Hot Ticket (11 page)

The look on Parker’s face confirmed it. Kelly shrieked with impatience and whirled away from him. “Isn’t
this
just fabulous! You fell in love with me for some voodooey reason, and not because you loved
me.
That’s rich, Parker! And look at you, giving me such a load of shit over something you yourself admit to doing!”

He didn’t say anything, and when Kelly whirled around to face him, he sighed. “I don’t know anymore why I fell in love with you,” he said solemnly. “I am second-guessing everything.”

She gasped, but Parker clenched his jaw tightly shut, defiant and angry.

“So . . . you only loved me because you thought I was your lucky charm,” she said flatly.

He didn’t move, didn’t confirm or deny.

“You used me, too, then.”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug.

“Well at least you’re honest,” she muttered. “So . . . I guess there’s nothing left to say, huh? I guess we’re through.”

He arched one brow above the other but did not argue, and God, how Kelly wanted him to argue. She wanted him to say they couldn’t be through, they were too good together, it was all a big misunderstanding and they’d never make the same mistake again. She wanted him to say he loved her, he’d always loved her, and he didn’t care about baseball or ESPN or anything but her and could not be without her . . .

But Parker just nodded. “I guess we’re through,” he agreed, and turned around and walked out of her apartment, leaving her utterly speechless and suddenly rudderless.

It wasn’t that easy.

A few days had passed, but Parker still couldn’t get the expression on Kelly’s face out of his mind. He couldn’t sleep, thinking of it. He couldn’t eat, thinking of it. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on the game very well because of it.

In the week leading to their breakup, he’d imagined he would catch her red-handed, so to speak, and force her to confess she had used him. He had not counted on it being an old tape, or her not knowing what ESPN was doing with her tape. And he had not imagined hurting her. But that was definitely hurt on her face—he knew it was, because he felt it, too.

He had fallen into a tailspin of emotion. He couldn’t really think straight, and he couldn’t really say why he had fallen in love with her, if he really even loved her, or if he loved the idea of a lucky charm. There was a time when he thought he loved her because she was beautiful and witty and didn’t seek him out for fame or fortune, but genuinely seemed to like who he was. Now he
wondered if he hadn’t just worried all along that without her, he couldn’t play. He was, like most baseball players he knew, ridiculously superstitious. This one had to top the list.

Maybe it was ridiculous, but when she was trashing him, he couldn’t play. When she was praising him, he played the best baseball of his life.

Maybe he did latch on to her like she was a talisman from the baseball gods.

Maybe he did use her like she used him.

Whatever. It didn’t matter now, because they were through.

A week after their breakup—and a week in which Kelly didn’t call him even once—the Mets started a series with the Yankees. On the opening night, Parker arrived at Yankee stadium early so he could work with the trainer. While the trainer worked on a tight muscle in his back, Parker watched TV, and of course, the sound bite for Kelly’s new talk show popped up.

It was odd—he’d seen the clip so many times now that it didn’t do anything to him . . . except make him chuckle. It was true—for some reason, lying there on the massage table, actually
listening
to what she said, he couldn’t help but laugh.
Couldn’t catch a beach ball if they
rolled
it to him.
He pictured himself trying to catch a rolling beach ball and laughed.

The sound bite was over, and Parker smiled, put his head down, and focused on the game he was about to play.

That night, he was first up to bat, and as he walked to home plate, some of the Yankees fans were shouting,
“Roll him a beach ball!”
And again, he chuckled to himself. Ah, how stupid people could be. They had no idea how much skill went into your average game of baseball, how hard it was to hit or catch a major league ball.

And there, without thought of lucky charms or slumps or anything else, he caught a piece of the first pitch and sent it sailing out of the ballpark. Imagine that—Parker Price hit a very rare, first pitch home run—and he laughed as he ran the bases.

The Mets ended up losing that night in spite of his spectacular opening bat, but Parker wasn’t too shaken by it. He’d had a pretty good game, all in all, and had a pretty good feeling about the Mets in general.

The next morning, when his alarm went off, he opened his eyes to the sound of a stadium full of cheers. “I’m serious,” Kelly was saying. “They ought to have him bat cleanup. When he gets his bat on a pitch, forget about it.”

He wondered who she was talking about.

“Yeah, it’s really amazing that this is the same guy who couldn’t hit a beach ball at the start of the season.” Guido laughed. “With the exception of that little slump a couple of weeks ago, he can’t seem to miss now.”

Parker bolted upright. They were talking about
him
.

“That’s what I’ve said Guido, and you argued with me. But when Price turned it around, he turned it all the way around. Granted, he’s had a couple of bad games over the last few weeks like you said, but when you compare his performance to the team as a whole, the man is responsible for most of their offensive and defensive success.”

This time, Guido cued applause and whistles.

“So then how do you explain the Mets loss last night?” Guido asked. “Your boy came out firing with both barrels.”

“He did, but the problem last night was in pitching. The Mets just don’t have enough depth,” Kelly opined.

Damn straight—Parker had said that more than once—they had too many rookie pitchers. At least Kelly was fair, but it didn’t change a damn thing. He turned off the alarm and got out of bed, heading for the shower.

What needed to change was his morning station of choice. He’d try to remember to do that.

That night, the Mets loaded the bases with one out in the ninth. The go-ahead run was on second base. It looked as if the Mets would win, but the Yankees changed pitchers and brought in a
closer who induced a double play and escaped the inning with a save and a game victory.

In the locker room, the Mets were pissed. They didn’t want to go back to Shea without at least
one
win over the Yankees.

The next day, the mood was tense in the locker room. No one was talking. Over their heads, ESPN ran a teaser for Kelly’s show. In this clip, she lifted a glove and said, “Hey, Parker! Got game?” and then smiled so prettily that Parker’s heart ached with it.

“Oh, that’s just great,” Pablo Rena, the first baseman said next to Parker. “Guess that means you’ll be too freaked out to do us any good tonight.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Parker snapped.

Pablo rolled his eyes. “You know how you are—the least bit of criticism, and you fall apart.”

“Hey, dude, I don’t
fall apart,
” he shot back. “Keep your mind on your own play, all right? You weren’t exactly hitting off the hook with your bat last night.”

“Hey,” Pablo said, throwing up his hands, “I’m just saying. You’re really sensitive when your girl talks a little smack.”

“She’s not my girl,” Parker muttered, and slammed his locker door shut, walked out of the locker room, and onto the field.

But something Pablo said kept pricking at him as he warmed up. He
was
sensitive. He’d built it up in his own mind that everything that happened on the ball field was fate, but it was really more along the lines of what his mom used to tell him—he could be a Big Baby sometimes.

Maybe that was it after all and Kelly had nothing to do with it. Look at it—he’d played pretty well this series, in spite of the way he was feeling about her. And to prove it to himself that night, he went out on the field, had two double plays, two based hits, and one RBI, driving in the run that won the Mets the game.

That night, as he drove home, he thought it was strange that a man could play baseball all his life, and at the ripe age of thirty-two, realize that it wasn’t the forces of nature or the heavens that
influenced his play. It was just him. He was in full control of his actions. It was an honest-to-God epiphany.

The next morning when the alarm went off, no one was home to turn it off, and Kelly’s show blared throughout the house for two hours until Marie, Parker’s housekeeper, showed up and turned it off, shaking her head at the volume.

That was because Parker was in the city, standing out in the hall where Kelly’s show was being aired, pacing back and forth because the receptionist wasn’t there yet to let him in. But it was so early and quiet that he could hear the show over the speakers piped into the reception area. There was some talk of the game and a little of Parker’s performance, but mostly they talked about the relief pitcher who had come in and saved the Mets’ collective ass by getting them out of an inning in which the Yankees had put on two base runners.

When Kelly said, “Let’s go to the phones,” Parker hit the speed dial on his cell.

After about three tries, he got the producer. “Hey,” he said, “this is Parker Price.”

“Right. And I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger,” the producer said, and clicked off.

“That’s right, I forgot you are an ass, you little pinheaded geek,” Parker muttered and dialed again. It took him several more tries to get through, but when the pin-headed geek answered, Parker said, “Yo, lemme talk to Kelly.”

“What’s your name, and what are you calling about?” the producer asked.

“Jeff Renteria. And I’m calling about the Mets. She’s talking about the Mets, and they’re, like, my favorite team ever.”

“Hold, please,” the producer said and clicked off. Parker grinned.

A moment later, he heard, “You’re on
Sports Day with Kelly O’Shay
. What’s your name?”

“P-Pete,” he said.

“Hi, Pete. What do you want to say?” she asked cheerfully.

“I want to say that I think some baseball players are stupid, superstitious idiots,” he said.

Kelly didn’t say anything, and there was a moment of dead air until Guido jumped in. “Ah . . . we hear you, pal. They’re like,
ridiculous
, man! Won’t wear their socks a certain way, won’t bat with the same bat twice, have to do a little dance in the batter’s box before they hit. That stuff just messes with their heads.”

“Yeah, I know. You pay these guys millions of dollars to just get out there and play ball, and what do you get? A bunch of sissies afraid of their own shadow.”

Guido hit the laughter button.

“You know what I think?” Parker pressed on, just as the receptionist walked up and looked at him curiously. “I think a couple of them are real
jerks
.”

“Why?” Kelly asked, her voice not quite as bubbly as usual.

“Well,” Parker started as the receptionist opened the door and let him in, “Sometimes, they get some idea in their head that makes absolutely no sense, like maybe, you talking about them on your show affects the way they play.”

“Who said
that
?” Guido scoffed.

“Parker Price. He’s the biggest idiot of them all.”

“He is?” Kelly asked, her voice soft. Parker started striding for the booth.

“Sir!” the receptionist yelled. “You can’t go back there! Stop! If you don’t stop I am calling the police!”

Apparently, the receptionist came in loud and clear, because Guido asked, “Hey, where
are
you?” as he hit the sirens button.

“Like I was saying, take Parker Price. He got it in his pea brain that some of the things you were saying about him were affecting his play. But then he figured out that was just dumb—he was the only one on that field, and if he wasn’t hitting, it was because his swing was off or he wasn’t concentrating. Not because of you, Kelly.”

“Uh-huh. Well . . . I guess I’ve been a little too harsh,” Kelly said as Parker rounded the corner. He saw her then, sitting on her stool, the enormous earphones on her head, staring at the windowed wall while Guido manned the phone lines. The moment she saw him, she sprang off the stool.

“No you haven’t. You’ve been funny and dead on. If a player doesn’t play well, that doesn’t give him license to blame everyone else,” Parker said outside the window.

“Do you mean to say that Parker Price should hold himself responsible for his performance, both good and bad?” she asked.

“I’m saying,” he said, putting an arm up on the glass wall that separated him from Kelly and leaning against it, “that I made a huge mistake, Kelly. I was a jerk. I tried to blame you for my own shortcomings. I forgot that I fell in love with you, and it had nothing to do with baseball. I mean, there wasn’t anything there that day but me and you—no baseball, no ESPN, nothing but us,” he said, as the producer and receptionist suddenly flanked him, their hands on his arms.

Parker ignored them like a couple of gnats. “I fell in love with you because you’re beautiful and funny and smart and you make a mean spinach lasagna. I fell in love with you because you don’t like Broadway but you like old movies, and you think my charity is cool, but you don’t think I’m so cool that I am better than the dreams you have for yourself, and a whole bunch of other reasons I swear I’ll never forget again. I love you, Kelly.”

Guido, he noticed, had almost fallen off of his chair.

“Ooh, that is so
hot
,” the receptionist whispered. And Kelly . . . well, Kelly was gaping at him with eyes as big as home plates. And then she was trying to pull the headphones off at the same time she was climbing over Guido.

“Hey,” Guido said, as Kelly threw open the door, then went out and slammed it behind her. “That’s pretty sweet stuff from a guy who’s scared of his own shadow. But everyone likes a good love story, right, gang?”

Whatever else he might have said, Parker didn’t hear, because when Kelly launched herself at him, she knocked his cell phone from his hand.