Hot Ticket (2 page)

Oh, she was ready. She’d been working toward this for ten years and truly believed this was her shot at TV. Her radio show had been climbing steadily through the ratings. Especially since they’d let her off the graveyard shift and gave her the morning slot. The all-important twenty-something demographic loved her, but it was her scorching commentary on Parker Price, the Biggest Choker Ever, that had sent her ratings through the roof.

And thanks to the most boneheaded error in the history of baseball, she had been handed the best material of her life. Oh yeah, she was ready for this. With a grin at Chuck, she nodded. He cued her, and she began.

“Welcome to
Sports Day with Kelly O’Shay
,
the
source of sports news. Hey, if you’re a big fan of baseball like I am, you’re probably wondering—like I am—what is
up
with Parker Price of the New York Mets? Is he ill? Is he tanking? Has a body snatcher invaded his body? Here are the facts: The Mets paid one hundred and ten million for this guy to improve their record and maybe loosen the chokehold teams like the Yankees have held them in for
years
. The dude hasn’t delivered. Don’t talk to me about his golden
glove—the guy couldn’t catch a beach ball if you
rolled
it to him. And don’t wave his great batting average around, either—that baby is flying below the radar. Here’s another fact: Parker Price has made some of the costliest errors the Mets have ever witnessed on the field.”

She smiled. “So here is my question: if a franchise pays that sort of scratch to a guy who is essentially pegged to deliver a pennant, then who is responsible when the guy can’t come through? Is it the fans? One might think so, given the price of tickets, a couple dogs, and a beer at Shea Stadium,” she scoffed. “Is it the owner? The team manager? Maybe. They are the geniuses who struck the outrageous deal. But if you ask me, the one person who is responsible and must shoulder the blame is Parker Price. He was paid an obscene amount of money to deliver, and if he can’t, then he is the one we should hold accountable.”

She smiled into the camera and picked up a pencil. “Let’s go to the local papers and see what
they
are saying about Parker Price . . .”

And on Kelly went, making a case that Parker Price should be canned for costing too much money and delivering the absolute wrong results.

Nothing personal against the guy. No, really—Kelly didn’t care what they paid him, but she figured if he was fool enough to take that kind of dough to leave a team he’d played with for ten years and then blow it as bad as he had this season, it was his problem. His outrageous salary alone made him public fodder, and she wasn’t saying anything the rest of the sports world hadn’t said about him. But now Kelly had a front row seat at the feeding trough.

She made several jokes about Price that had Chuck laughing, while hopefully she was managing to be charming and feminine and not too girly. Men did not like getting their sports news from girly-girls. She’d learned that the hard way, early on.

Yeah, baby, this was
her
job.

When she’d finished her audition tape, Chuck complimented
her. “Great job,” he said. “We’ll get this edited and sent around for you to look at in the next couple of days.”

“Great. Thanks so much,” Kelly said.

She gathered up her things, left the studio, and caught the subway—one day, maybe she’d have a car to drive her, like the big network stars—and went home, to her apartment, where she lived alone . . . and hung out alone, without the company of even a cat. After the graveyard radio slot she’d worked, she’d sort of lost touch with a lot of her friends. The morning slot wasn’t much better for her social life—every night, she worked on her show for the next day, watched a little ESPN, and was in bed by nine. She was essentially undateable.

Sometimes it got to her. She was lonely. She missed companionship—especially of the male variety—but she figured it was a small sacrifice that was worth what she was working toward. She had dreams of something greater than a local radio talk show, and now, having taped her audition, all she had to do was wait.

 The next morning, a bright-eyed Kelly O’Shay strode into the radio station offices at five-thirty and was met by her producer, Rick—a thin, young guy who smoked so much Kelly thought he was responsible for the haze over the city—who greeted her with a cup of coffee.

“How’d it go?” he asked through a massive yawn, referring to her taping yesterday.

“Great,” she said. “I think I have a shot, Rick. I think I might really make it this time.”

He smiled wryly. “That’s great. Just be sure to remember the grunts when you hit it big. You know, the guys who made you.”

She laughed. “I’ll remember,” she said and picked up her interoffice mail.

“Oh, hey, here’s one for the record books,” Rick said, sliding onto a chair, facing backward. “Frank Campanelli called yesterday—you know who he is, right? Big-time sports agent?”

“Sure, I know who he is,” Kelly said with a laugh. “He reps Parker Price, among others. Let me guess—he wants me to stop unloading on Price, right?”

“He definitely wants that,” Rick said with a snort. “But he also wants Parker Price to make an appearance on your show.”

Kelly gasped and turned so quickly that she knocked a binder off the desk. “
What
did you say?”

Rick chuckled, watching the smile that slowly shaped her lips. She casually picked up the binder, then leaned across the desk and pinned Rick with a look. “Seriously—he wants to come on
my
show?” she repeated, certain she’d misunderstood him.

“He wants to come on your show,” Rick said, smiling now. “He thinks maybe you don’t get baseball,” he added with a wink.

“
Ohmigod
. Ohmigod!” she cried and whirled away from Rick as a flurry of possibilities suddenly filled her head.
Parker Price on her show.
The horse’s mouth and ass, neatly tied up in one appearance. “This is
fantastic
! Thank you, thank you,
thank
you! ESPN, here I come!” she sang, did a little dance move, and picked up the day’s lineup. “How soon can we get him on?”

“How long do you need to prepare?” Rick asked, sipping his coffee.

“Are you kidding? I am
so
prepared I am about to
bust
. Can you get him here this morning?”

Rick laughed and shook his head. “Next Thursday. We’re booked up until then.”

“Next Thursday is
perfect,
” she said and practically skipped out of the office and to the studio, as happy as a kid at Christmas.

Parker and Frank arrived at the radio station promptly at six
A
.
M
. the Thursday morning Parker was scheduled to be a guest on Kelly O’Shay’s show. Frank, whose doughy face appeared a little redder than usual in the fluorescent office light, was wearing his usual—dark suit, red tie, and his reddish-blond hair slicked back with a healthy dollop of something greasy.

Parker’s dark hair was combed back and already falling around his eyes. He wore faded jeans, a white collared shirt, and his favorite black cowboy boots. He figured this was radio. No need to dress to impress.

Frank frowned and knocked again on the glass door of the studio. The front office staff didn’t come in at this ungodly hour, so there was no one to buzz them in, and Frank did not like to be kept waiting. He was kind of a diva that way.

They stood there, Frank pressing the button over and over again until Parker figured he had awakened all of lower Manhattan by now with the incessant buzzing. And just when he thought
the top of Frank’s head would blow off, a woman appeared in the darkened reception area to buzz them in.

Frank opened the door and barreled inside. “Parker Price for Kelly O’Shay. We’re doing the show this morning.”

“Welcome!” she said and flipped on a couple lights.

Whoa.
She didn’t need the light because she was smiling a million-watt smile if Parker had ever seen one. And he smiled back, taking in blond hair pulled back in a sleek tail and long legs encased in nice tight jeans that rose up to just below her belly button. He knew that because she was also wearing a cropped sweater that showed off said belly button . . . and a very nice rack. Pretty eyes, pretty mouth . . . wow. “Hey,” he said, and wondered, like he always did when he met a good-looking woman, if she recognized him, if he at least had that leg up.

“Hey,” she responded with a funny little laugh.

Frank snorted. “We’re running a little late, so if you could just round up your boss,” he said impatiently.

The woman blinked. “Sure. Come with me.”

She and her near-perfect derriere led them down a darkened corridor and into a dingy office. It was tiny, but they had somehow managed to shoehorn a gun-metal desk, four faux leather chairs, and a coat rack inside. The walls and desk were littered with paper and pictures Parker didn’t really notice—he was too intent on the woman. She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. The sort of beautiful that made opera singers sing and painters paint.

“What’s this?” Frank asked, clearly not as taken with the woman as Parker.

“This is where we talk with our guests before they go on the air,” she said, and something about her voice made Parker start. “Please have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

“Coffee, black,” Frank said instantly and fell into a seat with a grunt. “So when does the great Kelly O’Shay grace us with her presence?”

“I guess now,” she said and folded her arms across the flat plane of her belly, challenging Frank with those green eyes to argue.

Holy shit.
Of all the things Parker had thought of Kelly Shay, gorgeous was never one of them. He’d imagined . . . hell, he didn’t even know what he’d imagined, but it damn sure wasn’t
this.
He and Frank exchanged a look of surprise.

She laughed at their expressions. “Who were you expecting? Someone with a pointy hat, hooked nose, and a big wart?”

“Something like that,” Parker muttered.

She extended her hand. “Kelly O’Shay. Pleasure to meet you, Parker Price.”

He eyed her hand, half-expecting a trick zapper, and reluctantly took it. She squeezed his hand firmly and shook it vigorously.

“It’s a . . . ah, nice to meet you, too,” he said, still dumbfounded.

“Don’t lie,” she said with a wink and extended her hand to Frank. “You must be Frank Campanelli, agent extraordinaire.”

Frank, the dolt, was still staring at her with his mouth gaping open. “Yeah,” he said, pushing himself out of his seat. “Frank Campanelli.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Kelly said, shaking his hand just as ferociously as she’d shaken Parker’s. “You have quite a reputation.”

“Right,” Frank said, then frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “It’s a
good
reputation—all good.” She turned a surprisingly warm smile to Parker. “So how about that coffee?”

“Ah . . . water,” Parker said.

“Coffee. Black,” Frank repeated, apparently having regained his composure after the initial shock of learning Kelly O’Shay wasn’t a hag after all.

“You got it,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” She walked out of the office.

Parker instantly turned and slapped Frank on the arm. “
Shit
. Shitshit
shit
—
that’s
Kelly O’Shay?”

“This couldn’t be better,” Frank said, grinning. “All you have to do is turn on the charm, loverboy, and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.”

Parker snorted and fit his six-foot-four-inch frame into one of the chairs. “I don’t get the impression that Miss O’Shay is the type to fall for a line.”

“Trust me on this,” Frank said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk. “I bet we can clear it all up right here. Just do that Texas drawl thing and smile.”

Sometimes, Parker thought he had the dumbest agent in the business. “I don’t have a Texas drawl, and really, this isn’t about—” he started, but Kelly O’Shay walked in carrying a foam cup of coffee and a bottle of water.

“Here you go,” she said, handing them their drinks. She perched one hip on the corner of the desk in front of them and smiled at Parker again. “So, Parker, thanks for coming to the show. The listeners are going to love it.”

“I’m sure they will,” Frank chuckled.

“My producer is running late this morning, so I am going to do your preshow interview, if that’s all right?”

“Great,” Parker said. “And about the show, Kelly . . . may I call you Kelly? Ah . . .” He pushed the water aside and leaned forward, looking at her earnestly. “Frankly, I wanted to come on your show because I’ve been in a slump like I haven’t seen in my entire career.”

“Yeah. I know,” she said, wincing sympathetically. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s been very difficult,” he said, affecting his best puppy dog look. “I don’t know why or how it started, but I’m having a little trouble putting on the skids.”

“It must be really tough for you,” she said, her eyes wide with concern.

That was just where he wanted her. “You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, I was hoping that maybe you and I could come to an understanding.”