TEST BOOK

by Camel Press

  Her face fell and he smiled reassuringly. “I’m kidding. You mentioned it earlier in the season when we were in Chicago.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Yeah, it was when Lollapalooza was going on. I asked if you’d ever been and you told me that your brother took you to see Rage Against the Machine when you were fourteen.”

  Cat stared at him in confusion. Actually, she and Quinn had snuck out, and Grams had grounded them until school started. The adventure had been worth the trouble and—though it had been two sizes too big then and was a size too small now—she still had the Che Guevara t-shirt Quinn had bought her as a souvenir.

  “Okay, now I know I didn’t tell you that. I don’t talk about my family, especially my half brother, to anybody.”

  “You did to me. Of course, you’d had a couple beers.”

  Inebriated or not, she’d never even told Benji about Quinn. “I don’t—”

  “Now that I think about it, you didn’t say your brother, you said Quinn. It wasn’t until I met him the other night that I put two and two together.”

  “Oh, I guess that explains it.” Or did it? Spencer wasn’t half the friend she considered Tamela to be and still, she’d kept Quinn a secret from her Porterville pal. She’d have to be more careful in the future, as a sleazy brother wasn’t the only skeleton in her closet.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “The concert. Are you in or what?”

  “Yes!”

  His face lit up. “Really?”

  “Oh.” Cat frowned. “I can’t.”

  “What?” The smile melted off his face. “Why not?”

  “I’ve got to hitch a ride home with the team charter tonight.”

  “My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning. Why don’t I see if there’s an empty seat?”

  “It’s not that, I have to get home.” Upon seeing his sad face, she felt compelled to explain. The last thing she needed was her only ally mad at her. “That phone call I got yesterday? It was from Benji. He called to say that the cops were searching our apartment.”

  Spencer scooted his chair closer to hers. “Are you serious?”

  “Trust me, I never joke about warrants.”

  Ailsa McDaniel wasn’t the strictest guardian, but she had two rules: you don’t make light of the police or the Pope. She also wasn’t too keen on fourteen-year-olds sneaking out to music festivals, but she wouldn’t have been a grandma otherwise.

  “Is it about the poker game?” he whispered.

  “The guy leading the witch hunt is an assault detective. I think he believes a fight broke out on the balcony and that’s why Ryan went overboard.”

  Spencer’s eyes widened. “That’s ridiculous! Should I call him up, tell him I was there and that everything was hunky dory between the guys?”

  “No way. If we said anything now, it’d just make us look the liars he thinks we are.”

  “Which we are.”

  “We fudged the truth.”

  The P.A. announcer buzzed through the stadium speakers. “Ladies and gentleman, please rise for the singing of our national anthem.”

  Everyone rose to their feet and she and Spencer mindlessly followed. The rest of the reporters faced the field but Spencer’s eyes were locked on hers, his brow furrowed.

  She patted his shoulder before placing her hand on her heart. “Don’t worry. He’ll realize he’s wasting his time and we’ll never hear from him again.”

  She turned and faced the field flag. The Buffalo Police Department was the least of her worries. If the Soldiers didn’t win this game, she’d need protective custody.

  A personal-sized deep dish pizza slid across the desktop.

  “So how many more of these would I have to bribe you with to get you to endure one more night at the swanky five-star team hotel so that ticket doesn’t go to waste?” Spencer handed her a fork. “You know, I could see rushing back home if you were at the roach motel accommodations that the News Herald provides, but they’d have to pull me out of the Hotel Gillam kicking and screaming.”

  She laughed. “On any other day, I’d love to rock out with you. But I need to get back to Buff and deal with … everything.” She pointed out to the field. “That is, if we don’t go into extra innings and the flight gets held over.”

  “Well maybe you’ll have to come with me and then I can talk you into trading rooms. Or sharing.” He winked at her.

  Sometimes she wondered just how much Spencer was kidding. He hadn’t dated anyone in the eleven months she’d known him and she wished she had a female friend to fix him up with, but all her coworkers were either in a relationship or not his type. He deserved someone as sweet and attentive as he was. She smiled at his flirting, but her hands were tied.

  Fittingly, so was the score of the game. Three to three and heading to the top of the ninth. For most, it was the kind of game that made for a great story. For her, it was the kind of game that made for a shorter life expectancy. If the Soldiers scored and held onto the lead, it would grant her a short reprieve from the execution she faced. On the other hand—the swift hand of injustice—if Chicago scored in the bottom of the inning, it would be a walkoff win, which meant the Soldiers’ season would be over along with her career in Buffalo. Scapegoats were as much a part of baseball as hot dogs and peanuts. The Soldiers had been expected to go far into the postseason and if they were knocked out in the first round, the fans would demand someone’s head. Cat didn’t doubt it would be her red hair dancing around a stick outside Soldiers Stadium. She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the game.

  Spencer pointed out the swirling flags above the scoreboard. “Look at that.”

  The wind hadn’t been a factor for the first eight innings of the game—a gift from the gods. The Soldiers’ starter had been a fly ball pitcher and everyone knew that if the wind was blowing out in Chicago, so were the baseballs. Now that the relief pitchers were in and the Soldiers were up, fate smiled upon her again and provided a gentle outward breeze.

  “Thank you, Aeolus.”

  “God of,” Spencer snapped his fingers, “wind, right?”

  “How else do you explain this luck?” She grinned. Things were looking up.

  Joel Faulk led off the inning. He didn’t have much power in his bat, but the scrappy outfielder did have a knack for getting on base, and sure enough, he took four balls for a leadoff walk.

  This was good. Now she—er, the team, she reminded herself—just needed someone to bring him home. There were plenty of options for Ataru Hakui, the second batter. He could put up a sacrifice bunt and move Joel over to second or treat it as a regular at-bat and try for a hit.

  Instead he flew out to shallow right.

  Cat hung her head. Outs didn’t have to be a bad thing in baseball. Any fan will tell you there is such a notion as a productive out—but this wasn’t one of them. Joel Faulk was stuck on first, still three stations away from the Soldiers taking the lead, and the pitcher had only thrown two pitches.

  It was Doug Habing’s turn to be the hero now. With Joel’s generous leadoff of the first base bag, Chicago’s lanky pitcher began executing from the stretch. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joel’s feet digging into the dirt. A second later, he took off. The pitch was a strike and once the ball smacked his mitt, the catcher barreled it to second base. Chicago’s second baseman caught the perfect pitch and placed his glove down on Joel’s sliding foot. Cat and Spencer both leaned forward on the desk, as though the extra foot closer to the window would give them a better visual of the play. The umpire’s hands waved out in front of him, palms down.

  “Safe!”

  Cat squealed. The battle cry earned dirty looks from a few of the local reporters and a chuckle from Spencer, but she didn’t care. With the go-ahead runner in scoring position, she could feel the weight of Buffalo—not unlike the weight of a Buffalo—begin to lift from her shoulders. Even if it meant that Quinn would be so broke he’d have to liv
e with her for the next year, she prayed for a win tonight.

  Doug Habing didn’t mind the interruption of the stolen base, though it didn’t do much to alleviate the weight from the batter’s shoulders. The Soldiers needed him to come through. The pitch was delivered and he laid down a fair bunt parallel to the first base line. He was out, of course, but the sacrifice was a success. Joel Faulk was on third base, only ninety feet away from the Soldiers taking the lead. Unfortunately, the strategically advantageous sacrifice had also put the Soldiers one out away from handing the game back to Chicago’s offense.

  Jannis Gibson tapped his bat against his cleats and stepped into the box. With a slow and impatient bat, he wasn’t exactly the player you’d want in this spot, but while the God of Wind might be on her side, the God of Baseball Lineups wasn’t. The catcher gave his signs and the pitch was delivered.

  Her heart sank when Jannis made contact and the ball bounced off his bat, heading straight to the second baseman. The defender whipped out his glove and Cat waited for the inevitable. Her head drooped until she heard the collective gasps around the press box. When she jerked her attention back to the field, she saw the ball dribbling out to the outfield. She whirled around to see the replay on the press box television. It should have been a routine catch; instead, the ball deflected off the tip of the defender’s leather glove. Joel Faulk crossed home plate while Jannis safely made it to first base, giving the Soldiers the lead and keeping the inning still alive. She and Spencer shared an excited grin.

  Both the inning and their joy was short lived—Mario Evans struck out with the next pitch—but as long as the Soldiers bullpen could hold on for three more outs, their season would continue in Buffalo.

  No one in the press box was surprised when Adam Alvarez wasn’t the pitcher hustling to the mound. The Soldiers’ manager had attributed last night’s blown save to fatigue and had mentioned in the pregame interview that AA’s arm could use a couple days rest. If not for Chicago’s sloppy defense, his arm might’ve been the recipient of a few months of rest, but as grateful as she was for the error, all that mattered now was the next three outs. Kenta Seto was more than happy to fill in for the closer and get the chance to notch his first postseason save.

  The first out had come easy, a pop fly easily caught by Damien’s replacement at first base.

  The second out took a few more pitches, but the hitter eventually struck out.

  The hometown fans were chanting their last chance’s name and jumping to their feet, eliciting a wave of enthusiasm from the first row to the bleachers. Slowly, the press box began to follow. All the reporters nonchalantly rose to their feet, pretending to stretch their legs and straighten their desks, but their eyes, which were glued to the field, belied their nonchalance. The game had come down to this at-bat and not even a press badge could stifle the anticipation.

  The batter didn’t swing at pitch one and the umpire called it a strike. The Chicago fans responded with boos. Cat double-checked on the replay. The pitch was a little high, but in the strike zone.

  The next offering was even higher and the umpire ruled it a ball. The hometown fans applauded in appreciation.

  Kenta Seto put his pitch right where he had the first and the batter still didn’t swing.

  “Steeee-rike!”

  The fans booed again.

  They were still jeering when the next pitch was thrown. The batter swung … and missed.

  Cat verified it wasn’t a dream by taking another peek at the replay. Her view was obstructed as the other reporters rushed out of the room. She turned to Spencer, who threw his arms around her. She bounced with him for a couple jumps and then regained her composure. Pulling back, she cleared her throat.

  “We should—”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  She gave him a quick smile and grabbed her bag, leading the way to the stairs.

  Not surprisingly, Joel’s locker was the place to be for all the out-of-towners. The local media headed to Chicago’s clubhouse but even with their absence, there was no room in the tiny visiting clubhouse. She tried to inch past a tall woman on the side closest to the wall, but the Amazonian jutted out her elbow to stop her. Cat’s usual tricks wouldn’t work here; the national reporters had seen it all. She glanced down at the swarm of feet, wondering if she could tunnel through them to the front of the mob.

  Spencer hooked his arm with hers.

  “Follow me.”

  The short but stout former college soccer player barreled through the middle of the crowd with no apologies or pardons. Before she could blink, she was face to face with Joel.

  She unhooked her arm from Spencer’s. “Thanks for the ride.”

  He didn’t answer her and instead directed his attention at Joel, belting out the question they were all dying to ask.

  “How’s it feel to be a hero?”

  Joel wasn't much taller than Spencer and was several pounds thinner. What the outfielder lacked in meat, he made up for with speed, grit and determination. Spencer referred to him as “the quintessential scrappy white guy.” Joel took off his orange Soldiers’ ballcap to display his sweaty auburn hair, clinging to his freckled, pinkish face. He grimaced and took a look around the clubhouse. “Don’t use that word, man. I’m not a hero. It’s not like I yanked somebody out of a burning building or whatever.”

  Cat was taken aback by his modesty, but Spencer didn’t flinch. “Tell that to the City of Buffalo. They’re probably creating a mold for your statue right about now,” he said.

  Cat giggled along with a few other bystanders, but Joel didn’t break a smile. “I just did my job. I got on base, I saw a chance to take second and the guys behind me did the rest.”

  Cat butted in, a little nervous. The last time she’d talked to Joel was when he’d rushed past her to spew Leinekugel all over her kitchen sink.

  “That was a good steal. Did you do it on your own or was there a sign from the dugout?”

  “No sign. Not from the dugout, anyway.” His face paled and his eyes darted to their recorders, shoved just below his mouth. He took a step backward, almost jamming his body into his locker. His hand felt for the silver chain around his neck and clenched its cross pendant. “I mean, I wasn’t instructed to do it but it was almost instinctive. I didn’t realize I was on my way until I was already halfway down the baseline.”

  He looked around the clubhouse again. Cat observed his tense mannerisms. Her curiosity was piqued. This wasn’t like Joel. He was a camera hog—one of those rare players who sought out the media. He might never break any records, at least no good ones—he’d come pretty close to a golden sombrero last year—but he made himself known to the public. He was sure to land a career in broadcasting, whether the network wanted him or not. Tonight, however, he was the one to cut the interview short.

  “That’s all I got for tonight, guys. I’m really tired.”

  A few disappointed groans sounded from the back of the mob, but they cordially backed off. No one was going to hassle the hero tonight. As they backed away, Cat turned to thank him again, but he was already gone.

  Chapter 15

  Cat used the shuttle ride to the airport to finish up her work, so that the redeye charter flight back to Buffalo would be free for an hour of shuteye.

  She took the first seat she could find. The closer she sat to the door, the sooner she’d be hailing a taxi back to the loft. She’d already put her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment and slammed the lid shut when she spotted the freckled face of Joel Faulk in the next seat. She hesitated for only a second, but dismissed any escape plans. There was no sly way to grab her bag and switch seats. Besides, the rows on each side were full. She plopped down with a polite smile.

  “Hey Joel.”

  “Are you sure we should be sitting next to each other?” His hazel eyes darted around the plane, flashing from seat to seat before landing on the door where players continued to file in. “You know, after everything that’s happened? I don’t want any more trou
ble for either of us.”

  Now you’re worried about that? Where was this concern when accusations were being flung at me like Feller fastballs?

  “As long as I don’t get out a deck of cards, I don’t think anyone will mind.”

  He didn’t smile. She playfully nudged him with her elbow.

  “That was a joke. Kind of.”

  “Funny,” he replied, with a tone as flat as his expression.

  “You know, for a guy who singlehandedly saved the series, at least for two days, you look like ….” Cat cut herself off. She’d been about to say “like you lost your best friend,” but given the circumstances, she let the sentence trail off. “You seem sad.”

  “I’m just worried about Damien.”

  “Me, too.”

  Joel leaned his seat back and turned his head toward the window. Cat followed his gaze. There wasn’t much to see outside in the black night, but the overhead lights provided just enough glare to reveal his worried reflection in the glass.

  It was two in the morning when she made it into the apartment building. As was her ritual for late games throughout the season, she unzipped her boots and slipped them off as soon as she got up the stairs, quietly stuck her key into the door and grasped the handle with a slow turn. She gingerly pushed open the door until she saw the apartment walls light up with the glow of the living room television. No longer worried about awakening Benji, she let the door fling open so she could drag her luggage in. She left it in the hallway and made her way to the living room.

  “You’re still up?” She turned the corner and saw Quinn, not Benji, on the couch. “Oh. Of course you are.” Benji had to work in the morning, but Quinn wouldn’t be up before noon.

  “Yeah. Benji tried to wait up, but he ended up hitting the sack about an hour ago. He said to tell you congrats.” Quinn raised an eyebrow. “That’s from him, not me.”

  “Let me guess, you lost money tonight?”

  She plopped down next to him. She’d only recently pledged her allegiance to the Buffalo Soldiers and it wasn’t as though she’d be getting their logo tattooed on her lower back or naming her firstborn Soldier; however, she was a fan of the team that signed her paychecks. So, like any fan, she took pleasure in her right to gloat. After all, half the fun of rooting for your team is bragging to those who didn’t.