“TALKING POINTS,” ALLISON snapped, rapping on Gwen’s cubicle wall with one hand and thrusting the dreaded piece of paper into her face with the other. “Take them downstairs. Now.”
Gwen stuck her feet into her red heels, pulled on her gray blazer, and squared her shoulders. She’d held out approximately one ounce of hope that Allison would order Chad or Brandon to march into the lion’s den today, but knew it was unlikely. Chad probably wouldn’t know who Strip was, and Brandon couldn’t be trusted not to lose the paper. Plus Gwen was at the bottom of the ladder, and they enjoyed stepping on her too much.
She’d survived yesterday’s errand, so today she made her way to the elevator with a slightly diminished sense of dread. Still, she was sweating by the time she reached the clubhouse level, though unlike yesterday, there were no angry shouts echoing down the hallway, and the trainers were smiling and chatting as they strolled past, almost like they were happy to be at work.
Well, that was an improvement at least. She’d do better today, too. Instead of lingering outside Strip’s office like a sacrificial lamb, she’d drop the talking points on his chair where they couldn’t be missed, then run back to her desk, schedule one last celebratory tweet, and go home.
Then she stepped into Strip’s office and that plan went to hell.
Strip and Tyler Ashe were huddled in a corner, Ty staring at the manager’s shoulder as he listened to the lecture. Even though the words were spoken softly, it was obvious they were harsh, and the tension in Ty’s body was evident. The two men turned as Gwen entered, stopping a second too late.
“Um,” she said, pinching the talking points between two fingers like the paper was a dead mouse. “Here are the notes. Congrats.”
Strip was the first to break the spell, covering the short distance and snatching the page from her hand. “Thanks.”
She nodded and backed out of the room.
“Where are you going?”
Gwen froze. “Home?”
“Stay put,” he ordered.
“Okay.” Her mouth formed the word while her brain protested.
He unfolded the paper and skimmed it, lips tightening into a displeased line as he read. “Are you kidding me?”
Gwen balked. “I didn’t write it.” Or read it, now that she thought about it.
“The Thrashers are back? Never better?”
“Uh...”
“Never better? Bowers was a lot better this time a year ago! Don’t you know anything about this game?” He continued to read aloud. “Today’s game is a magic mirror into the future?”
Somehow, Gwen had managed to forget about Ty, not just one of the most famous athletes in the country, but a man whose poster had hung on her wall for the better part of a decade. Now he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. If the moment weren’t so mortifying, she might want to laugh too. But mostly she wanted to die.
“I—”
“Now let’s play ball? Am I supposed to say this? With a straight face? Without getting my ass handed to me by those reporters?”
“Ah...” Gwen was about to throw up.
Then Ty stepped in. “C’mon, Strip. You know she didn’t write it. She’s just the messenger.”
Strip’s nostrils flared as he inhaled, then, holding Gwen’s stare, crumpled the paper and tossed it into the trash. Again.
“Then tell me what to say,” he ordered. “Because if I speak for myself, I’m going to say one game means nothing, we’ll see what tomorrow brings. And I’m not saying ‘mirror.’”
Gwen had analyzed more than her share of games with Marge, and didn’t need to think about the answer. “Talk about teamwork,” she said.
“Teamwork?”
“Yes. Bowers got off to a rough start today, but the team rallied and came back from it. You used four relievers, no earned runs. Escobar helped talk Martin out of that bases-loaded jam. Reed had an outfield assist, there were three double plays. When this team works together, it works.”
Strip stared at her for a moment. “Well,” he said finally. “That’s not terrible.”
“Oh, okay. Great.” She reached for the door. “Um, goodbye.”
“No, you stay.” Strip snatched up his Thrashers hat and stuck it on his head, not completely centered. “I’m going to go give an interview.” He poked a finger into Ty’s chest. “You tell this jackass what to say, then personally escort him to the dugout so he doesn’t skip out again. Is that clear?”
“Yes?” Gwen managed, meaning, “God, no.”
“Not you.” Strip fixed his glare on Ty. “You. Is that clear?”
Ty’s response was a mumbled, “Yeah.”
“Good. I expect you in five minutes.”
Strip stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind him and leaving Gwen alone with none other than Tyler Ashe. At home she had three Tyler Ashe jerseys, two copies of Sports Illustrated with his face on the cover, and one of his foul balls in a plastic case on her nightstand.
And now she had nothing to say.
“Well?” he said. “What do I tell them?” His dark brows narrowed, and when he was annoyed, his blue eyes got even more blue. She thought of the massive underwear ads plastered around the city, Ty’s eyes Photoshopped until they were nearly glowing, his shaggy dark hair perfectly unkempt. Now his hair was hidden under a wool cap, paired with gray sweats and a black training shirt, and even with a two-day beard, he was still one of the most beautiful men in the world.
“Well?” he prompted.
This wasn’t Gwen’s job. She delivered talking points, she didn’t prepare them. “What are you supposed to tell them?” she asked finally.
“I don’t know. No matter what I say, they’re going to tear into me. Ask why the one game I don’t play is the one we win.”
“What do you expect them to do?”
“Leave me alone? Forever?”
“Then stop with all...this.” Gwen waved her hand at his face.
“With what? My head?”
“Your attitude. You’re just feeding them. You want them to leave you alone? Smile.”
“What?”
Whether or not Gwen was terrified of Allison was irrelevant. Her boss was one of the best in the business, and Gwen had heard her give enough advice to know the answer to this question. “Say something positive and control the narrative. Apologize for running away last night. Say today gave you some perspective. You’re excited by what you saw. Ibanez did great at short, Reed went 3-4. You’re...invigorated.”
“Who the fuck says invigorated?”
“You say it in your coconut water commercial.”
Ty’s frown deepened. “Who are you again?”
Gwen faltered. How was this happening? Again? She had one job: drop off a piece of paper. Not this.
“Never mind,” she said, tugging open the door. “Just go out there and play nice.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You’re supposed to escort me to the dugout.”
“You know where to find it.”
They locked eyes and Gwen knew they were both remembering those seconds in the elevator, how she’d said nothing when he escaped, how she’d let him go. It was his turn to return the favor.
Finally, Ty shrugged. “Have a good night.”
Gwen darted out of the office, jabbed the button for the elevator, and was rewarded when the doors glided open so she could jump inside and bang her head against the wall. Play nice? Play nice? That was her advice to Tyler Ashe, baseball god? It was like something happened to her when she got down to the clubhouse level. She either turned into a stammering um-ah-er idiot, or a bossy know-it-all who kinda sorta deserved to be fired, even if it wasn’t really her fault she kept getting sent down there.
Allison was waiting for the elevator when the doors opened on nine, and Gwen knew she was there to deliver the death blow.
“How’d it go?” she asked mildly, texting something on her phone as she waited
for Gwen to step off.
Gwen hesitated, waiting for the ax to fall. “Um, just fine.”
Allison didn’t even look up. “Great. See you tomorrow.”
And though Gwen had been expecting to be berated, humiliated, and fired, “See you tomorrow,” was, somehow, the worst thing she could have heard.
CHAPTER 4
TY WAS BENCHED AGAIN. Two days in a row. He hadn’t been benched for two days since his second year when he’d arrived hungover and thrown up in his locker five minutes before game time. Strip sat him for a weekend and made him spend a month with a sober coach. He’d learned his lesson. Or so he’d thought, because he’d gone to the dugout yesterday, apologized to the reporters for his behavior, and spewed all the cheerful lines about how invigorated he’d been by the younger players’ performances. And now he’d shown up early—and sober—done his pre-game workout, and found the lineup posted on the wall, and his name wasn’t on it. Not only was he not in the starting nine, he wasn’t even at the top of the list of bench players. He was at the bottom. Some people might think he was reading into things, but he knew Strip. This was a message. One small mistake, one big penalty.
“What the fuck?” he asked when Strip strolled in and grabbed a can of coconut water from the fridge. “I’m sitting again?”
“Oh good, you can read.” Strip sipped the drink and grimaced. “I can’t believe you hawk this stuff. It tastes like spit.”
“Coconut water is an excellent source of magnesium and potassium,” Ty said, because he was paid to. “It may help prevent diabetes, kidney stones, and heart disease.”
“Shut up. It’s disgusting.”
“I have a lifetime supply. I’ll learn to love it. Why am I benched? Again?”
“Because you lied to me.”
“I apologized.”
“No, you apologized to the reporters, and only because you were told to.”
Ty groaned. “I’m sorry I said I talked to them when I hadn’t. I wasn’t in the mood.”
“And you think I am? I’m sixty years old.”
“You’re sixty-four.”
That earned him a glare.
“I haven’t had a steak in two months,” Strip continued. “My wife makes me eat something called an açai bowl for breakfast. I’m starving and I don’t have time for your ‘moods.’”
“It’s not a mood, it’s—”
Strip waited for Ty to finish, and when he didn’t, Strip read his mind anyway. “He still hasn’t talked to you? No letters? No phone calls?”
Ty shook his head and studied the floor. “No.”
“He’ll come around.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll still be in prison.”
“And you’re out here,” Strip pointed out. “Make the most of it.”
“Put me in the lineup and I will.”
“No. Ibanez is growing on me.”
“No, he’s not. He hasn’t met a bottle of cologne he doesn’t like.”
“Yeah, I have to hold my breath when he walks by, but he’s hitting well, and we need production. Remember when you started out? That gold earring?”
Ty tried not to smile. “No.”
“It dangled.”
“It was trendy.”
“You looked like a woman from the left side.”
“I did not.”
“Point is, Garces knew you were going to replace him, and he got behind it. He mentored you. He set an example. I don’t know how it happened, but we got older, kid, and you’re one of the vets now. Pay it forward.”
“I’ll just buy him a bottle of cologne.”
“You do that and I’ll bench you forever.”
Ty’s smile broke free, and earned him one of Strip’s rare mouth twitches. “Am I playing tomorrow?”
“We’ll see. Keep your head out of your ass in the meantime.”
“No promises.”
Strip left to go back to his office and Ty changed into his warm-up clothes so he could take batting practice, even if he wasn’t playing. Again. He wasn’t happy about it, but at least Strip wasn’t echoing the rumors floating around online about how he was getting old and it was time for a replacement. He had a lot of good years left, and no clue what he’d do with the years after.
“Incoming,” droned one of the security guards flanking the door. His tone had a familiar warning, and every player in the room busied themselves at their locker, knowing who was about to make an appearance.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Allison Whyte was smart and frightening, and when she wanted something, she came down and got it. Before last year’s bashe-ket fiasco, Ty’s management team was responsible for vetting all the promotion ideas that included his name. After weeks spent cleaning up the mess, Ty had ordered that all future promotional suggestions be sent to him directly for approval. Now he spent more time dodging the requests than dealing with them, and had almost started to believe Allison had given up on the scheduled bobblehead giveaway night. He should have known better.
Still, he didn’t turn to face her until she said, “Ty? Do you have a minute?”
The rest of the players let out a unanimous sigh of relief that they weren’t the subject of today’s visit. Ty glared at Escobar, who was laughing into the locker next to him, and only laughed harder when he caught Ty’s look.
“I’ve got batting practice,” Ty said.
Allison was standing next to the lineup card, and now made a careful show of studying it and finding Ty’s name at the bottom. “I think you’ve got time,” she said.
Someone else laughed.
Ty elbowed Escobar in the kidney as he approached Allison, who waited patiently at the door. “Fine,” he said. “What is it?”
“We’ve got your bobblehead prototype. I need you to sign off on it. Let’s go to Strip’s office.”
That’s when Ty noticed a pair of red high heels in the hallway behind Allison, and when he tilted his head to peer past her, he spotted the long legs attached to them, the fitted Thrashers T-shirt, and the blonde from the day before.
“You again,” he said.
Allison peered between them. “I didn’t know you knew Gwen.”
So that was her name. “Gwen gave me my talking points last night,” Ty said, earning himself a glare from the woman in question. “She’s doing a great job.”
“Excellent.” Allison thrust a box and an envelope into Gwen’s arms and smiled at Ty. “Then she can handle this. Sign off on the prototype. Gwen will explain the upcoming theme night, and you can sign off on that too.”
Someone cursed behind him, and Ty shared the sentiment. The last time the Thrashers had had a theme night they’d been forced to lip sync to a medley of Taylor Swift hits and he’d had “Look What You Made Me Do” stuck in his head for a week. Teen girl attendance had gone up by ten percent.
“Remember,” Allison said, turning to Gwen. The words were directed at her assistant, but were clearly for Ty’s benefit. “Two sign-offs, or you’re fired. See you upstairs.”
She strode away, the sharp click of her heels sounding like gunfire.
Half the tension in the room ebbed as Allison disappeared, though Gwen still managed to look like she was facing a firing squad. Ty had been firmly prepared to veto the bobblehead without even looking at it, but now found himself feeling a bit more open-minded.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s see this thing, shall we?”
Gwen bit her lip as she opened the box and pulled out a plastic figure with an oversized head, not meeting his eye. For a second Ty thought she was just shy, then he saw the doll. It looked like a demon.
“What the fuck?” he exclaimed. “That doesn’t look like me!” It was a generic face shape with an oddly sharp nose, too-red lips, and eyes painted so blue they would get him even more mocked than the underwear ad. When the billboards had first gone up, Connor had printed shirts for everyone on the team, Ty’s six-pack and tighty-whities on display, his eyes peering out, laser blue. The jerks had worn the shi
rts to practice for a month.
Gwen cleared her throat. “It’s, um, it’s a semblance.”
“It’s a semblance of a demon.”
She tried to stifle a laugh. “No, it’s nice.”
“Say that without laughing.”
Her cheeks were pink. “I can’t.”
Ty took the doll and shook it. His plastic head lolled maniacally, the blue eyes following his every move. “I can’t sign off on this. It’s horrifying.”
“It’s a novelty item. They’re popular.”
He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I swear Allison does this on purpose.”
Gwen extended the agreement page and a pen. “Just sign at the bottom.”
“Who’s signing what now?”
Ty grimaced as he smelled Ibanez come up behind him. He turned to see the kid wearing nothing but a towel around his hips and a thick gold chain around his neck, skin wet from his shower. And somehow he still smelled like cheap cologne.
Gwen sneezed.
“It’s a bobblehead,” Ty said tersely. “Go get dressed.”
But Ibanez plucked the doll from his fingers and gave it a shake. “Dios mio!” he cried dramatically. “A witch!”
The room erupted in laughter, and Ty was about to snap at the kid when he saw Gwen laughing, too. She had a pretty smile that made her look softer, sweeter. Happier.
Ty sighed and took back the doll. “I’ll get you one to take home,” he promised Ibanez.
“Please don’t.”
“In fact, I’ll get you a whole bunch. And everywhere you look, there I’ll be.”
“I already see your face everywhere, hermano. I can’t escape it.”
Ty winked at him. “Lucky you.” To Gwen he said, “Let’s get away from this asshole.”
Ibanez leaned past him to see Gwen. “You work here?” he asked.
“Ninth floor,” she replied.
He grinned. “You’ve got a good view from up there. See my home runs yesterday?”
“Yeah. Good work.”
“Gracias.”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” Ty ordered, pushing the kid back and stepping into the hall with Gwen. “C’mon, let’s go to Strip’s office.”
Team Player Page 3