym bag on the floor by one of the benches, dug out his sneakers, and toed off his Vans.
Leo was standing, watching him, his arms folded across his chest. “I have to admit, there were some here who weren’t exactly thrilled with this trade. Do I need to tell you why?”
Rique finished tying the athletic shoes and stood so he could face the coach.
“I’ve been getting my fill of opinions. I have to admit some of them are reasonable.”
Leo nodded. He seemed satisfied that he didn’t need to go into details.
“The position you’ll be playing is the most important one out there and you’ll be playing for one of two Boston teams, whose history goes back close to a hundred years. We were here not long after the Red Sox and although we might have fewer fans, the ones we have are rabid.”
Enrique knew that, had seen it for himself when they played a game at Bogs Field before Harborside was finished and when he was a spectator during the championship game.
“We might be willing to have some patience, but the fans won’t be. You’re going to be under pressure to perform. Are you ready for that?”
He was getting pumped thinking about it, the adrenaline rush making him almost giddy.
“I do my best work under pressure.”
“I think you might be right. I’ve watched some of your clips, and you have it. But we’re not going to allow you to turn it off and on at will. We’re looking for consistency whether you’re on the field or not. Got it?”
He nodded. There was nothing to say to that.
“Matteo is going to be here tomorrow, Seb the day after. You’ll be training together for the next two weeks. Then you’ll have a week off before it’s on to Sanford. Today it’s you and me. Let’s see what you can do.”
For four hours, they worked indoors, the snow on the field preventing them from performing drills outside. Weights, squats, bike, treadmill, push-ups, medicine ball slams, all meant to strengthen his core, and they took time in between to rest and regen.
He was one big sweat ball, throbbed like a toothache when he was finished, but he felt good for the first time in months.
Leo threw a towel at him and he used it to wipe the salty moisture off his neck.
“I’ll be pushing you like this from here on in. I want to see what you’re made of. There’s an indoor facility we’ll be using for field practice and batting, and I’ll make sure to keep you injury free until the season begins. I expect you to get eight hours of sleep, drink lots of water and if it’s possible, put away the booze for now. Eating healthy wouldn’t hurt, either. Why don’t you shower and get out of here? Same time and place tomorrow.”
“See you then.”
Enrique pulled the towel off his neck and wiped his face again as he ambled toward the shower room, thinking about last night and the tumbler of scotch he’d thrown back. And the woman who had beat him at cards talked about discipline. If she stuck around, he might be able to do as instructed. She was interesting and kept him entertained. He didn’t even mind that she was laughing at him most of the time. She’d been on the edges of his mind through the workout, her look of disdain a great motivator.
He’d been given the same advice last year, but he hadn’t listened, too pissed that he saw very little playing time, although he didn’t really expect them to take out the all-star and put him in any more than necessary. He hadn’t thought it would grate on his nerves the way it had but he liked action, not sitting. He’d gotten bored but now…he’d have no excuse not to live up to the expectations. He’d been handed the ball and glove, and they were going to get the best performance out of him that they deserved. That the fans deserved.
He had a feeling that Fifi might help make the difference. Until he settled down.
His attitude could only improve once he got married. Spending eight hours in bed wouldn’t be a hardship. It was the choosing that kept him busy, kept him out until all hours of the morning, one drink leading to the next. With one giant step, he could erase all his bad habits. He’d be gearing up to get the job done. He’d thought he’d have a week for his search, but it looked like he’d only have a couple of free days before flying to Florida for spring training. He wanted to be there early, start working out in the good weather, fielding, batting, and getting to know his teammates. He had a good feeling about his plan. It was going to work. He could put his adolescence behind him and get down to the business at hand.
As he was driving back to Izabella’s, he wondered if Fifi would be there. He’d promised he’d supply the dinner tonight, and although it was too early to pick something up, he’d worked up an appetite. With nothing in the refrigerator to satisfy, he decided to stop at the store on the way back and pick up a few things to hold him over.
CHAPTER SIX
As soon as Fiona got home from the unexpected interview, she let Hoover out and changed. It had gone better than her last one had, but it wasn’t her dream job. It was in genetic-based research, cancer related but for a pharmaceutical company. She was not a fan of the big pharma industry but if it was all that was left to her, lack of experience not a deal breaker, she might have to settle. Or look elsewhere. If the job had been part of pharmacogenomics, she might have weakened. Then she would have worked at analyzing the human genome and how heredity impacts a patient’s reaction to certain drugs. One of the biggest causes of death came from adverse reactions to prescribed medication. If scientists could determine a simple test to detect the DNA idiosyncrasies, the wrong drugs might well be avoided. She’d ye
t to meet a pharma company willing to go that route. Why would they? Millions of dollars might be at risk. They might be averse to it, but a new brand of personalized care was being pursued by doctors, one that required a complete genetic mockup. It gave the physician all the information needed to identify which pill fit the unique blueprint of an individual patient for the best results and the fewest side effects. That hot issue could sway her to shift her long-term goal, which for now still targeted proteomics. She firmly believed that the study of proteins could end up uncovering more about genes…than genes could. It hadn’t made a big splash in the field of science as of yet, which was one of the reasons she’d chosen it for her thesis. The complexities of the subject matter were making it slower going than in the fields of stem cell research or the genetics of infectious disease. In her more sensible moments, she knew that no reputable lab would hire her on as lead, not at her age. She might have to do the assistant thing, like she had during her doctoral work. There were a lot more jobs like that around, but she’d put off applying for them. Shoot for the top was what her mother always told her, and that advice had become cellular.
She was just about to get out the cheese curls for something to pick at, the guest in the house inhaling the last of the food ordered last night, when she heard the back door open and heavy footsteps.
She turned to see Enrique carrying several large bags of groceries from Whole Foods. She jumped into action and took one from his sagging arms and hefted it on the counter.
“Did you buy out the store?”
He gently released his load and stepped back.
“I remember my mother telling me to never go shopping when hungry. I may have done a lot of impulse buying.”
She could nag him about discipline, but he was right, or rather his mother was. She’d made that mistake herself many a time and ended up throwing away some of her more ridiculous purchases.
“Help me put it away? I have no idea where some of this should go.”
After diving into one of the bags, she pulled out containers of tuna salad, chicken salad, cold cuts, potato salad, two containers of sushi, a pre-packaged meal of lasagna, and a couple of chipotle beef quesadillas. She knew there was plenty of room in the refrigerator, so she began to stack them on the empty shelves according to size.
She glanced over to see Enrique withdraw some apples, grapes, asparagus, broccoli, plantains, mangoes, a variety of cheeses and crackers and place them on the counter.
“What were you thinking? You have to cook some of this stuff.”
“I am well aware of that. Did you ever consider for a minute that I can cook?”
She was startled by the simple question. “No, actually. Not once.”
He laughed at her and it made her insides quiver. He had a good laugh, almost musical.
“Well, I can. I even enjoy it from time to time but don’t tell anyone. It’s one of my deep, dark secrets.”
She gulped. She didn’t want to know his secrets. It was too intimate. Needing to feel a little more in control, she scoffed, “Not manly enough for your reputation?”
“Some of the best chefs in the world are men, so that’s not it. There’s something about a person taking the time to create a meal for you that satisfies more than hunger.”
She could picture it. Some beautiful brunette, apron on, high heels, candlelight, serving him some exotic meal. Her leaning in as she placed the plate in front of him, him enticing her with warm, sensual eyes.
She tried to weigh down her response with sarcasm.
“You like being pampered.”
His expression stilled and he became serious.
“I like someone doing something nice for me. I reciprocate in other ways.”
“And what ways would those be?”
There was a sensual glint in his dark, penetrating eyes.
“I satisfy in more physical areas.”
She bet he did. The coil of hunger tightened but it wasn’t in her stomach. It was lower.
“It’s not a two-way street?”
He straightened, a momentary look of discomfort crossing his face.
“I get what I need out of it.”
“I bet you do.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he took a step closer. She took a giant step back. He was far too close for comfort and his eyes had a devilish gleam in them.
“Afraid of me? Or the topic?”
Suddenly, her pulse was erratic, her breathing more labored than she wanted. As her heartbeat quickened, she retorted tartly, “Neither. You told me you’re ready to settle down, so this would just be…a diversion for you.”
His voice dropped an octave. “I am not thinking about seducing you, Fifi.”
She could feel her cheeks burn in embarrassment. What had she been thinking? Of course, he wouldn’t try to seduce her. She was so not his type.
“Good. I have an aversion to being sweet-talked into bed.”
“I wouldn’t have to say a word. All I would need to do is this.”
With one step, he was in her space, his hand on her neck, and he was drawing her face to his. All she could do was stare at his lips, wondering what they would taste like, feel like pressed to hers. She was frozen in place, her brain screaming at her to move away, but there was another part of her that ignored the wise warning.
She was almost relieved when he stepped back. Almost. The curiosity about those lips had gone unanswered and she felt a rush of disappointment.
He’d gone back to emptying the bags, as if what had happened was no big deal. Had it been a game to him? Like a cat with a mouse?
If so, he was more than the asshole she’d originally thought.
Not wanting to make it seem she’d been affected by his nearness, she began collecting the food on the counter and going through cabinets to see where things should go. The silence hung heavily as she tried to regain her equilibrium. He threw it off again when he said, “Maybe instead of ordering in, I’ll cook for us tonight.”
His voice was smooth, without guile. “How would Brazilian stroganoff sound?”
Her mouth watered. That was happening a lot around him. If not for the food, then for…
Her voice cracked when she said, “Good.”
She was standing with her back to the wall of cabinets, as if she were protecting them from an intruder. He glanced over at her, his smile lightening up his face.
“I think it might be satisfying to be the one to create the dish. What time do you usually eat?”
“When I get around to it.” Her voice sounded so breathy, she didn’t recognize it as her own.
He patted a bulky brown package. “I have to marinate the beef for an hour or more so why don’t we say six?”
“Okay.”
He opened the fridge, put away some of the food that had come out of his sack, and took out some of the things she’d put in. He began to cut up some of the cheese and put the squares on a plate. Adding some crackers and a bunch of grapes, he said, “I worked up quite an appetite this afternoon. I think I’ll just pick until dinner.”
Hoover jumped up, put her paws on the counter and was ready to swipe some of the appetizers. She caught her just in time and yanked her down as Enrique lifted the plate high into the air.
“That was close.”
“I’ll take her for a walk, let you finish up.”
“I’m actually just getting started.”
Before putting on her coat and all the layers that went on underneath, she snatched a piece of cheese and a couple of grapes and popped them into her mouth.
“This could take a while.”
Not only because of Hoover’s love of the outdoors, but her own need to escape the confines of the kitchen. It had gotten much smaller than it was this morning.
It was still cold out, but the sun was shining high in the sky. She raised her face to feel the warm rays on her skin, but she wasn’t able to enjoy it for long. Hoover was straining, letting her know there was another dog across the s
treet, the wagging tail signaling a hello. Didn’t matter if it was animal or human, Hoover was the more social of the two.
Fiona snapped her leash, commanding, “Leave it,” and Hoover fell into step beside her. They walked companionably toward the center of town, stopping every few dozen feet to satisfy her furry friend’s olfactory obsession. She’d come to enjoy her time with Hoover. Walking was a great way to recharge her energy and she’d needed this. After this morning’s interview, she’d been taken for a tour of the facility, then to lunch. It was a cafeteria with lots of noise and people jockeying for a place in line. It was a nightmare. She preferred small groups but couldn’t have declined the invite, so she’d sat through it, her focus more on eating than on conversation. She performed best with only mild sensory stimuli, and she was sure she’d blown that last part of the interview by being so scattered. Enrique only added to it. Her body thrummed with a jagged vibration whenever he was around, and it made her jumpy and restless.
When she returned to the house close to an hour later, she felt better, her mind clearer. After she unsnapped the leash, Hoover made a mad dash to see what was going on in the kitchen. Fiona shed her clothing one layer at a time, hanging her coat in the closet and trailing behind.
Enrique had his back to her and looked to be washing something in the sink. The room was no worse for wear, the only thing out of place, a platter of cut-up mushrooms and onions.
“How’s it going?”
She was rubbing her hands together, trying to get some blood circulating again. Even with mittens on, her hands had lost feeling.
His head swiveled in her direction, and he was wearing that million-dollar grin.
“Well. The meat is marinating, the vegetables are ready, and I have cleaned every utensil used. I don’t want you to have anything to use against me. How was your walk?”
“Invigorating.”
Hoover, after examining every square inch of the room for some morsel that might have fallen to the floor, plopped down on the hardwood floors and emitted a sigh of longing.
Wanting to forget about the interview and the fact that she had no job, no definitive future, she asked about his. “How did your training go?”