by Camel Press
“How long did it take emergency personnel to arrive?”
“Were there any other substances involved?”
Cat ran her hands through her hair and sighed. She wished Roger would’ve prepped her for this or at least given her some guidelines.
“Look, these are adults. I think they had a couple of beers but there’s no hard liquor in my house and definitely no other substances.” She glared at the reporter who’d asked the question—a snooty woman from a local rag that didn’t even have a sports section. She only showed up for charity events and scandals.
“I thought you weren’t present.”
“I’d know if there were drugs in my house.”
That wasn’t exactly true, especially since Quinn’s duffel bag came adorned with Legalize It and Alstublieft Amsterdam patches, but this was one time she could count on his stinginess. Quinn wouldn’t share a bag of jelly beans, let alone a bag of marijuana.
“Did you interact with Ryan during the post-rally celebration at Aiken’s Steak ’n Taters?”
Cat couldn’t even tell who was asking the question. The bright lights were causing her to blink repeatedly. Her heart was threatening to thump its way out of her chest. She could feel Detective Kahn’s eyes boring into her. She wiped her palms on her thighs and tried to focus.
“I don’t—”
“Have the police searched your apartment?”
“I—”
“Do you think Ryan will be one hundred percent by spring training?”
“I’m not sure—”
A hand clasped her shoulder and Roger took hold of the microphone. “I think she’s told you everything she knows. Let’s give her a break now, huh? I’ll handle the questions about Ryan’s prognosis.”
Cat was still in too much shock to give him a grateful smile when he excused her with a nod toward the door. As she headed out, she noticed that Detective Kahn was gone. Thanking God for small favors, she trudged back to her cubicle.
“You’ve ruined the season.”
“Thanks for nothing, you stupid twat.”
“You suck, your writing sucks and I hope a beaver gnaws off your fingers.”
“Aiken should fire your dumb ass.”
“You’re proof of why gingers are evil.”
“Go back to the Chips.”
“Thanks from Chicago!”
“Rot in hell.”
Cat slammed her laptop shut. That had been the tip of the iceberg. Her email account was full of thousands of messages from angry Buffalonians and happy Chicagoans. The situation wasn’t much better outside her office, where the eyes of every coworker who passed by shot daggers in her cubicle. She’d eaten breakfast and lunch at her desk, making do with the contents of her emergency drawer—Benji’s homemade trail mix and bottled water. Unfortunately, her cubicle didn’t include a private bathroom, so she could ignore their outrage no longer.
As she came out of the ladies room, everyone stopped whispering and pretended to be busy at work. She sighed and headed straight for Roger’s office. His assistant was nowhere to be found so she charged right in.
“Roger, I just—” she stopped upon seeing his office full of suits. “Oh. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Feeling her cheeks begin to burn, she started to back out through the doorway.
Roger smiled. “It’s fine. What do you need, Catriona?”
“I just wanted to … well … I feel like I should say that I’m sorry again for everything that happened at my place last night.”
“Ms. McDaniel, come in,” said George Hudson. The team owner extended his hand and she reluctantly stepped inside, afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.
She shook George’s hand. They’d already met numerous times but she didn’t expect him to remember her. Of course, now he wouldn’t soon forget her.
“Mr. Hudson, again, I’m sorry for my involvement. I had no idea that anything like this would happen.”
“Of course you didn’t, dear. It was an unfortunate accident. I’m sure you’re taking quite the verbal lashing for it.”
That was putting it mildly. She’d prefer an actual lashing, whip and all.
“You could say that. I’ve heard from quite a few fans today. I might have to change my email address.”
Roger shook his head. “You know diehards; as soon as game one comes, they’ll forget all about it.”
Cat did know diehard fans. Hell, three years ago she’d been one of them. There was a time that she was the one typing threats in her pajamas, armed with only a laptop and a grudge. This insider’s knowledge is how she knew that “game one” meant two possible outcomes for her email account: the Soldiers would win and she’d be spared changing her email address or they’d lose and she’d have enough hate mail to crash her computer.
“Our more reasonable fans would never blame you,” Roger said.
“Oh, the more reasonable fans?” Cat cocked her head at Roger. He was a former player and had been in the game long enough to know there was no such creature. “All three of them?”
It’s not that baseball fans do not honor logic. In fact, most spend the entire nine innings making rational predictions based on observations and statistics. Devotees took it even further by delving into the complex study of sabremetrics—a scientific analysis of baseball records, founded by the Society for American Baseball Research, a group so rooted in logic they made Vulcans look like crackpots.
Team fans, on the other hand, are illogical and unrelenting. The very sight of their rival’s jersey makes their blood pressure rise. They believe a goat in the stands is a curse and a squirrel on the field, a blessing. They root for teams that have little chance of winning, merely out of unrequited loyalty. A great day becomes terrible—and vice versa—because of one pitch made a thousand miles away.
No, Cat knew that the Soldiers’ fans wouldn’t be weighing the facts and coming to the reasonable conclusion that she wasn’t at fault. They’d be too busy lighting torches and deciding between a guillotine or a stake-burning.
George chuckled. Even with a thick head of graying brown hair and deep wrinkles along his forehead, the team owner didn’t show much stress over the situation. He didn’t need to; she was wearing enough worry for the both of them.
“From what Roger’s told me, it was your brother who orchestrated the game?” he asked.
“Yes, Quinn. He’s staying with me for a while and met a few of the players last night at the restaurant. I didn’t even know they were coming over. My brother can be quite …” she tried to find the perfect word but could only come up with, “cumbersome.”
“Well I can certainly understand sibling rivalries.”
The group of suits laughed like it was an inside joke. Cat smiled awkwardly.
Roger pointed to a man standing by the large window overlooking the field. “He’s referring to his own brother, Cat. Have you met James? He’s in town for the playoffs.”
The man stepped forward and held out his hand. “Ms. McDaniel, James Hudson.”
Cat froze. The brothers shared identical sets of blue-gray eyes, sun-kissed complexions and full mounds of chestnut hair, but that wasn’t all they had in common—they also had the same taste in women. Cat recognized James Hudson from last night, when she’d spied him rounding third base in the coat closet with his brother’s wife, Kiki Hudson.
“Ms. McDaniel, are you all right?”
She blinked and took his hand, offering a shaky smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have much to eat for lunch.”
“Here I thought it was me who took your breath away,” he replied charmingly.
The men chuckled.
Cat joined in nervously. “I’ve seen you before, I think.”
“At the wedding, I’m sure.”
“That must be it.”
She supposed she had seen him there, but there had been over five hundred people at the affair and Kiki’s miniskirt wedding dress attracted most of the attention.
James merely smiled at her, no tel
l in his eyes to indicate he recognized her.
Guess there are worse brothers than Quinn. He may steal a wallet, but Quinn would never steal a man’s wife, especially his own brother’s.
“Don’t be so shocked. I got the brains, he got the looks.” George slapped him on the shoulder. “Before he straightened out, my brother was quite the troublemaker, too.”
The very sight of James’ smarmy smile made her nauseated. Cat tore her eyes away.
“Quinn can be a handful but believe me, he feels awful about last night, too.”
“I’m sure he does.”
She nodded and turned to Roger. “Well, I don’t want to interrupt your meeting any further. I was just heading out and wanted to say sorry again.”
“Thank you, Catriona.”
“I’m on my way out; I’ll walk with you.” This man’s voice came from the couch behind her. Cat recognized his voice as she turned around.
“Spencer?”
She took a quick inventory of the other faces in the room to make sure there weren’t any other surprises in this bunch. Finally she focused back on her friend, trying to hide her dismay at his presence in the Billionaire Boys Club.
Roger gave Spencer a jovial pat on his shoulder. “Spencer missed the presser this morning so he brought me a bottle of Jameson to bribe me into answering a few questions.”
“Anything for a scoop. I’m sure Cat can relate. Right?” His pleading eyes begged her to play along.
She nodded and finally relinquished a smile for his benefit. “Jameson is Journalism 101.”
Spencer edged his way toward the door, backing Cat out of the room as he did so. “Thanks again, Roger. Gentleman.”
“Nice weather we’re having today, isn’t it, Cat?”
“It is. I hope we have a similar day tomorrow for game one.”
“Oh that would be—”
Once they turned the corner and she knew they were out of earshot, she smacked his arm. “Spencer, what the hell?”
“I know. Damn, I know, Cat. I saw it on the news when I woke up this morning and your cellphone was going straight to voicemail so I called your apartment. Your brother filled me in and told me to keep quiet about being there earlier. Why’d you cover for me?”
“It was Quinn’s idea.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I listened to him.”
“Well, thank you, I guess. I can’t imagine the hell I’d be going through if you hadn’t.”
“You don’t have to imagine it. I can give you the play by play.”
He frowned and stopped her, pulling her over to a bench in the hallway. “I’m so sorry.” His brown eyes locked on hers, shining even more vibrantly through the lenses of his black-framed glasses. “Please tell me you don’t hate me.”
“Of course I don’t.” Cat scooted back a few inches. She didn’t need any more guilt today. “But I think we should just ’fess up. I lied to the cops and the detective’s still asking a lot of questions.”
“No!” He looked around and lowered his voice to add, “If they find out you lied, they’re going to think there’s something to hide.”
“There’s not, though. You left before anything happened.”
“You know as well as I do nobody’s going to care about that. Won’t it just make things worse if they find out two reporters were there?”
“So I’m supposed to take the heat all by myself?”
“No, of course not.” He exhaled and leaned back against the wall. “The thing is, you’ve got Roger on your side but I don’t have anybody like that at the News Herald. If my editor finds out I was there, she’ll fire me faster than you can say unemployment line.”
Cat took a deep breath and weighed his request. The lifeboat only had room for one and she was already sinking. Her colleagues began to file into the hallway. They always left early on non-game days, and she had to follow their lead. She had an errand to run before this nightmare of a day was over. She turned back to Spencer.
“Okay. I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway.”
Spencer threw his arms around her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
She inched out of his clingy grasp. The twosome already got enough raised eyebrows over the season about their platonic relationship. She didn’t need to start another rumor today.
Chapter 7
Cat clutched the gift basket in her arms as the elevator glided up to the third floor. The only other passenger was a doctor who looked like he’d just gotten off of a thirty-six hour shift. Cat watched him fixate on her black satin pumps, which were spastically tapping against the elevator floor. She stopped, giving him an apologetic smile that he didn’t return. Turning her attention to the oversized basket, she rearranged the various packages of sunflower seeds, making sure the bag of dill pickle flavoring was right in front. Ryan had always kept a package on the top shelf of his locker in the clubhouse so she figured it was his favorite. It was also the only thing she could think of that he liked besides baseball, and she figured the irony of a bucket of Rawlings balls wouldn’t be appreciated by the injured pitcher. The elevator opened and she crept toward room 326. The door was wide open but she knocked softly before taking a step inside the sunny room.
“Ryan?”
“Cat?” He wiggled up in the hospital bed. His dark-blond hair had been freshly washed and tucked behind his ears, but his unshaven face sprouted the beginnings of a sandy beard. “Hi.”
The hospital room was packed with flowers, stuffed animals—namely the team mascot, a bear named Sergeant Southpaw—and balloons. Ryan’s wife fluffed the pillow behind his head and crossed her arms. Cat recognized the former model from the Soldiers’ Wives food drive held over the summer.
“Honey, will you give us a second? This is the team reporter.”
Cat smiled at her. “Hi, Carmen.”
Carmen flipped her shiny ebony hair over her shoulder. “How many more interviews do you have to do today? This is the third already.”
“No, not that kind of reporter. She’s the one from last night. The reporter whose apartment the poker game was at.”
Cat cringed and squeezed the gift basket a little tighter. That’s what she’d be known for from now on. Not “that sportswriter who exposed a drug conspiracy in Las Vegas,” not “the woman who took down a dirty agent in Santa Domingo,” not even “that reporter with a great rack.” From now on she’d be the reporter who held an unsanctioned poker game that broke the star pitcher’s arm.
“Oh.” Carmen narrowed her almond-shaped eyes at Cat and moved around the bed to get in her face, pressing her thin body against the oversized wicker basket. “The doctor said there’s a chance he might have nerve damage. You realize he’s a free agent this year? Now his agent will be negotiating a busted arm.”
“It wasn’t his pitching arm.”
“That’s not the point!” Carmen’s eyes flashed. “He’s damaged goods and no team worth a crap is going to chance it. I was supposed to be on my way to Beverly Hills or Manhattan. Now I’m going to be stuck in this river rathole for the next three years.”
“Carmen, stop.”
She swirled around to him. “You promised me city lights.”
Ryan Brokaw was from a Canadian village just on the other side of the border. Buffalo was city lights to him. The Soldiers had tried all summer long to get him to sign an extension, but he’d opted out. Now Cat was beginning to see why.
“I understand you’re upset, but I wasn’t even part of the game last night.”
On her way out, Carmen rolled her eyes and shoved Cat aside. Cat waited until the sound of the woman’s six-inch stilettos clomping down the hallway had faded down before stepping to Ryan’s bedside. She sat the basket on his nightstand.
“Ryan, I am so sorry about your arm and … everything.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Can I get that in writing?
“Maybe, but I feel so bad that—”
“Cat, just forget it. Really, I’ll be fine. Ca
rmen’s just upset because it’s been a long night.”
Cat gave him a long look. He didn’t seem upset. Why not?
“I had no idea you and she hated Buffalo so much.”
“Not me. I love Buffalo. I grew up wanting to move here.”
He reached his good arm up and pulled down the neck of his hospital robe, displaying his smooth, molded pec. “See?”
“You work out, I get it.”
Ryan laughed and pulled it down farther. “No, this.”
“Ah.” Just to the right of his heart was a tattoo, a charging blue bison with a red stripe streaming from its horn—the Buffalo Bills’ logo.
He let go of the robe and dropped his hand back to the mattress. “I’ve had this since I was sixteen. All my friends rooted for the Toronto Argonauts, but I was an NFL fan. I love this town and everything in it.”
“I don’t get it. If you heart Buffalo so much, why didn’t you sign an extension?”
She’d asked him that question several times over the season and the answer had always been “We’ll see at the end of the season,” which was usually player/agent code for holding out to get more money and a longer contract. Cat didn’t blame them. She’d hold out for a bigger paycheck and job security, too; that is, if sportswriters were ever in the position to demand that.
“Carmen hates it here. We met at a fashion show in Milan, got married and moved here. Soon after that, her agent dropped her. Now the only runway she sees is the one at the airport. I think she blames her career dwindling on living here.”
“Is that the reason?”
“No.” He looked out into the empty hallway. “She’s twenty-six. If models were horses, she’d be on her way to the glue factory.”
Cat winced, taking a second to shake off that horrible image. “Why don’t you just get a penthouse in Manhattan, then? You could at least live there in the offseason.”
He tugged at the robe to display the tattoo again. “Our offseason is the Bills’ season.” He shook his head. “It’s not just that. I believe she thinks that if I was on a more high-profile team, it would put her back in the spotlight.”