Hardball (2 page)

“Come on, Bud. Cut the bullshit.”

Nate Carter glared across the table at his friend. They’d picked this corner of the hotel bar because it had been nearly deserted when they arrived. Now, it was filling up quickly. A middle-aged woman sitting not much more than arm’s length from Nate gave him a dirty look, obviously objecting to his language. He gave her a sheepish smile by way of apology.

Buddy Baker shook his head, a grin on his round, ruddy face. “Hell, no. Would I do that to a pal?” He took a long, slow pull from his beer, leaving Nate hanging.

“Every damn chance you get,” Nate retorted. “That’s just a dumb rumor.”

Nate had played Double A ball with Buddy at Trenton way back when, and had kept in close touch when his friend was traded to the L.A. Dodgers organization. Now Buddy had worked his way up to first string catcher for the west coast team. Every time their two squads met, they’d get together for dinner, or at least a drink. This time, they’d met at a downtown L.A. hotel after Nate’s Philadelphia Patriots had won the afternoon game behind his three-hit pitching.

“No way, smartass,” Buddy replied. “Not when the assistant GM comes straight to me like he did. He knows we’re close. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I know he wants me to sound you out. If you’re open an offer from the Dodgers, he’d be prepared to make the Patriots a sweet deal for you in a trade. I’m just guessing on this part, but I figure the boys upstairs might be ready to part with the two best prospects in our organization, plus a half-ton pickup load of cash.”

Holy shit
. That little tidbit captured Nate’s attention. Buddy might not be blowing smoke, after all. He wouldn’t make up a detailed story like that just to yank Nate’s chain. Especially when Buddy knew he would get pounded to dust when the con was revealed.

“For real?” Nate asked, trying to hold back the surge of adrenaline. “The Dodgers want me that bad?”

Buddy leaned his impressive weight onto the table, making it wobble on its base. Nate snatched his beer glass before it slid off.

“Damn straight they do. And it’d be a hell of an opportunity. This is one of only a few teams that can afford to shell out the really big bucks. And think about the endorsements. You know you’ve got to be here or in New York to really cash in on that action.”

Nate felt his shoulders stretch with tension as he gripped his beer glass. A muscle twitched in his jaw. It happened every time his nerves kicked into overdrive.

Yeah, but I’ve always been a Patriot
.

He forced himself to sit quietly while his friend stared at him, expecting an answer.

Nate loved Philadelphia and he loved the Patriots. The team had believed in him and drafted him. They’d brought him to the big dance. They’d nurtured his career through a couple of difficult early seasons in the minors, and supported him in both the good times and the hard times. Now, they’d built a strong team around him and slugger Jake Miller, and the two stars had led the Pats into contention for the NL pennant last year, falling just a few games short.

But baseball was a business, too. And, like Buddy had said, business was damn good in L.A. Most players would give up the last ten years of their lives for a chance to play for one of the big-market teams like the Dodgers, Yankees or Mets. It wasn’t just about the salaries those teams could afford to pay, either. It was about exposure. Endorsement contracts. Visibility.

Hell,
fame
.

Even more importantly, the Dodgers had a legitimate shot at winning it all this year. The World Series. The Patriots were good, but probably not that good. For his team to go all the way, everything would have to go perfectly—no major injuries, no prolonged slumps, with key players having big seasons. He knew the odds of all that falling into place were long.

Nate couldn’t hold back a disbelieving laugh. Buddy had clearly been sent on a mission to gauge his reaction, so the Dodgers must be serious. Before making the Patriots an offer, they needed to know he’d be willing to sign a multi-year deal, and not bolt when his current contract ended after this season.

“I know it’s the opportunity must guys would kill for,” he finally said. “But money’s not everything.”

Buddy’s guffaw caused the lady next to them to turn again and glare. “It’s not? Then what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’d have to consider a lot of things.” Like the fact that his teammates would murder him. And, if they didn’t, the passionate Philly fans surely would.

Buddy gave a sympathetic grimace. “Everybody gets traded eventually. Especially if they’re any good. Nobody expects a player to spend his whole career with one team anymore. It’s not realistic.”

Nate couldn’t argue with that. These days, star players were shuffled around like chess pieces, sometimes staying only for a pennant drive before they were shipped off somewhere else or let go through free agency. But Philadelphia was his home, and had been for a long time.

“True, but I always thought I would.” The thought of abandoning the Patriots twisted his stomach. “I wanted to win the World Series as a Patriot. Enter the Hall of Fame as a Patriot. Hell, die a Patriot.”

Buddy shook his head. “I’d rather die rich, preferably with a few World Series rings on my fingers.” He drained his beer and signaled the waitress. “Think about it. You’re not going to have to decide for a while yet. But wouldn’t it be great to be together again? Me behind the plate calling the game and you throwing hellfire off the mound?”

It was a great image, but it was quickly replaced by one of Nate and Jake Miller standing shoulder to shoulder in every official team photo for the past six years. “No promises, Bud. But yeah, it’ll be on my mind. Big time.”

Katie Canizaro leaned on the counter of the nurses’ station, her back to Holly. She was in animated conversation with another doctor, a graying, middle-aged guy wearing jeans and a wildly-patterned Hawaiian shirt. Only the stethoscope around his neck identified him as a physician.

Canizaro turned around as Holly approached, looking concerned. “Dr. Bell, were you able to talk to Tyler’s dad?”

Holly nodded an affirmative and held out her hand to the other doctor. “I’m Holly Bell. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Richard Morris,” the man said, a smile creasing his tanned face. “Cardiologist. The ER attending gave me a call about Tyler Arnold, because he knows I live close by. I figured I might as well drop over and check on him for myself. In fact, I was just getting an update from Dr. Canizaro.”

“Nice to meet you, Doctor, and thanks for coming in,” Holly replied.

Morris smiled. “I’m pleased to finally meet you, too. Your excellent reputation as a surgeon preceded you here.”

“Uh, thanks,” she said, repressing the urge to deflect his compliment. Everybody seemed to know that PCH had enthusiastically recruited her. It was great to be appreciated, but she’d rather do without the effusions until she’d actually had the chance to prove herself. “I believe you’ve been treating Tyler for some time, according to his file.”

“About two and a half years, since the family moved down from Pittsburgh. He’s a good kid, but he’s never known a minute of life with a normal heart.”

Another kid dealt a truly rotten hand, especially with a father like Arnold. Holly pushed another stray lock of hair away from her eye and tucked it behind her ear. “Dr. McMillan briefed me on the case earlier in the week.”

Holly led him back to the corridor outside the swinging door to the trauma center. “I just spoke with Mr. Arnold,” she said. “He’s in the waiting room.”

Morris pulled at his short, gray-flecked goatee. Combined with a thick mustache, it gave him a rather distinguished look. “The man’s a single parent. His wife committed suicide a few months before Tyler was referred to me. After her death, father and son moved here from Pittsburgh.”

“He seemed surprisingly blasé when I told him Tyler’s condition was serious,” Holly said.

Morris gave his goatee another little pull. “I’ve noticed that, too. More so, I think, as time has passed. He’s often barely interested in what I’m saying to him. The grandmother seems to be more involved in Tyler’s care than he is. She’s a lovely woman, but the poor dear was mowed down by a car crossing South Street last year. A hit and run that left her paralyzed from the waist down, if you can believe that.” He shook his head. “She doesn’t get around very well, of course, so I don’t see her as much anymore.”

The family situation was far from optimal, but Holly felt some relief knowing Tyler at least had a devoted grandparent in his life. She would need to find a way to have a talk with the woman. Still, though, she couldn’t ignore her gut.

“I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves,” she said, “but I have a sinking feeling this guy could be a problem. I’m thinking we may even have to bring DHS into this at some point.”

Department of Human Services staff—and specifically those of the Children and Youth Division—were often called in by the hospital to consult on suspected cases of lack of proper parental responsibility, or even child abuse.

“Maybe he’s a decent parent,” she continued, “but he sure got my antenna up tonight.”

Morris frowned and pursed his lips. “You
are
getting ahead of yourself, Doctor. Lance Arnold’s not going to win any parenting awards, but I haven’t seen evidence that Tyler has been abused or neglected. I don’t see any point in speculating about DHS.”

He was probably right, but Holly couldn’t help bristling at his sharp tone. Although she’d only met Arnold once, he’d clearly ignored signs of Tyler’s illness, and in her book that constituted neglect in a child with such a serious heart condition. Dr. Morris
should
be an ally if it ever came time to take action, but his “show me” attitude was not a good sign.

She bit back a retort, deciding to let the issue drop for now. “Okay, I’ll see how it goes. Are you planning on sticking around for the echo and lab results?”

Morris gave a little snort and shook his head. “You know how long that could take around this place? No, somebody can call me, tonight if necessary, but preferably tomorrow morning.”

Holly frowned. Why had Morris bothered to stop by in the first place if he wasn’t going to check the test results tonight?

Then she gave herself a little mental slap. After all, Morris had come right over after the attending called him, and the last thing Holly needed to do was make adversaries out of colleagues—especially after only a few days on the job. “Well, I’ll be here,” she said, making sure she didn’t inject a note of judgment into her voice. “I’ve booked an O.R., just to be on the safe side.”

“Really?” Morris said, a bemused smile breaking through between the mustache and the goatee. “I realize you’re the boy’s surgeon, and you’ll do what you will, but I’d certainly appreciate being consulted unless it really is an emergency situation.”

This time she had to physically bite her tongue to keep her mouth shut. Of course she would only act in an emergency! Morris’s patronizing tone made her teeth clench with frustration. She’d battled that kind of dismissive attitude from older doctors her entire career, especially from men who seemed to think their female counterparts couldn’t manage without their gratingly superior guidance.

Calm down, Holly. Keep your eye on the ball
.

She swallowed her resentment and inhaled a deep breath. “That goes without saying, Doctor,” she said, calmly. “Whatever happens, you’ll definitely be in the loop.”

Morris opened his mouth, apparently ready to argue. But then he closed it again and inclined his head, as if in submission. “Much appreciated, Dr. Bell. Well, I’ve enjoyed our chat, but I think it’s time I examined my patient.”

Without waiting for her reply, he pivoted and strode back into the trauma center.

That went well. Not.

Sighing, Holly began to massage her neck. The muscles on the right side felt like frozen rope, and the pain extended all the way down to below her shoulder blade and all the way up into her sinuses. Sudden stress and tension often triggered the reaction, and tonight she’d had her share. A sick little boy with a leaky heart valve was bad, but it presented the kind of challenge she was used to handling. What she thrived on.

But what she wasn’t very good at was working with difficult parents or paternalistic colleagues. Sometimes she wished she’d gotten just a little more in the social skills department to go along with her academic ability. She’d never had much luck learning those skills, either. At least not according to her mother.

Shrugging that unpleasant thought away, Holly headed to the only hospital coffee shop that stayed open until midnight. She ordered a decaf skinny latté, and spent twenty minutes trying to clear her mind of the encounters with Arnold and Morris. There was no point trying to plan three or four or ten steps ahead, or speculating what Lance Arnold would or wouldn’t do in any given scenario. Whatever happened, she’d react and deal with it. Of course, for a lifelong control freak, that kind of acceptance ran completely counter to the grain. But she’d been working on it, and she liked to think she’d been making progress. After all, she hadn’t bit Morris’s head off, had she?