Pinch Hit (9 page)

just gv me th wknd 2 play bball!

Trevor read McKenna's part over again, sent it to Sam, and walked down the hallway to show Sam's dad the phony text he got from McKenna.

Trevor filled his voice with excitement. “Dad, check it out. It's from McKenna Steele.”

Sam's dad typed a few more lines, removed the pipe from his mouth, and spun around in the squeaky metal chair, taking the phone and reading the text. His eyebrows shot up. “McKenna Steele sent this? She's going to give my script to Trevor Goldman? He wants to help now? She's that close with him? Is this what you two talked about?”

“I wasn't sure. She said she wanted to think about it, but how good is this?” Trevor added an extra dash of excitement to his voice.

Sam's dad looked up and blinked. “I won't do it.”

Trevor's insides froze.

Sam got up and wandered through the house, sneaking around and feeling like a thief. He slipped out the front door into the cool night. The air made him want to run, but what Trevor said about
Dark Cellar
made him fight the urge. He had to take advantage of the situation to help his dad. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

He tiptoed down the walkway. A sudden hissing made his heart break into a gallop. Sprinklers. The hissing became a steady chug, and Sam scurried not to get wet. He crossed the cobblestone driveway and rounded the garage, a building twice as big as most people's homes. On the other side, the batting cage waited like a crouching giant draped in black netting.

On a metal post was a switch. He flipped it, and white light flooded the cage. The pitching machine hummed to life. Sam slipped through the netting and into the cage. He took a bat from the rack, stepped on the foot pedal, and blasted the first pitch that came at him. He hit righty for a while, then switched over, remembering that he never discussed the ability to switch-hit with Trevor and doubting that someone who never played in a league possessed such a skill. Sam made a mental note to warn Trevor to be ready with some excuse if the coach told him to bat lefty.

Sam kept the pitches coming and he kept swinging until the machine spit air. He removed the basket from the machine and began to fill it with the yellow rubber balls scattered across the concrete floor inside the cage. He reloaded the machine and stepped back into place, swinging and smashing the balls into the net in a steady rhythm that left him glazed with sweat and feeling almost comfortable. After the last pitch, he stood for a moment breathing.

Someone sniffed and Sam spun around.

Trevor's mom stood in bare feet wearing a dress red as a fire engine. In one hand was a champagne glass, in the other a pair of shiny black high-heeled shoes. Her hair looked out of place, and her eye makeup was smudged. Her eyes glistened with tears.

She scowled at Sam.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Sam swallowed. “What am I doing?”

Trevor's mom narrowed her eyes. “You know exactly what you're doing.”

Trevor finally found his voice. “Won't do what?”

Sam's dad's eyes glazed over. He guided the pipe stem toward his mouth and missed, hitting his chin and then his cheek before finding it with his teeth, clenching down, and nodding. “They can't toy with us. Blackballing us one minute, helping get a green light the next. No, I won't do it.”

Trevor couldn't help the short burst of laughter. “You're kidding, right?”

Sam's dad scowled. He fished through his desk and held up a copy of
Dark Cellar
. “This is no joke. This is old-school horror. A classic in the making. Do you know how many people are interested in this? Do you know who I'm meeting tomorrow? Evan Tuttle, an associate in Jerry Bruckheimer's production company. Bruckheimer. What do you think of that?”

“Bruckheimer doesn't do horror… Dad.”

“What about
Cat People
? Tuttle says Jerry is a big fan of horror. He loved doing
Cat People
. Trevor Goldman.” Sam's dad spit the name out. “Who is he? Hollywood royalty. We don't need him. You think James Cameron needed a father to make him famous? Steven Spielberg? H. P. Lovecraft? Orson Welles?
They
were all originals, and so am I, Sam. So am I. Trevor Goldman has us blackballed one minute and we're going to go crawling to him the next? No siree.”

Trevor winced at the burning words and retreated from the office. He wanted to shout at Sam's dad for being such a fool and tell him that was probably why he'd never gotten a script done and why he never would, either. But that wouldn't help Trevor play baseball. He grit his teeth and kept going.

“What's the matter?” Sam's dad asked.

Trevor got himself under control. He spoke without turning around. “Just trying to help, Dad.”

Sam's dad followed him down the short hall. Trevor threw himself on the bed and scooped up the book. Sam's dad stood in the doorway and lit his pipe, blowing the smoke outside the room.

“I'm going to make it, Sam, and when I do, I'll make it because of me.”

“Dad, that's how this town works. You take every opportunity you get. Who cares if Trevor Goldman had us blackballed? If he wants to help, we should let him. It's McKenna Steele who's really helping. I can't believe you're letting pride get in the way of
Dark Cellar
.”

Sam's dad puffed on his pipe, shrugged, and sighed. “You'll understand one day, Sam.”

Sam's dad closed the door and Trevor heard his footsteps moving back down the hall. He put the book down and turned out the light, but his mind stayed awake. He felt for the bat bag in the corner of the room and removed the mitt.

The glove felt like a natural part of his body. It fit perfectly and was as smooth as butter. He was determined to use it, and not just in tomorrow morning's practice. He had to figure a way to get that script into Sam's hands so that Sam could get working on the deal as Trevor Goldman. Once he got it going with Trevor's agent and manager, things would be so exciting that Sam wouldn't dream of switching back. Whatever happened after that—whether the movie got made or not—didn't really matter. If Sam's dad was too bullheaded to take the help, well, the world was full of fools.

All Trevor had to do was get that script and have it delivered to McKenna, and he'd be set to play in Saturday's game. If he was at home in Bel Air, he could give a job like that to Gabriel or Dolph or just dial up his agent, who'd come running. But as Sam Palomaki, he had no driver, no assistant, and certainly no agent.

He'd have to think of something else.

The only thing that kept Sam from running was the net. He stepped back.

“Stop pretending,” Trevor's mom said. “I can't stand it.”

Sam said nothing.

“You should be in bed.” She spoke as if Sam had asked a question. “Baseball. Can you ever stop this? You have everything. Look.”

She spun around, opening her arms in the direction of the huge mansion, before turning back to him. “Everything anyone could ever ask for. Everything that matters, but you want to play games. And you have to remind me of your obsession by banging around here after midnight when you've got work tomorrow.”

She waited, and Sam knew she expected him to say something. He felt sure this was part of an ongoing argument and even considered a reply, but he just couldn't.

She raised her eyebrows. “No? Now you're playing the part of a mute? You can't talk? People think that's an easy role to play, but we know you have to say things with your expressions, no words, and in fact it's a difficult role. But look at you. What did Pierce Everette say? Beautiful. He's right. I almost believe you're scared and confused, but we both know, don't we?
Trevor
.”

Sam just stood.

Her lips trembled. She huffed and threw her shoes into the bushes, then stamped off in her bare feet. Sam didn't move for several minutes. Finally, he left the cage, taking small, quiet steps on his way back to Trevor's bedroom. He paced the room until his eyes began to close, then lay down on the bed to fall asleep.

Heavy knocking woke him. Sunlight spilled into the room.

“Master Trevor?” From the accent, Sam knew it was the butler. “Master Trevor, Gabriel is downstairs. Your mother is in the breakfast room.”

Sam jumped up and quickly used the bathroom. He pulled on a T-shirt, then grabbed the Nolan Ryan jersey, put it on as well, and flung open the door. The butler stood waiting patiently. He gave Sam a strange look, then walked away. Sam followed him, guessing that his next stop was the breakfast room. It was. Trevor's mom looked up from a cup of coffee with bleary eyes. She wore a turban and a white silk robe.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Sam offered her a small and hesitant smile, then shrugged. She smiled back.

“Good,” she said. “Eat. Please.”

Sam nodded and took a plate, carefully lifting the silver covers and serving himself a bit of everything. When he sat down, he saw Trevor's mom looking at his plate.

“Part of your new role?” she asked.

Sam mustered all his will. “No.”

“He speaks.”

Sam glanced at her and tried to smile. Her phone rang and she picked it up and began talking and texting until Gabriel appeared in the doorway pointing at his watch. Trevor's mom signaled Sam to go, and he followed the assistant out of the breakfast room after having taken only a few mouthfuls of food.

“Don't even think about that batting cage,” Gabriel said.

Sam followed him into the car, letting Gabriel open the door and thanking him for it. Gabriel looked at him funny, but only climbed into the other side and told the driver, Dolph, to go. When a huge German shepherd beside the driver spun around and started barking violently, Sam nearly jumped out of his pants.

Dolph uttered the name Wolf, then a command, and the dog went silent, but continued to whine.

“I so sorry, Mr. Trevor,” Dolph said. “I not know what Wolf do.”

Sam couldn't believe Trevor had neglected to tell him that his driver rode around with a killer dog named Wolf, but he took some deep breaths and relaxed when it was apparent that the dog was under the driver's complete command.

When they stopped at a light, Dolph cleared his throat and looked at Sam in the rearview mirror.

The driver held up a glossy photo and spoke in a calm, quiet voice with an eastern European accent. “Mr. Trevor, please you sign this? My wife raise money fight cancer. Yes?”

“Dolph!” Gabriel barked. “You know we don't do that. How would you like it if I told Mrs. Goldman? What do you think she'd do?”

Sam sat, frozen, because he wanted to sign the picture, but he had no idea what Trevor's signature looked like.

“You see?” Gabriel scowled. “You made him feel uncomfortable. Trevor, I have to insist, just on principle.”

Sam could only nod, but he felt like a rat. Dolph said nothing more, he just drove. Then Sam got an idea.

Sam pulled the Nolan Ryan jersey off over his head, folded it, and got out of his seat to hand it up over the back of the front seat, keeping a watchful eye on Wolf. He might not have done it if Trevor didn't have two of them, but since he did, Sam felt like it would be okay.

“Maybe my autograph is against the rules, Dolph,” Sam said, “but there's nothing against me giving you one of my jerseys for your fundraiser, right?”

Gabriel gasped. “That jersey's got to be worth five thousand dollars; you can't just give that to Dolph.”

“Why not?” It was Sam's turn to scowl. “It's charity. Aren't we supposed to be charitable? Who's against that?”

Dolph spoke very soft. “I like to return you favor one day. I like very much.”

Dolph went silent, keeping his eyes straight ahead, but he did reach over to put the jersey on his lap in order to claim it. Wolf continued to whine in his throat. Gabriel sat back and sucked on his teeth. As if it were the only retort he was allowed to make, Gabriel snapped several sheets of paper from his briefcase and thrust them at him. Sam looked at the pages, then back at Gabriel, who was already at work on his BlackBerry, ignoring him. It didn't take Sam long to realize that the papers were scenes that he would be expected to perform once they got to the studio.

Sam's stomach turned. He took out his phone and texted Trevor, asking what he was supposed to do. No answer came back. Sam leafed through the pages, trying to concentrate. They arrived at the studio within minutes. Gabriel opened the big metal door and Sam let him hold it before heading toward where he knew Trevor's dressing room was.

“I'll be here if you need me and I'll send makeup in, in about twenty minutes.” Gabriel sat down on one of two chairs in the hallway and continued on his BlackBerry.

Sam slipped inside the dressing room and closed the door behind him. He jumped when he realized he wasn't alone. McKenna sat waiting for him on the couch.