by Camel Press
“Volcano?”
“Too hot—” She caught herself and offered him an apologetic smile. “Point taken. I guess I have been a little selective. There’s nothing wrong with wanting it to be perfect.”
“Okay, so what’s perfect?”
“I don’t—”
“If money wasn’t an issue.”
The cross-country move had cleaned out their savings, but they’d been able to squirrel away a good chunk for a decent affair. Still, weddings were expensive. Benji’s parents had offered to chip in, but they’d politely declined.
“Money is an issue. Remember me? The girl with no dowry?”
“We can afford a nice wedding and what we can’t pay for outright, we can get a loan.”
She frowned. “We both decided we don’t want to start a marriage off in debt. If ‘I Do’ automatically comes with a forty percent chance of subpoena and finances are the number one cause of divorce …. Well, math doesn’t lie.”
“Come on, just play along. Pretend I’m the heir to an Israeli empire and we could get married anywhere in the world.”
“Hmm … barring a sudden change of heart here at the À La Mode Abode, then I would have to say … France.”
“As in the Eiffel Tower? Because you know, we can do that in Vegas.”
“No.” She shook her head. “One of those sixteenth century chateaus in the Loire Valley, with wildflowers and real champagne. And a moat.”
“That’s what it takes to get you to the altar, huh?” He eyed her suspiciously. “I’m starting to think you have cold feet.”
“I don’t, I promise, my feet are hot and sweaty for you.” With a goofy smile, she slid a foot out of her satin pump and wiggled her toes at him. “See?”
He went to grab her foot when her phone rang and she yanked it back, trying to catch her balance as she reached for her purse. She pulled out the cellphone and glared at the caller ID. “Finally. Guess who?” She put it on speakerphone for Benji’s benefit. “Quinn.”
“You rang?”
“I rang about twenty times. Do you know what kind of hell you made for me today all because of your little game last night? And Spencer, too? You put us both in a really awkward position.”
Benji’s head jerked up and his eyes bulged out, testing the strength of his sockets as he silently demanded an explanation. She turned her back to him to concentrate on whatever load Quinn was about to throw her way.
“I could get fired over this.”
“You could?” Quinn’s concern sounded sincere. “Really?”
“Yes. Not to mention, you had me lying to the police. You’re not here twenty-four hours and it’s like old times.” Silence fell on the line.
“It is not. How many times do I have to tell you I’ve changed?”
“Don’t tell me, show me. A good way to start would be by telling the truth.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll call that detective up and tell him that I forgot your friend was there.”
“No. You can’t do that to Spencer.”
He chuckled. “Now who’s lying?”
Cat sighed. “I just don’t want to make this any worse.”
“Calm down, it’s not that big a deal. Don’t you have more important things to worry about anyway? Playoffs and all that shit?”
“I’d love nothing better than to be worry about game one. Instead I’m wondering if I’m gonna come home to more cops.”
“I’m not even gonna be there tonight.”
“Where are you … Quinn, how’d you meet a girl already?” She gave it a second thought. “Never mind, I don’t even want to know.”
“Probably best.”
“Just … stay out of trouble. Please.”
“Always, baby Sis.”
A click and then silence. Cat looked at the dead screen and then at Benji. His face was frozen, all the way down to his clenched jaw.
“Spencer?”
“Hmm?” She’d heard him just fine, but was buying time.
“Spencer was at our house last night?”
“It’s my fault. At the party, he offered to keep an eye on Quinn. I didn’t think he’d take that job so seriously.”
“You lied to the police for Spencer?”
“It was Quinn’s idea because he had left way earlier.”
“So you’re taking all the heat while Spencer just la-tee-freaking-dahs his way around the stadium?” Benji took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “That’s not fair.”
She scoffed. “Have you been paying attention at all? Fair didn’t make the playoffs.”
“Cat, the detective asked who all was at our apartment. We lied to the police!”
“There’s no sense dragging Spencer into this mess, too.”
“I can’t believe he’s going along with this. That’s some friend you’ve got there.”
She shrugged. “I’d try to distance myself too, except I can’t since it was at my apartment.” She fell backwards onto the bed, hitting the fluffy pillowtop mattress with a soft thump.
Benji plopped down next to her. “I know. It is my apartment too, remember? I had lousy freshmen hassling me all day long because of it.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry.” She turned toward him and smiled. “But that does make me feel better.”
He wrapped his arms together. “Well, I’m glad I can keep you company.”
Cat snuggled her head into the nape of his neck.
“Cat?”
“Yeah?”
“What did you mean by lying to the police was like old times?”
She stiffened, but didn’t move her head. “It’s nothing.”
He sighed and pulled away from her. “Great. More secrets.”
Cat sat up, hesitating. “Okay. Quinn and I didn’t exactly lose touch over the past decade. Something happened.”
Benji rose up on his elbow, his blue eyes widening with curiosity.
“I was twenty, going to school and living with Grams. One day, this bouquet of roses comes from a ‘Patrick.’ Well, the only Patrick I knew was my English professor and I was pretty sure they weren’t from him, so I thought it was just a mistake. Until it happened again, a week later. And the card specifically said, ‘Catriona, I really enjoyed talking to you, I can’t wait until we can do it again … and more.’ So I was freaked, calling the flower shop, trying to figure out what was going on. Then Quinn comes over, not at all surprised to see the flowers.”
“He sent them?”
“No. This isn’t a ‘brother sends sister flowers from a secret admirer to boost her self esteem’ story. It turns out Quinn was prowling a dating website and found a guy from Chicago, Patrick Knox. He started reeling this guy in while pretending to be me. He’d sent him pictures of me, even chatted with him online using my real name, school, everything. That way if the guy did some digging, it’d all check out.”
“Why?”
A wry smile passed her lips. She often forgot how naïve Benji was. So naïve, in fact, that he couldn’t see where this was going.
“I told him to stop, but before he did,” Cat pressed her lips together, “he robbed him. Cleaned the guy’s apartment out while he was at work. Seems Patrick had confided in ‘Catriona’ his six-figure job as actuary, his electronics hobbies and his address. He might as well have given him a paystub and a blueprint.”
“Damn.”
“It gets worse. This guy’s not stupid, he makes the connections, especially when ‘Catriona’ stops answering emails and doesn’t log on to chat. So he calls the cops and they come question me.”
“And you told them it was Quinn, right?”
She hesitated. “Quinn would’ve faced a felony—up to fifteen years in prison. I couldn’t do that to him. I had an airtight alibi: I was in a broadcast journalism class that day. Not only did eighty classmates see me, but I was on the campus news channel.”
“Didn’t they link you to Quinn?”
“They asked a couple questions but
he was already long gone by the time they’d connected the dots.”
Benji shook his head sadly. “That’s messed up.”
“I swore I’d never talk to him again after that but—”
“Family.”
“Yeah. I don’t really have enough to be picky.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t worry. We’ll get married and make our own family so you’ll have plenty to pick from.”
Cat faked a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”
Chapter 9
Cat made sure she was on her way to the press box well before the gates opened. She couldn’t take the chance of encountering a disgruntled Soldiers’ fan armed with a beer and nacho cheese; the silk dress she was wearing was dry-clean only and her taupe ankle boots were genuine suede.
She could hear the muffled conversation when she was still three feet away from the door, but the second she stepped inside, the room fell quiet.
“Hey, everyone.”
No one responded. Her cheeks warmed as she made her way to her chair. She lowered her eyes to avoid their curious gazes but finally summoned enough courage to peek up as she sat down. To her surprise, no one was looking at her. She cleared her throat. Nothing. She plopped her laptop on the desktop, making sure it hit with unnecessary force. Still, no one looked in her direction.
She wasn’t surprised that the national media was ignoring her. She’d given an interview so they had no other use for her. Besides, they were outsiders with salaries in the high sixes and egos even larger. She’d have gotten the same treatment a week ago.
What Cat didn’t see coming was the shutout from the local guys around Buffalo. That curveball had come inside and left a painful bruise. She had spent a season with them, watching games, joking and sharing snacks, only to have them snub her as if she was a turkey dog vendor.
Cat sat at her station and stared out toward the stadium. The empty seats represented her loss of hope. The Soldiers not only had to get through this game, but win the series in order for her to be acquitted. If they showed that they could win without Ryan Brokaw, by the next round of playoffs her involvement would be all but forgotten. Or so she hoped.
“Hey Sports Fans, whatta ya hear?” Spencer burst through the door and kicked it shut.
He was greeted with smiles and a few hellos. Cat scoffed at the reception and averted her eyes to the field.
“Yoohoo, over there.” Spencer wiggled his way toward her, waving a coffee in the air.
Suddenly, everyone jerked their heads up and watched them intensely.
Spencer took note of the attention and stopped. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing. Have a seat.” She pulled out his chair.
He frowned at the uninvited audience and loudly stated, “I know our colleagues aren’t giving you the Heathers treatment. They’re way too professional to act like bitchy schoolgirls.”
Cat smothered a smile as he sat down, giving her a surreptitious wink.
The first eight innings flew by. It had been a pitchers’ duel, but thanks to the catcher’s solo home run, the Soldiers now clung to a 1-0 lead going into the ninth.
Their closer stepped onto the mound. Despite the stat that Adam Alvarez led the league with a beautifully low WHIP—walks and hits over innings pitched—and had not blown a save all year long, the fans remained silent as the inning started. Adam struck out the leadoff batter to put the first out on the board. It was an easy one, too. The Chicago rookie hadn’t even gotten his bat off his shoulder. He threw his meanest curveball to get the next hapless batter to strike out swinging. The fans exploded and the stadium began to titter with excitement. They were on their feet now.
Then it happened. The third batter took four straight balls to get on first base. In a failed attempt to keep the runner in check, the umpire called a balk on Adam that moved the runner to second.
The fans fell quiet again, their silence casting a heavy pall over the stadium. The balk had put the runner in scoring position on second base. Now it would only take a hit for Chicago to tie the game—or worse, a homer to take the lead. Then fate—a proven baseball fan—intervened and Braden Kendal stepped up to the plate. The muscled monster led the league in home runs. The catcher ran up to the mound to counsel Adam for just a few seconds and then retreated back to home plate. Adam quickly checked the runner on second and started his delivery.
Cat cringed when she saw the pitch leave Adam’s hand and travel to the plate. It was a fastball right in Braden’s wheelhouse and as his bat connected, Cat could’ve sworn she saw a smile on his face. He knew it. The sound of the ball off the bat confirmed this liner was going places. It flew toward the right field corner, but before it could reach its destination, Damien Staats leapt from his stance at first and made a diving catch to end the game.
Cat clenched her fist and pumped it in the air. The Soldiers’ players came charging out of the dugout to hail Damien in a wildly jumping mob on the field. The Chicago fans, clad in blue jerseys, wilted in the stands like day-old, plucked Hydrangeas. They were soon overtaken by a triumphant celebration of the Soldiers' Nation.
Spencer gave her a big grin, his eyes shining behind the square black frames of his trendy glasses. She smiled back. The room had emptied out around them. The national reporters had left the room the second the ball had hit Damien’s glove.
Cat pointed at their empty chairs. “They’re already down in the clubhouse. I guess that’s an advantage to being completely unbiased.”
“Unbiased? Try soulless. How does that catch not solicit a reaction?”
“Oh, it solicited a reaction. A ‘let’s take advantage of the local celebration to score the best spots downstairs’ reaction.” She grabbed her bag and nodded to the doorway. “Let’s go.”
She had just pushed the elevator call button when Spencer hooked her arm.
“Come with me.”
“But we need to get down to the clubhouse.”
He pulled her to the stairwell. “Trade secret. After playoff games, the elevators are packed. Stairs are much quicker.”
The metal door slammed behind them. Her high-heeled boots clunked on each concrete step as she tried to keep pace with his penny loafers. He stopped on the landing.
“Cat, wait. I need to say this. I’m sorry you’re getting the cold shoulder over everything.”
“I know you are.” She reached for his arm on the handrail. "Don’t worry, I can handle it. Believe it or not, it’s not my first time as an outcast.”
“Well you aren’t with me. I’m always here for you to vent with, escape to, or even make out with, whatever you need.”
She gasped and slapped him playfully.
He smiled. “Teasing.”
She nudged him forward. “Let’s go. We’re missing the shaving cream pies.”
Once inside the clubhouse, Spencer took off for Adam Alvarez. Cat headed straight for the mob around Damien Staats. She was a sucker for a white knight.
She wiggled past the other members of the media to get closer to the first baseman. He was wiping shaving cream off of his beaked nose, undoubtedly a “gift” from his teammates to show their appreciation for his game-winning play. White globs of Barbasol still remained in his sweat-soaked brown hair. Damien had always given the team reporter highest priority and she was counting on that professional courtesy to extend into the playoffs. It was the least he could do for the person unfairly branded his poker buddy by everyone in baseball.
She butted in before the pudgy reporter wearing Midwest Sports credentials could ask another question and thrust her recorder in his face.
“Damien, you were playing off the bag when you caught that liner. Did you have a hunch it was gonna head for right field?”
Damien didn’t respond. He’d made a millisecond of eye contact and she was ten inches from his ear so she knew he had heard her question. Cat recoiled from embarrassment.
The bombshell reporter next to Cat pursed her bright red lips i
n a subtle smirk before shimmying in closer to the first baseman, hips first.
“Damien, that ball was ticketed for right field, how’d you know to play off the bag?”
Cat was steaming mad. The question was a direct steal of the question she’d just asked. Damien, however, beamed at the national reporter.
“Well, I ….”
Cat tuned out his canned response. She expected to be iced out by some people, but surely a guy in the same boat could throw her a life raft, especially when he was one of the people who had thrown her overboard.
She glowered at the big-nosed jock as he chuckled toward the other reporters.
No. Damien’s the type of guy to save both flotation devices for himself. One for him and one for his ego.
Cat had made her rounds to each newsworthy player in the clubhouse, but had been so taken aback by Damien’s cold shoulder that she had let the other reporters do the talking and her recorder do the listening. She’d attended the press conference with the manager, still solely as a spectator, and was now on her way back up to her office to churn out her reports. The hard work for the night was over. She’d spent the downtime during the game preparing her story framework for either a win or a loss, and now just had to plug in a few quotes.
Perhaps there is an advantage to being a social pariah after all.
Cat uploaded the articles and sat back in her desk chair, the evening’s events replaying in her head, just as Damien’s catch was surely doing on all the sports channels. She picked up her phone and dialed the clubhouse extension.
The attendant answered with a merry hello.
“Hey Bill, this is Cat McDaniel. Is Damien Staats still down there?”
“Oh, Dumpling, you just missed him by like a second. I can probably still catch him if you want. I bet he hasn’t even made it down the hallway yet.”
“Uh, no, that’s all right. Thanks, Bill.”
Cat slammed the phone down and darted for the stairs. She kept one hand on the railing and boogied down each step, heedless of scuffing her precious Choos on the concrete. After all, the suede boots already had a ding on the heel—that's how she'd gotten them half off at a fall sidewalk sale. Pushing open the ground floor door and bolting down the hallway, she nearly collided with Damien as she busted out the door and into the parking lot. He jumped back and scowled down his oversized nose at her.