Fastball (11 page)

For some reason he couldn’t explain, he felt
like something truly important was slipping away from him.

“All right,” he finally said. “I do
understand. But I won’t pretend to be happy about it. You’re a
special woman, and I wish we’d had the opportunity to get to know
each other.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. He forced himself
to finish before he made a complete ass of himself. “Take care of
yourself, Maddie, and don’t let those losers in the front office
get you down.”

“I’m really sorry, Jake. Goodbye.”

She hung up.

He held onto the receiver long after Maddie
had disconnected. Though her rejection didn’t surprise him, how
badly he felt about it did. He hadn’t been feeding her a line when
he said she was special. She was more than special, and his
attraction to her was both unexpected and compelling. Some instinct
urged him not to give up, not to walk away. He didn’t think it was
simply some macho reaction to her refusal to see him. Granted, that
didn’t happen very often—well, at least not since the breakdown of
his marriage—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d zeroed in
on a woman the way he had with her. Something was going on between
them and he needed to get to the bottom of it. If he didn’t, it
would drive him crazy.

He got up and headed for the shower, already
thinking ahead. When it came to Maddie Leclair, he wasn’t ready to
throw in the towel. No damn way.

Jake shoved his carry-on under the seat in
front of him as the plane began its final descent into
Philadelphia. Not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned.
Although he’d been ripping the cover off the ball, the last few
days had sucked as far as his personal life was concerned.

His hot streak had continued in Phoenix, as
the Patriots swept the three-game series with the Diamondbacks. The
team rode the magic arm of Nate Carter to a 4-0 shut-out in the
opener, while the final two games turned into high-scoring blowouts
with Jake contributing a total of three homers and six RBI’s. He
felt great about the way he was hitting the ball, and happy his
performance had given a lift to the team.

But the high of his professional life was
dampened by his growing frustration over Maddie and their crappy
situation. Jake saw her every day, either at the stadium or in the
hotel, but only from a distance. She studiously avoided him, going
out of her way to ensure there were no opportunities for even
casual conversation.

He understood why. Both of them had been
thoroughly reamed out by the general manager when they offered
their apologies after Maddie’s story was published. Charley Cameron
had been right about that. Team management had been steamed about
the interview, and Dembinski—a pig-headed general manager if there
ever was one—had been in no mood to be forgiving. The GM had
snarled at Jake that if the team hadn’t been in such a tough spot
because of Rodriguez’s injury, he’d have sent him packing on the
first flight back to Allentown. Jake had taken that threat with a
grain of salt since he was playing great, but Dembinski was a
mercurial guy and he’d been known to make questionable moves just
to emphasize a point.

Maddie hadn’t spoken more than a guarded
hello to him since their phone conversation, but Jake had heard
through another player that her note of apology to Dembinski had
led to a shouting match between the two in the media room. The word
in the clubhouse was that Maddie had looked pale and shaken after
the confrontation, although she apparently hadn’t backed down an
inch. Jake’s gut had twisted with guilt when he’d heard about the
ugly scene.

It had totally pissed him off, too. He so
wanted to hunt down Dembinski and punch him out for what he’d done
to Maddie. But that would only accomplish a one-way trip back to
Allentown, and that was the last thing Jake wanted, not only for
his sake but for hers. At least if he was with the Patriots, he’d
be near Maddie while he figured out some kind of solution to what
seemed their intractable problem.

Not that Jake could get her to talk to him.
When the team boarded the plane for the flight home, Maddie had
passed right by him on the way to her seat. She hadn’t even looked
at him, her eyes fixed to the floor as she made her way to the back
of the jet. Jake’s heart had sunk. He’d hoped the interview
incident would blow over after the apologies, and Maddie would come
to see that her concerns over the potential consequences of seeing
him again were exaggerated. But Dembinski had blown that plan out
of the water, spooking Maddie so badly she’d retreated into some
kind of shell—at least where Jake was concerned.

By the time he got off the plane, he’d
managed to work himself into a full blue funk. Barely bothering to
wave goodbye to his team-mates, he strode quickly through the
terminal, wanting to retrieve his car and get home as soon as
possible. The last week had been tumultuous. He’d gone from minor
league ball in Allentown to an incredibly successful trip with the
Patriots to San Diego and Phoenix, in the middle of which he’d
fallen ridiculously hard for a smart and hot sportswriter.

No wonder he was exhausted. He hit the sack a
half hour after walking through the door of his condo.

The following afternoon he played his first
home game of the season at the Patriots’ stadium. The sun shone,
the fans cheered his return, and Jake’s mood lifted. It was great
to be home and, despite his funk over Maddie, he dug deep and
contributed two more hits in a win over the Mets. As he jogged off
the field at the end of the game, he glanced way up toward the
press area. He couldn’t see Maddie and that was killing him, but he
was glad she could see him playing in top form.

After a quick shower, Jake was getting set to
head for home when Robbie Benton stopped by his locker, looking
like he wanted to talk.

“Jesus, Jake,” Robbie said with a crooked
grin. “When I saw you dive for that line drive in the eighth, I
figured they’d be dragging your ass off to the hospital. You’re not
twenty-one anymore. You gotta start taking cares of those old
bones.”

Jake studied his friend, taking in the tense
set of his shoulders and his stiff posture. He suspected Robbie
hadn’t come over just to rib him.

Jake shrugged. “It was dumb luck the ball
ended up in my glove. All I wanted to do was block it so the damn
thing didn’t skitter all the way to the wall.”

“You’ve always been lucky.” Robbie put his
feet up onto the bottom shelf of the opposite locker, trying to
look relaxed. It didn’t work.

“What’s up?” Jake asked as he sat.
“Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Robbie gave him a sheepish,
you caught
me
grin. “Well, I was thinking you could use a little cheering
up. You’ve been moping around for the last few days and the guys
are starting to wonder what’s going on. Why don’t we grab a couple
of beers and then get some dinner?”

Jake sighed inwardly. Robbie had clearly
gotten it into his head that it was time for a night of drinking
and man-to-man talk, which was the very last thing he wanted.
“Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’m going to take it easy
tonight.”

Robbie punched Jake lightly in the shoulder.
“Screw that. I’m telling you we’re going out and getting you
loosened up. You’re going to get shit-faced and tell your old pal
all about what’s going on. Besides, I could use the company,
too.”

Ah, now the truth was coming out. Well, if
his friend needed to talk, they’d talk. “What the hell,” Jake said.
“But I’m driving. No way am I going to trust you behind the wheel.
Not after that little incident last year.”

Robbie winced at the reminder of the night
he’d rolled his SUV on the way back from a party outside the city.
He’d always been a party guy—a man who lived hard and probably
would die that way too, Jake feared.

Robbie jumped to his feet. “Whatever, man.
Let’s just get out of here.”

After a debate about the merits of the
various south Philly drinking establishments, they ended up at
O’Rourke’s, a decent neighborhood pub where the patrons were used
to ballplayers dropping in and left them alone. The bartender gave
them a welcoming nod as they settled into a quiet booth in the
corner, sending a waitress right over with the first round of Sam
Adams.

It was starting to feel like a good decision
to get a little R & R. Robbie had always been able to make Jake
laugh, and he needed a good laugh right about now. Small talk about
the games on the west coast trip took them through their first
beers, and when the second round arrived, Robbie took a long pull
of his and said, “So, my man, it looks to me like the way you’re
hitting that management’s probably going to want to negotiate an
extension to your contract any day now.”

Jake shook his head. “I doubt it. Hell, I
just got called up a week ago. It’s too early to be thinking about
the contract.”

“You’re wrong. Now is exactly when Dembinski
will want to tie you up. They’ll try to sign you on the cheap
before you start putting up really big numbers. Right now, nobody
knows for sure if you can keep up this pace, much less get back to
what you once were.”

Jake didn’t miss the note of cynicism in his
friend’s voice. “You make me sound like I’ve got one foot in the
grave,” he said dryly.

All traces of humor disappeared from Robbie’s
boyish features. “To those bastards in the front office, you’re
only as good as what you’ve done for them today. Trust me, I
know.”

Jake couldn’t blame Robbie for feeling
bitter. The team had forced him to take a big salary cut in the
last contract, and had pretty much dared him to try his luck with
another team.

“I hear you loud and clear,” he said. “But I
thought you were reconciled to a utility role. As I recall, you
said you were pretty happy just to get a contract at all after the
last one ran out.”

“I might have said back then that I was happy
enough, but I’m sure as hell not happy now. Okay, I admit I didn’t
have many teams come knocking on my door at the time. A few offers,
but not for even as much as the shit contract the Pats stuffed down
my throat.” Robbie scowled at his beer bottle, twisting it
restlessly between his hands. “What really pisses me off is that
Ault and Dembinski both told me before I re-signed that if I could
hit decently, the starting shortstop position would be mine and
stay mine for the season.” He snorted. “Yeah, well, that lasted
about two weeks, even though I didn’t hit all that bad. Ever since,
I’ve been shuffled all over the infield, backing up whatever guy is
hurt or needs a day off.”

Robbie was gilding the lily about his hitting
at the beginning of the year. Jake had watched a lot of the games
on TV while in Allentown, and had checked the box scores every day.
Rob’s average had barely reached .200, and Jake couldn’t blame
management for giving the younger guys the starting middle infield
roles and relegating Robbie to back-up.

“I didn’t sign on to be a damn utility man,”
Robbie raged on, looking more pissed off by the minute. “So, sure
I’m bitter. Can you blame me?”

Jake ignored the question. “Playing utility
is a hell of a valuable role. You’re versatile, and you do a great
job in the field. You contribute significantly to the team, and you
know it. We all know it, including management.”

Robbie chugged the rest of his beer and waved
impatiently at the waitress, holding up his empty bottle. “Sure.
But the pay sucks and you know it. I only signed that lousy
contract because I figured if I could win the starting job I’d be
in position to negotiate some real money at the end of this year.
But if they keep me riding the bench and filling in behind other
guys, nobody’s going to want to give me a half-decent contract.
I’ll be thirty-four before the season’s over, Jake. I’ve never made
anything like the kind of money you have. And what I did make, I
blew.”

Jake had to repress the impulse to rub his
temples since a headache was starting to settle in. Life even as a
second-tier ballplayer was better than working for a living, as his
dad used to say. But it was frustrating for a guy like Robbie
Benton, who had always been convinced he should be a bigger star
than he’d ever managed to be. Now, on top of everything else, it
sounded like Robbie was in financial trouble—not a good situation
for an older player with waning talents.

Most of what Jake could say in reply would
come off as patronizing or unsympathetic no matter how much he
wanted to help out. Hell, he
had
helped Robbie out of jams
more than once in the last few years, and it never seemed to make a
difference. Robbie always managed to get into hot water at least
once a season and Jake had to wonder if there was anything he could
do that would change his friend’s relentlessly bad judgment.

“Speaking of the GM,” Jake said, hoping his
own troubles might help distract Robbie, “Dembinski is big time
pissed at me.”

Robbie perked up. “What the hell’s he on to
you about? You never do anything wrong.”

Jake almost laughed at the hopeful note in
his friend’s voice. Misery did love company, and Robbie clearly
relished the idea that Jake had put his foot into it. “I probably
shouldn’t be talking about this, but it’s been bugging the crap out
of me. You gotta promise you’ll keep your mouth shut about this,
though, Rob. I mean that.”

Robbie nodded, looking as eager as a kid
about to score a gigantic DQ Blizzard. “I promise. What’s going
on?”

“You know Maddie Leclair, right?”

“Sure. She’s been covering the team since
early this year.”

“I know, but I’d never met her before this
week. I’d read a lot of her stuff in the
Post
, but I didn’t
even know what she looks like.”

Robbie grinned. “She looks pretty damn good,
and a lot better than when she was covering college and high school
ball. She looked pretty mousey then, but I think she got some kind
of big makeover when they gave her the Patriots beat.”