Bases Loaded (Mustangs Baseball) (21 page)

The
press would have a hay-day with the information. One report based on what
Jessica did know—presumably the names of the players in her game, plus the
players, like him, she believed were part of the club—and no telling how many
more women wanting their fifteen minutes of fame would come forward. No doubt,
innocent athletes would be dragged into the scandal as well. They always were.

Look
at what happened to Jason Holder. He’d been wrongly accused of using
performance-enhancing drugs, and the accusation had come close to wrecking his
career.

He
would have to find a way to silence the cockroach and end her bullying before
she unleashed a shit storm of bad press for everyone. The only problem was, he
didn’t have the first clue how to go about it.

Too
bad he couldn’t just spray a can of insecticide on her and be done with it.

* * *

Clare
canceled her classed for the Monday following Thanksgiving. Most of the
students wouldn’t be back anyway, and she was in no shape, mentally or
physically, to teach. She was sore all over. Even her jaw hurt. The pain could
have been a delayed reaction to sucking on the dildo gag or from clenching her
teeth all night long. She didn’t know which, and what did it matter? The result
was the same. She was miserable. And dehydrated from crying.

She’d
held it together the night before until she passed the threshold of her
apartment, and then the floodgates had given way. After collapsing to the tiny
square of tile that constituted her entryway in a heap of sobbing misery, she’d
made her way to the bedroom, eventually crawling into bed where the tears
continued through most of the night.

The
mirror told the ugly story all too well. Her eyes were puffy, red, and as fuzzy
as tennis balls. Her lips were swollen, and a streak of dried drool trailed
from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She’d wiped her sniveling nose on
whatever had been handy—her sleeve, the bed sheets—and the abuse was obvious.

Turning
from the painful visage, she stumbled her way to the kitchen. She needed coffee
and ice. The first to kick-start her defeated body and other to ease the
throbbing in her temples.

It
took two cups of caffeine before she had enough strength to pop two slices of
bread into the toaster. The combination of food, aspirin and the ice pack
helped ease the headache and the soreness in her jaw. A shower was beyond her
ambition, but she managed to get out of the clothes she’d had on since the day
before. Wearing her second most comfortable set of clothes—the most comfortable
being the ones she’d put on to dissuade Antonio on the night of the Press
Dinner, and thus not an option today—that memory was too much to bear—she
plugged her iPod into the speaker system and curled up on the sofa.

If
ever there was a day she was entitled to a pity party, this was it. As horrible
as last night had turned out following the confrontation with Jessica, she
couldn’t stop thinking about the weekend before.

It
had been perfect, and then Jessica had shown up at the airport—Clare’s rotten
luck—and ruined everything. Antonio hated her now. She had a list of
should’ves, would’ves, and could’ves as long as her arm. That’s where her
stupid fantasies had led her, into a sea of regrets without a boat, or so much
as a life jacket.

No
matter how she twisted the last few weeks with Antonio, it all came down to her
fault. Sure, she’d laid the blame on him last night, but she never should have
agreed to do a single one of those things with him. From the outset, she’d
known it wouldn’t end well. He might be her perfect man, but she wasn’t his
perfect woman, and she never had been.

She
woke to ringing of the doorbell. She had no idea how long she’d slept, but what
did it matter? She walked softly to the door and looked through the peek-hole.
Her friend and fellow professor, Laura, stood outside. Clare dropped her
forehead against the door and sighed. She didn’t want to see anyone, but
knowing her friend, she wouldn’t go away unless Clare opened the door.

She
wiped sleep from her eyes and turned the knob.

“Hi,”
Laura said, sweeping past her hostess without invitation.

Clare
shut the door. “Did I invite you in?”

“No,
but look what I brought you.” She stood with her left hand behind her back.
Bringing it around, she held out a thin crystal vase containing one perfectly
beautiful long-stemmed red rose in full bloom.

Clare
automatically reached for it. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, taking in
the lovely fragrance with a long sniff.

“I
didn’t. I mean, I’m the delivery person, but I didn’t buy it for you.” She dug
in her purse, pulled out a white florist’s envelope. “Here. This came with it.
It was the same delivery guy, and when I told him you called in sick today, he
wasn’t going to leave it. But we’re old buddies now, he and I, so I told him I
would make sure you got it. He was okay with that.”

She
rattled on, and Clare only half-heard what her friend said. There was only one
person who had ever sent her flowers. Antonio.

“Is
it from the same guy? The baseball player? Oh, man. He must have done something
really stupid. If that’s not a cry for forgiveness, I don’t know what is.”

Her
uninvited guest plopped down on the sofa and Clare joined her.

“Why
do you think that?” she asked.

“It’s
in full bloom—his heart is open. What else could it mean?”

“I
have no idea.” After the way they’d parted last night, it could mean anything,
but she didn’t dare hope Antonio was asking for forgiveness. No, that was too
much to wish for.

“Well,
open the card. I’m dying to find out.”

Clare
looked down at the forgotten envelope in her hand. She placed the vase on the
coffee table and slipped the card from the envelope. Her heart split wide open,
and though she had been certain there wasn’t another tear left in her, one slid
down her cheek.

“What
is it?” Laura placed a comforting hand on Clare’s arm. “Let me see that.” She
grabbed the card from Clare’s numb fingers. “I hope you like roses,” she read
aloud. “There’s one for every day until you forgive me. I’m an ass. Love,
Antonio.” She turned the card over as if expecting to find more on the back.
“Oh, hon. What did he do?”

Clare
leaned into her friend’s offered embrace and let the tears flow. Laura patted
her back and murmured soothing things until Clare finally found some control.

“He…I…we
argued. It was my fault. Mostly.” The whole story spilled out, minus the secret
club, and that he had accused her of setting him up. She left Keith’s
involvement out as well. It was one thing to tell your girlfriend you’d had the
most spectacular sex of your life, but mentioning a third party to that sex
might be going too far.

Laura
made herself at home, fixing a fresh pot of coffee and rummaging until she
found a half-eaten box of cookies while Clare filled her in on the weekend. As
her friend bustled around her apartment, taking care of her without having been
asked, Clare thought she really did need more friends like Laura in her life.
She was as different from Jessica as a person could be.

“Thank
you,” she said when she brought coffee and cookies and sat down beside her.
“You didn’t have to come over and do all this for me.”

“Yes,
I did. You should have called me, and I would have been here sooner.” She
sipped her coffee. “So, are you going to forgive him?”

“Probably,
but it won’t change anything. It’s over. He won’t trust me again since I lied
to him. I don’t blame him. I should have told him the night we met.”

“Clearly,”
she said, waving a hand toward the bloom, “he doesn’t think it’s over.”

“He
will. He just hasn’t thought this through very well. Once he does, he’ll come
to the same conclusion I have. A relationship between us can go nowhere, so
ending it now is the best thing for both of us.”

Chapter
Twenty

Tony
pocketed his car keys and entered the stadium. He’d called ahead, and Doyle had
agreed to carve out a few minutes in his schedule for his new centerfielder. It
had been three days since Jessica Roach dropped her load of shit on his head in
the airport. Three days of hell.

Clare
hadn’t spoken to him—and rightfully so. He’d stepped into the shit and
compounded the problem by spreading it all around in places it had no right to
be. Like on Clare. And their relationship.

He’d
spent the last two days replaying the encounter in his mind, and just like a
blooper reel, it never got any better.

Blame
it on lack of sleep, a sex-addled brain, or just plain stupidity, but what it
added up to was he’d behaved like an ass. Oh, he’d thought he was handling it
well. He hadn’t yelled at anyone in public. He hadn’t confirmed or denied his
involvement in Bases Loaded. And, he’d gotten Clare out of the airport before
that Roach woman could say anything else or cause a scene.

She’d
said plenty—enough that he was voluntarily going to put his career on the line
rather than wait for her to throw another load of shit at the fan. From what
little he knew about her, she might be the type to do just that. Sixty hours of
contemplation, and his best option was to be forthright. Get it out in the
open, and in so doing, diffuse the shit-bomb hanging over his head.

“Doyle,”
Tony extended his hand. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

The
Mustangs manager clasped Tony’s hand in a firm grip then ushered him to the
comfortable arrangement of sofas and chairs on one side of the room.

“Can
I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?” he asked.

“No,
but thanks.” His palms were sweating so much he would need batting gloves to
hold onto anything breakable right now. Back when he’d joined Bases Loaded,
he’d sort of known it could come back to bite him in the ass someday, but he’d
been green, and horny, and young enough to believe himself invincible.

He’d
changed over the years and come to realize a few things—one of which was his
career existed at the whim of team management. He could have the best stats in
the League, and if management wasn’t on his side, he could be watching the next
season from a barstool in Brooklyn and selling insurance with his old man.

The
team manager settled into one of the plush armchairs while Tony chose a seat in
the center of the sofa. A large wood and glass coffee table topped with a
pottery bowl filled with baseballs separated them. Over Doyle’s shoulder was a
plate-glass window overlooking the baseball field. He couldn’t help but wonder
if he’d be wearing a Mustangs uniform come spring or if he’d be lucky to be
selling hotdogs in the stands. It could go either way.

“What
brings you here today?” Doyle asked.

Tony
took a deep breath and stepped into the batter’s box. “I’ve got a bit of a
problem. I’m hoping it won’t evolve into a public scandal, but there is a
possibility it will. I thought I’d better give you a heads up, just in case.”

The
older man sat forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “What sort of problem
are we talking about?”

“I’m
sure you’re aware of Bases Loaded, the not so secret club?”

He
nodded. “I’ve heard of it. The members do a good job of keeping it quiet, but
if you spend any time at all in the clubhouse, you hear things.”

“Yeah,
well…I’m a member. I have been since my first year in the Majors.”

Doyle
sat back, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. It was a relaxed pose, but
there was nothing relaxed about the man. “Not news to me.”

Tony
raised his eyebrows at the statement. He’d suspected Doyle knew of his
involvement with the club since the night of Jason’s fundraiser when he’d
warned him to be on his best behavior with Clare. Knowing now about their
family relationship, Doyle’s comments made more sense.

“Apparently,
you aren’t the only person in Dallas who knows. There’s someone else, and I’m
not sure they’re going to keep it to themselves.”

“One
of my players?”

“No.
A fan. I’ve heard through a third party she’s been to one of the club
meetings…and she insinuated the same to me while implying she knows of my
membership. She’s not a nice person, and until I came here, I’d never seen her
before, but she seems to have an agenda.”

“What
kind of agenda?”

“I
haven’t got a clue. She’s been…unkind…to a female friend of mine. I think
seeing this woman with me has set the crazy woman off.”

“Jealousy?”

He
shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. As I said, I’d never met the woman until
I came here. She doesn’t like the woman I’ve been dating. That much I know for
certain. If she does anything, it will be to hurt my girlfriend. Unfortunately,
the Mustangs could become collateral damage.”

Doyle
propped one elbow on the arm of his chair and stroked his thumb over his bottom
lip. Tony had seen the gesture a million times. It was team manager sign
language for
I’m thinking
.

The
tension in the room seemed like a living, breathing thing. Silence stretched
between them.

“This
girlfriend of yours. Would she by any chance be Clare Kincaid?” Doyle asked.

Yep.
He would be hawking peanuts and hot dogs for a living. It beat selling
insurance in Brooklyn. “Yes, sir. I understand she’s your niece.”

Doyle’s
eyebrows rose. “She told you that?”

“No.
This witch of a woman told me. Recently, I might add.”

“How
recently?”

“Last
Sunday.” Tony related the official story—that he and Clare had gone skiing over
the Thanksgiving holiday, ending with the scene at the airport.

“Does
this woman have a name?”

“Jessica
Roach. Clare says she attends most of the local charity events.”

Doyle
stood and paced to the window overlooking the field. He crossed his arms over
his chest, stretching starched white fabric across his shoulders and back. Tony
remained where he was, hardly daring to breath. At least he was still alive.

“I
know her.” Doyle turned, sat on the wide ledge spanning the length of the
window. “She dated one of my players a few years ago. Traded him to Minnesota.”

Tony
didn’t have a clue what to say, so he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t mind cold
weather, but Minnesota was beyond cold, and he did not want his career to end
playing on frozen tundra.

“Before
the trade, he dated Clare for a while. Not long. I think they went out a few
times—nothing serious.”

“That
could explain why she goes out of her way to make Clare’s life miserable.”

“It
could. Tell me, Tony. What is the nature of your relationship with my niece?”

Here’s
where it could get dicey, but he decided before coming to see her uncle, honesty
was his only option. “I’m in love with her, sir. And I think she loves me, too,
but at the moment…she isn’t speaking to me.”

Doyle
smiled. “Pissed her off?”

“Yes,
sir. I wasn’t as understanding as I could have been when I found out she was
your niece.”

“She
knows about this club you’re a member of?”

“She
does.”

He
nodded. Sitting there with his back to the field, his arms and ankles crossed,
he looked every inch the formidable manager he could be during a game. He had a
reputation for being fair on and off the field. Tony prayed it was true.

“What
happens to her if Ms. Roach goes public with this knowledge she has?”

“She
would be caught in the middle of a nasty scandal.” He
Tony
scooted to the edge of the sofa cushion. “The thing is, all Jessica has is
second-hand knowledge of my involvement in the club. When she…was
there
…I
wasn’t. Without divulging what goes on within the club, I can say she and I
were never in the same place at the same time. She seems to believe I’m a
member, but she couldn’t possibly have proof.”

“Is
there proof?”

“I
have a tattoo.”

“The
baseball field? Bases Loaded under home plate?”

“That’s
the one.”

“Generic
enough for a baseball player. It can be explained away.”

“That’s
the idea, sir. We…the members…try to be discreet, but when there are women
involved….”

“You
can’t always insure they’ll keep your secret.”

“That’s
the way of it.”

“I
take it there are women who can vouch, with certainty, for your involvement?

“Yes,
sir. Quite a few.”

Clare’s
uncle fell silent again. Tony studied the bowl of baseballs in front of him. He
could see autographs on a few. He picked one up, turned it over to see the
signature.”

“Home
run balls,” Doyle said. “I collect them.”

Tony
nodded. “Nice collection. Some big names in here.” He placed the ball carefully
back on top.

“I
think I have one of yours from a few seasons back. It’s one I didn’t have to
buy. You hit it into center field,” he said, pointing over his shoulder, “right
out there. It landed under the scoreboard, out of reach of the fans. That’s when
I decided I wanted you to play for us. I had to wait until you were a free
agent, but I got you.”

He
remembered that one. Someone brought the ball to the clubhouse for him to sign
after the game. Now, he knew where it had gone.

“And
I’m glad to be here. I want to stay here.” Tony stood. Perhaps he might walk
out of here still employed, and alive. “I love Clare. I want to marry her. If I
can get her to talk to me again, I think I know a way to keep this Roach lady
quiet. It will take Clare’s cooperation, but I think it might work.”

“What
kind of plan are we talking about?”

“I
really don’t want to say, sir, given that Clare is your niece, but suffice it
to say, it would mean the end of my involvement with the club, and elevate your
niece to a position of strength where Jessica Roach is concerned.”

“Why
are you telling me all this if you have a plan to fix it.”

“Because
there is the very real possibility Jessica could go to the press before I can
carry out the plan. And, I admit, the plan might not be enough. I’d really like
to keep my job, sir, if there’s any way to make that happen.”

Doyle
nodded. He remained on his window perch. “I don’t want to see my niece involved
in a public scandal any more than I want the Mustangs to be. I understand the
nature of Bases Loaded, and I’m not going to pretend I like the idea of my
niece being involved with the club in any way. However, she’s an adult, and I
wouldn’t presume to meddle in her personal affairs. That’s one of the reasons
we’ve tried to keep our family relationship out of the public eye. I don’t know
how this Roach woman found out, but that’s not the end of the world—unless
Clare’s name gets dragged through the mud along with yours. Then all this comes
back on me and the team.”

“I
understand, sir. That’s why I thought you should know what’s going on. In case
I’m not able to stop the train before it leaves the rails.”

“If
you fail, your career is over. You know that.” It wasn’t a warning, but a
statement of fact Tony couldn’t argue with.

“I
know. I can live without playing baseball, but I can’t live without Clare. I’m
doing this for her, not to save my career.”

Doyle
stood. “Then your plan better work, son.”

* * *

The
roses were lovely. And every time she looked at them or caught a whiff of their
soft scent, her heart ached. There were six so far, each one in full bloom with
an accompanying note written in Antonio’s hand. The latest had been delivered
to her apartment that morning.

Clare
lifted the vase, swiped the dust rag across the table, and replaced the vase.
This was housecleaning Saturday, the one day a month she reserved for the
things she hated most—dusting, vacuuming, and cleaning out the refrigerator.
None of them required much thinking, which left her brain free to reflect on
Antonio and his daily pleas for forgiveness.

Against
her better judgment, her resolve to cut all ties with him had begun to weaken.
Maybe it was the roses or the handwritten notes. Or perhaps she was coming to
her senses. She ran the dust cloth over a lampshade and let that thought sink
in.

No.
Her good sense was long gone, overpowered, and overruled by love. She was in
love with Antonio, and no matter how hurt or angry she was, her love for him
was here to stay.

She
finished the dusting and moved on to the refrigerator. As she pulled container
after container of fuzzy leftovers out, she wondered why she’d bothered saving
them in the first place. Keeping them made as much sense as loving Antonio.
Holding onto something she didn’t want or couldn’t have took up room in her
heart or her refrigerator she could use for something useful, something
nourishing.

She
turned her face away to avoid flying spores and dumped slimy, green goo down
the whirring garbage disposal. Gone. Flushed down the drain and out of her
life.

If
only getting Antonio out of her life and her heart was as simple.

She
stuck her head back in the fridge and moved the filtered water carafe out of
the way to reach the last of the questionable containers. The doorbell rang and
she jerked, banging her head on the freezer door.

A
glance through the peephole revealed a vase of red roses that obscured the face
of the delivery person. But Clare knew those hands.

Antonio.

Her
heart raced, and the fresh knot on the back of her head throbbed. Every cell in
her body went on high alert.

She
could pretend she wasn’t home. Yeah, that was best. She took a step back and
stared at the door as if it might dissolve any second and reveal her for a
liar.

“Come
on, Clare. Open the door. I know you’re in there. Your car is out front and
your blinds are open. I saw you in the kitchen.”