Catching Hell: A Hot Contemporary Romance

by Mindy Klasky

  But these weren’t the Good Old Days. This was now. And this meeting wasn’t moving forward unless Anna took the reins.

  She cleared her throat and began by stating the obvious. “Cody Tucker is…” She hesitated. No, she’d continue to use the present tense. The man was injured, not dead. She rattled off his batting average, on-base percentage, and his slugging average.

  She took comfort in the numbers. She understood the numbers. The entire time she was growing up, Gramps had tossed statistics across the dinner table like potato chips. Every morning for as long as she could remember, she’d started her day reading box scores from the previous night’s game, turning the tangle of abbreviations and numbers into a story as rich as anything taught in American Literature 101.

  Bottom line, of course, was the fact that Cody Tucker was good. Most Valuable Player of the year good. A dream at the plate. But that wasn’t all. The man’s defense was above reproach as well. “He has no errors on the year,” Anna continued. “And only three in all of last year. He would have won the Gold Glove, if Jackson hadn’t been a sentimental favorite. Am I missing anything?”

  She took her time, looking around the table, capturing the gaze of each man in succession. She’d learned at her grandfather’s knee. Gramps might be the team owner, but he was only as good as the men he’d hired. He paid all of them a fine salary so that he could take advantage of their expertise. She’d be an idiot to ignore that powerhouse of information now.

  But when no one had anything to add, she pressed on. “Looking at Gregory’s report, I only see one real option. We need to get Tyler Brock from Texas.”

  Jimmy sat up straight, his entire wiry body vibrating as if she’d shot an electric arc through his chair. The scouts started talking to each other, immediately flipping to the relevant pages of Gregory’s report, tossing out numbers like Wall Street traders in the pit. Gregory himself sat back, nodding minutely as he steepled his fingers in front of his chapped lips.

  Boyd Larson’s baritone cut through the chaos. “That’s impossible,” he said. “The team can never afford a contract like Brock’s.” Emphasizing his point, he slammed his pencil down on the table. As the tip flew off, the flunky was already slipping another bright yellow Ticonderoga under his boss’s palm.

  “Nothing’s ever impossible,” Anna said, forcing herself to smile. But even as she said the words, she had her doubts.

  The injured Cody Tucker’s salary was guaranteed; the Rockets owed him over a hundred million dollars, even if he never set foot in the batter’s box again. Anna knew Gramps had been leery of the massive contract when he’d signed it; only his complete faith in Gregory Small had made him agree to bite the bullet.

  But Cody wasn’t the Rockets’ only high-ticket player. Left-fielder Adam Sartain was the face of the franchise; they’d secured his bat with a mammoth contract five years back. The team still owed him for another year.

  And Zach Ormond still had two years left—on a deal that had rocked the baseball world when he’d negotiated it eight years earlier. A ten-year contract, for a catcher who would obviously be past his prime by the end of the deal. A ten-year contract, still worth tens of millions of dollars each and every year.

  Tens of millions of dollars that could buy the desperately needed Tyler Brock from Texas.

  Jimmy Conway lost no time getting to the point. “We’ll have to trade Sartain. Tucker may be out forever, and no one’ll touch Ormond, at this point in his career.”

  Anna couldn’t help but feel a wash of relief. Coach was certain Zach would not be traded. One of the scouts chimed in, though. “Texas doesn’t need Sartain. They’re juggling three Gold Glove outfielders right now.”

  The other scout nodded. “They’ve still got Hernandez down in the minors. Lee, too. They’d be idiots to pay top-dollar for Sartain, just to sit him down half the time.”

  Anna’s loyalty to the team forced her to add: “We’ve built three years of ad campaigns around Adam Sartain. We can’t let the man go now. Not when we’ve told every season-ticket holder in town that he’s the face of the Raleigh Rockets.”

  The words made perfect sense. They were exactly what Gramps would say—minus a few half-swallowed curse words—if the old man were sitting at the table. Texas couldn’t use Sartain and Raleigh didn’t want to give him up.

  But that left Zach on the block.

  Anna’s stomach twisted around itself. Reflexively, she picked up the bright red can of soda that sat beside Gregory’s report. The drink burned like battery acid as she gulped down a swallow. There was a solution here, one that didn’t require her to send Zach halfway across the country. There had to be.

  She turned to Small. “Have you talked to Texas?”

  Gregory nodded. “I had them on the phone this morning.”

  When had he done that? Some time between shaving his head and ironing his shirt? Texas was an hour behind—had he gotten someone out of bed to talk about this deal? Who had authorized him to do that?

  But that was Gregory Small’s job. His job, which he did so perfectly no one in the Rockets’ organization could imagine functioning without him. Gregory Small was the architect of the team’s success. Without him, Anna might as well be presiding over a meeting of Little League parents, arguing about which park they’d use for practice.

  Anna realized she was panicking, desperately searching for something to think about other than trading Zach to Texas. She had to calm down. This meeting was strictly business. Cold, impersonal numbers. No personalities involved. Just money.

  She forced her lips to curve into something that resembled a cool, professional smile. “And?” she asked Small. “What does Texas want for Brock?”

  She heard him name names. Mechanically, her mind recorded the players—a hot prospect for shortstop, that kid they’d just signed straight out of college. A left-handed pitcher who was tearing up the minors. A right-handed reliever. “And Zach Ormond,” Small concluded, just when Anna was thinking it was safe to breathe.

  “They’ll take on his contract?” Boyd asked, his banker’s gaze shooting darts across the table.

  Small shrugged. “If they get the rest of the package.”

  “Do it,” Boyd snapped. Anna barely resisted the urge to pick up his fresh pencil and snap it in two.

  “There’s a problem,” Small said.

  “There’s always a problem,” Jimmy Conway muttered. Anna was pretty sure the manager would have punctuated his observation by shooting a stream of tobacco juice through his teeth, if they’d been outside.

  Small looked around the table before his gaze settled on Anna. He seemed to be speaking only to her when he said, “Zach Ormond has a no-trade clause.”

  “Shi-i-it!” Jimmy moaned, stretching the word into three syllables.

  Anna’s heart beat so fast she had trouble catching her breath. Of course Zach had a no-trade clause. She remembered Gramps talking about it years ago, back when the contract was first negotiated. For the entire time he’d owned the team, Gramps had insisted he’d never agree to a no-trade clause, and he wasn’t about to accept one for Zach Ormond. But over the course of weeks, of months, Zach had convinced the Bensons that he truly loved the Rockets. He loved Raleigh. He’d begun his professional career with the team, and he wanted to retire with them.

  And Gramps had finally been swayed by the catcher’s earnest arguments. He’d agreed to the Rockets’ first-ever no-trade clause.

  Zach couldn’t be forced to go to Texas, even if that team wanted him. Even if they agreed to pick up the now-outsized payments due on his contract. Despite the waves of disappointment that rippled across the table from everyone else, Anna had to fight down the urge to laugh.

  One of the scouts said, “You can talk to him, Skip.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Sure. I can explain he’ll have a bigger role with Texas. They’ve got that new kid, what’s his name, the big left-hander? With Zach catching him, that kid could win a Cy Young. Or three.”

  Anna wa
tched the men absorb Jimmy’s prediction. Coach seemed certain he could make Zach see reason, and everyone else around the table was soon nodding. As if Zach’s trade were a done deal, they fell to discussing the other players, the guys down in the minors who had vast amounts of potential but weren’t yet working cogs in the Rockets machine.

  Anna listened to all the justifications. The scouts launched into spirited defenses of a couple of the guys. Before long, though, conversation switched over to the challenge of finding replacement parts. There were a couple of college kids they’d just seen play. One high-school shortstop who showed some real potential.

  It was all a game to them, a giant jigsaw puzzle. Pieces could be sanded down, made to fit. A few could be flipped over, colored in on the back so everything matched. Everything lined up.

  Throughout the conversation, Anna kept looking at the notes she’d scribbled on her legal pad. Zach Ormond, she’d written, underlining his name three times.

  She imagined him watching this meeting, absorbing the blows as he and his teammates were swapped like baseball cards instead of like men. He’d be calm, like he’d been in the hospital last night. He’d be patient, waiting for everyone to finish making their arguments. His gaze would be intent as he followed each speaker, those hazel eyes registering every word that was said.

  Would he speak in protest? Would he pound his fist on the table to emphasize exactly how he felt? Would he reinjure his bruised knuckles as he expressed his anger at being treated like a piece of meat when he had specifically negotiated a contract to avoid ever having that confrontation?

  As Boyd launched into a dry summary of the team’s finances, Anna closed her eyes. She meant to blink, to rest for just a moment. But she found herself back in that hospital waiting room, in that moment when Zach brushed a tear from beneath her eyes. She could have caught his hand between her own. She could have brought it to her lips, comforted him with the gentlest of kisses.

  If she’d reached out for Zach, what would have happened? Would she still have broken down in tears like a helpless little girl? Maybe he would have leaned down instead, met her lips with his own. Maybe his hands on her back would have been greedy, commanding, instead of offering the soft comfort she had known in reality.

  Maybe…

  She jolted upright, blinking hard, suddenly aware that she was in the crowded boardroom with a group of professional businessmen. What had Emily said? Last night wasn’t the end of the world. It might even be the beginning.

  Yeah. Right. Not if Boyd Taylor and his ledger sheets had anything to do with it.

  She glanced around the table, relieved to see that no one had noticed her phasing out. She was lucky. They were probably all as exhausted as she was.

  Gregory Small tapped his papers together as Boyd’s financial sermon came to an end. “We’re in agreement, then? I’ll go back to Texas with our offer. All three kids, and Ormond.”

  Anna held her breath as everyone around the table nodded.

  Small concluded the meeting. “The only thing left is to convince Ormond to accept the trade. We just have to find the right motivation, and everything will fall into place.”

  The right motivation. Anna found herself wishing that no such thing existed. And she immediately felt like a traitor to her grandfather, her team, and everything she’d been raised to believe in.

  CHAPTER 3

  Zach swatted at his head, trying to get the wasp to stop buzzing around his ears. The noise, though, only increased in intensity. He swiped again, the motion vigorous enough that he nearly rolled off his couch and onto the floor.

  Even as he caught himself, he realized that the “wasp” was his phone. He fumbled for the device, answering before he was fully conscious. “Ormond.”

  “What the fuck did you do last night?”

  Even as Zach recognized the New York bray of his agent, his mind flashed to what he’d done the night before. He’d held Anna Benson. He’d barely stopped himself from doing a lot more than hold her. He’d sat beside her all night long, studying her face in the soft light of the hospital room, trying to figure out when she’d become a confident, adult woman, instead of a precocious little girl.

  But that wasn’t what Jeremy Epson wanted to know. “He deserved it,” Zach said. “The asshole was blocking the plate.”

  “I’m not talking about the fight, even if that was a bonehead move. I’m talking about pissing off the Rockets. Marty Benson, in particular.”

  A nasty taste coated the back of Zach’s throat. He swallowed hard and tried to force Epson’s words to make sense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see Benson last night.”

  “I just got off the phone with Gregory Small. They’re asking you to waive your no-trade clause. They want to send you down to Texas.”

  That drove the last remnants of sleep from Zach’s brain. “The hell they will.”

  “Now before you get your back up, think about it. Texas just brought that kid up, what’s his name? Rodriguez. They need someone to show him the ropes, prep him for winning a ring or two. You can leave Raleigh a hero, and be welcomed in the Lone Star State with open arms. And it won’t cost you a goddamn penny.”

  Leave Raleigh. Leave the only team he’d ever played for. Leave the city that had been his home for fifteen years. Leave the farm.

  And for what? To babysit some hotshot young pitcher, maybe play one out of every five games, if he was lucky.

  “Tell them no,” he said.

  “You’re right. They’ll sweeten the pot. Add some incentives, if you get them to the playoffs. If you win the series. You could walk away with some serious extra cash.”

  “I don’t need any more money.”

  Epson’s laugh sounded genuine. “Everyone needs more money.”

  “I’m not going, Ep. We fought hard for that no-trade, and we’re not giving it back the first time someone waves a wallet under your nose. I played my rookie season for the Rockets, and I’m going to retire wearing red and blue.”

  Epson sighed. “You’re stubborn as a fucking mule. Will you do this for me, at least? Take a few days to think about it. We could fly down there. Get the lay of the land.”

  “I’ve been to Texas lots of times. As a Rocket.”

  He could practically hear his agent counting to ten. “I’ll tell Small we talked. But for your sake, I’m not giving him a final answer until Wednesday.”

  Zach didn’t bother telling his agent he already had a final answer. Epson was a master at hearing what he wanted to hear. That was how he earned the big bucks.

  Hanging up his phone, Zach glanced at the time and swore. So much for getting to the park before the rest of the team. He was famous for his early arrivals. Hell, half the guys thought he just slept on a couch in Coach’s office, living at Rockets Field instead of bothering with details like a mortgage or rent.

  But he had to take a shower before he hit the park. Had to pray the hard stream of water would force the fog of too little sleep out of his brain.

  He cranked the temperature as hot as he could take it and forced himself to stand beneath the stinging needles. When that didn’t do the trick, he spun the dial to cold, grabbed the faucet, and gritted his teeth. As the water punished his chest, he forced himself to face the one question that had leaped into his mind the instant Epson made his announcement.

  How much had Anna Benson known last night?

  She’d been on the phone the entire time the team had swarmed the emergency room. He’d caught glimpses of her in the orthopedic waiting room, typing away like a reporter on deadline. She’d excused herself from at least one conference with the trainers and doctors, glancing at her phone and saying she had to take a call.

  Had that been Small? Had they been planning to cut him loose, even then?

  He slammed off the water and grabbed for his towel with a vicious tug that almost pulled the bar from the wall. What did it matter, what Anna had known?

  He’d handed her a couple of tissues
and bought her a Coke. It wasn’t like she owed him anything. Baseball was a business. A young man’s game.

  And if he’d thought there was anything more than that? If for even one second, he’d imagined that he and the owner’s granddaughter…

  Right. He was too old for this shit.

  He had to get to the park. Take batting practice. Crouch behind the plate and do his best to call fastballs and curves, to get his team the win they’d been denied the night before.

  And he’d be damned if he made it any easier for his team—the team he’d given half his life to—to cut him loose. Wild horses and a hundred million dollars couldn’t make him waive his no-trade clause.

  * * *

  Three days after she’d summoned Emily to Club Joe for Crisis Coffee, Anna was back in the café with her best friend, sipping her Coke and trying to explain herself. “It’s not that I can’t buy a dress for the RADD gala. It’s that I won’t. It’s absurd to spend hundreds of dollars on something I’m going to wear once, when I can donate the money instead. Isn’t that what the gala is all about, anyway? Fundraising for Raleigh Against Drunk Driving?”

  Emily was undeterred. “I’m just saying people are going to pay a lot of attention to you. This is the first year you’ve been Chair of the event.”

  “Honorary Chair. You know everyone else does all the work. And it’s actually Co-Chair. Gramps still gets lead billing.”

  “And Gramps can put on a tux and straighten his bow tie, and he’ll be considered perfectly dressed. But you’re going to have to do something different.”

  “We’re talking makeup, aren’t we?” Anna couldn’t keep the note of misery from her voice.

  “And hair, too.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Emily sat up straighter. “Wait a second. Are you telling me you haven’t made an appointment yet?”

  “For what?”

  “A mani-pedi? Your hair? Anna!”

  “Hello!” Anna said sarcastically. “Have we met? Have you ever, once in your life, known me to get a manicure or a pedicure?”