Night Games (26 page)

“Surprised that I’m still around?”

“Not surprised, intrigued. Based on sitting here and listening to your running monologue, I was struck with an idea.”

“Sorry, I don’t give interviews.” I scoot away from her, hoping I didn’t already say too much.

“That’s not what I was thinking, darling. I was more interested in asking you to come work for me.”

“You’re kidding? And do what?” Didn’t she do her research? Doesn’t she know I used to work at the mall?

“Write a column. Share your insights on the game. Look at it from a woman’s perspective.”

“I’m not much of a writer.”

“You don’t have to write if you don’t want to. You can do video segments from your phone or laptop.”

“I don’t think Chase would go for that.” In fact, he’d go ballistic, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“He wants to keep you all to himself, does he?” she asks, her tone insinuating.

“Well, it’s not like you’re putting yourself out there either. The public doesn’t know you’re The Queen of Diamonds.”

“Point taken. I was just getting a vision of how the site would blow up if you were on board, but we can still keep your identity under wraps if that makes the idea a little more palatable for you. I’ll just say you’re the significant other of one of the Kings and leave it at that. And if you’re uncomfortable with the writing bit at first, I can help you find your voice. If it catches on, I could probably offer you around $50K to start.”

My mouth drops open in shock. “$50,000?”

“I know it doesn’t sound like much to cover an entire season but—”

“Are you kidding? I’ve never made that much in my life.”

“I like you, honey.” Gayle leans closer, never breaking eye contact. “Otherwise I wouldn’t say this. But you shouldn’t go telling me things like that. You should try to work me for more.”

“But—”

“No buts about it. You’re not in Stockton anymore, sweetheart.” Gayle sits back and extends her hands. “You’re in the big leagues now, and New York is the biggest sports market there is. Millions of people follow the Kings around the world. Where they’re concerned, never set your sights too low. Always aim high. Remember that.”

“And you really think your readers will care about what I have to say?”

“Care? They’re going to eat it up. I’ve been looking to open the site up to guest columnists, and you’re just the type of person I’m eager to connect with. You’re an insider who’s up on the game, and you fit the demographic I target—that all-important eighteen-to-thirty-four age bracket that’s addicted to social media. I have no doubt that my readers are going to respond to your fresh take on things.”

“I never knew there were so many female fans out there.”

“Well, some of them are all about the eye candy, but there’s a devoted following who take it seriously. They watch every game religiously. They’re up on the box scores and division standings. They’re looking for someone like them to give it to them straight. Plus it’s a great conversation starter with men. A lot of them are out there on the dating scene, and sometimes it helps kick things into high gear if they’re able to talk about the Kings on the first date. Hell, I’m an old married woman, but I still chat with my father about the Kings. It’s the only thing we’re able to talk about.”

I chuckle, nodding my head in agreement. “I can relate to that.”

“See? I knew we weren’t that different, you and I.” Gayle playfully bumps my arm. “So what do you say? You want to give it a try? I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract and send it over. I want to do everything legit, so there are no surprises or hard feelings. If it really takes off, we can always renegotiate. I don’t want to scam you out of any of the profits if you increase my audience substantially. We’ll play it by ear and see how it goes. See what types of stories readers respond to and we’ll tweak it from there.”

“That sounds more than fair.”

“And just between us girls, it’s none of my business what happens between you and Chase, but it never hurts to put some money away for yourself. Stand on your own two feet. You know what I’m saying?” Gayle lowers her voice before continuing. “My first husband left me high and dry without a penny to my name. It took me a long time to fight my way back from that. It’s not good to put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Trust me. I’m not that type,” I assure her, meeting her eyes. “It’s just that a lot has happened over the past few months. I was busy helping Chase get back on his feet and dealing with some family issues, but I’m ready to get back out there and start earning a living again.”

“I know it sounds crazy. You’re probably living in the lap of luxury right now, being Chase Whitfield’s girlfriend, but it never hurts to have your own bank account. Even if it’s only to preserve your self-respect and nothing more.”

“I love Chase. We’re pretty serious about each other. But I don’t think we’re going to get married any time soon, not with him traveling all the time and having so many commitments in terms of his endorsements and all that.”

If Gayle only knew he’d proposed to me back in July, she’d have a heart attack. But I’m glad everything worked out the way it did. Chase has come so far over these last few months. He’s at a better place in his life where he doesn’t have to take such drastic measures to get me to stick around. He’s grown more comfortable in his skin, owning who he is and publicly acknowledging just how much our relationship means to him. He’s no longer playing a role. Finally, he feels free enough to just be himself.

“Well, stockpile it away for a rainy day. Or if the two of you do end up walking down the aisle, you can always donate it to charity. That always makes me feel good. Between the two of us, Andy and I make enough—not in the Chase Whitfield range by any means—but we like giving back and investing in new start-ups, giving someone else a chance to make a name for themselves.”

“That’s pretty awesome.”

“The Kings are like family. Dysfunctional? Absolutely. They’re like the mafia. Don’t ever cross them. But if you’re loyal? They’ll pay you back a hundredfold. Look at Chase. He came up through the farm system. Had no desire to play for another team. I like how he agreed to a one-year $15 million contract extension with a player option to renew at the end of the season. That was smart because no one knows how his knee is going to hold up. Despite the antics of Arnold Heimlich and Terry Bloom, his heart is with the Kings and always will be. And when he hangs up his cleats, they’ll retire his number and his name will live on forever as one of the all-time greats who ever played the game. They don’t just make you a star. They make you immortal. And it doesn’t get any better than that.”

“I think I’m going to like working for you, Gayle.”

“Honey, I can’t wait to get started.”

Chapter Thirty

Chase

October, eight months later

Game seven of the World Series—it all comes down to this.

I blow on my hand to keep my fingers warm. My knee feels a little stiff, but I can’t complain. It held up throughout the entire season as we dominated the AL East, leading the division wire to wire. We never dropped out of first place, finishing twenty games over five hundred.

Needless to say, everyone wanted to play the role of spoiler and knock us out of the postseason. But we intimidated them into submission, sweeping the Division Series by trouncing Cleveland and sending Boston packing by taking five out of seven in the ALCS. Now, Atlanta, who we beat two years ago, came out looking to put us in our place, fighting hard and forcing a game seven.

If not for Drake’s botched play in game four, we could have shut them down for good. But the runner scored from third in the eighth inning, giving them new life. They responded, taking the next two at home as a lot of our guys battled a case of food poisoning, weakening our roster. The rumor mill is claiming that it was deliberate, saying that Atlanta’s catering staff was trying to take us out of the equation, but I don’t think they’re that desperate. They want to beat us fair and square, so as not to throw their bragging rights into question.

We’re holding on to a one-run lead as we enter the top of the ninth inning. Kings Stadium is rocking, louder than I’ve ever heard it. The fans are foaming at the mouth for this championship, and they will not be denied. They know what it felt like to be sent home early last year, and they’re not having it. They’ve been there for us all season long. There’s no way we can let them down now. Not when we’re so close we can taste it.

I glance to my left and see Scott pounding his glove, ready to go. Pedro is behind the plate, ready to call what will hopefully result in the final outs of the series. Bruce Gillette, our closer, is coming out of the bullpen to a standing ovation. I can’t even hear myself think. The roar is deafening.

But Bruce is a silent assassin. He never gets rattled—even in the most pressure-packed situation imaginable with everything on the line. The fielders playing behind him? We’re the ones who are nervous. One bobble is all it would take. Losing the ball in the lights. Not breaking early enough. Diving too late. No one wants to be the one to blow it.

I’ve played through a lot of similar situations with these guys, and I trust them to get the job done. We have four World Series rings to prove it. We know what it takes to win. If anyone should be feeling the pressure, it should be the Atlanta hitters. Bruce’s ERA in the postseason is under one. Good luck getting a hit off him, fellas. And forget scoring on him. There’s no way they’re getting anyone on base, much less driving them in.

As Bruce tosses a few warm-up pitches, I allow myself a split second to glance up at the fourth luxury box from the right and catch a glimpse of Grey’s red scarf billowing in the breeze. She said she was going to wear it so I could pick her out of the crowd crammed into the box reserved for players’ families. I know my mom and dad are up there, along with J.J. and the baby. Everyone wanted a ticket to this game, and it looks like they’re all standing shoulder to shoulder out on the balcony.

I wanted to get Grey’s dad and Erin and the boys up there too, but there wasn’t enough room. Instead, they’re seated somewhere along the third-base line. My family is pretty used to all of the hype that comes with big games like this, but it was a treat getting to see Mr. Kelleher’s eyes light up when he arrived at the stadium tonight. I haven’t seen him look that happy since before his wife died, and I’m glad that I’m able to experience this World Series with him. I hope we’re able to pull off a victory so he can soak it all in.

I don’t even want to get started thinking about Grey. I’ll lose it, and I have to stay focused right now.

First pitch is drilled to second, but Kyle Roberts is positioned perfectly. The ball is hit right at him. All he has to do is lift his glove to nab the out. One away.

I raise a finger in the air to indicate the number of outs to the outfielders. It’s not like they need any reminders, but I’m not breaking with tradition now. I scuff the dirt at my feet as Bruce tosses the rosin bag onto the rubber, getting ready to reset. The fans in the bleachers are stomping their feet, creating a drum-like rhythm that’s fueling the crowd, giving it even more energy.

Atlanta’s power hitter, Carlos Lopez, is up next. He could tie the game with one swing. He’s a dangerous threat with that short porch in right that lefties salivate over. Bruce better keep the ball out of his wheelhouse. If he makes even the slightest mistake, Carlos is going to be all over it.

As the at-bat drags on, Carlos works the count full as Bruce nips the corners. To stay alive, Carlos fouls off the next five pitches in a row. The crowd is getting antsy, clapping in unison, urging Bruce to pull the plug and ring him up. Pedro is getting frustrated behind the plate. Every pitch he calls, Carlos manages to get a piece of. They’re moving the ball around, cutting inside then painting the outside corner. They know if they go up the ladder he’ll lay off the high fastball and they’ll end up walking him.

This time, they decide to go low and away and he bites at it. But he can’t connect. He swings so hard he nearly falls over. Cursing, he tosses his bat as his teammates give him room to enter the dugout. He’s a hothead. He doesn’t handle defeat well, especially of this magnitude. Striking out in a key situation like this has to hurt. That out will probably haunt him for the rest of his life if Atlanta doesn’t end up winning this game. Even though his career numbers are worthy of the Hall of Fame, a lot of baseball writers factor in success in the postseason when it comes to casting their votes. And that image of him swinging and missing is going to stay in their minds for years to come.

But Carlos did his job in tiring Bruce out. That at-bat was a battle. He didn’t go down easily. And the next guy up, Hideki Sato, is going to give it everything he’s got. He doesn’t have the pop in his bat like Carlos does, but he’s patient. He doesn’t swing at anything out of the strike zone. He’s got the best eye in baseball, and it’s the reason he’s won the National League batting title three years in a row.

As Bruce starts his delivery, it’s like my senses go numb. I don’t feel the brisk October air. I don’t hear the crowd. I see nothing but the 45 on the back of Bruce’s jersey before the ball is careening right at me. My brain is clicking through all of the possibilities. It’s going to be over my head. I have to at least knock it down. Prevent it from going into the outfield. But I don’t know how much spring my knee’s going to give me and if I’ll be able to reach it. One. Two. Three. Up.

I take off from the ground and I’m airborne, extending my arm as far as it will go. I feel the blood rushing in my ears, the weight of everyone’s eyes upon me. I can’t let Atlanta claw their way back into this game. We need to shut them down. Now is the time to end this series and bring it home.

Stretching with everything I’ve got, I feel the ball smack into the webbing of my glove as I sail back down to earth, holding on to it for all I’m worth. My grip on it seems precarious. When my feet hit the dirt, it may bounce out with the impact.

I close my eyes amid the dizzying barrage of flashbulbs going off in the stands as I tumble to the ground. My knee doesn’t hold me and I go down, somehow keeping my glove aloft. The freshly manicured grass rises up to meet me as I collide with it. If I can’t hold on to this ball, I’m going to be the one closest to it. I’ll have to get back on my feet and keep the runner from advancing. I just don’t know how bad my knee is or if I’ll be able to stand up.

The next few seconds go by in slow motion, as if I’m caught in a freeze frame. Like I weigh nothing more than a snowflake falling lazily to earth. I’m jarred back into reality when my tailbone connects with the cold, hard ground. I brace myself with my free arm, trying to regain my balance. But my equilibrium is thrown off, and for a second I don’t know where I am on the field as I get the wind knocked out of me. But in my head I’m issuing a silent mantra.
Keep your arm up. Hold on to the ball. Cushion the blow. Hang on. Hang on. Hang on to the goddamn ball.

I know I always boast to reporters that when it comes down to the final out of the World Series, I want the ball hit to me. I want to walk that razor-thin line that separates glory from infamy. I don’t want to depend on anyone else. I want to decide the fate of my team and come through victorious. I want to be the kind of warrior Mr. Heimlich always boasts about. I am the Kings, and the Kings are me. In moments like this, we’re one and the same. I want to rise to the occasion and claim my place among the pantheon of baseball gods. Even if it wrests every last expendable effort out of my body to do it—I’ll give whatever it takes to reach that level of greatness.

The back of my head smacks the ground as my glove hits my chest. Everything veers out of focus. If the ball is still in there, the out counts. Based on the reaction of the crowd, it seems like nobody’s sure what happened yet. I dare to pick up my head and see Kyle standing above me, pointing at my glove. An umpire must have called a timeout because one of them is hustling over.

I don’t move a muscle. I keep as still as I can. He bends down and lifts up my hand. I can’t even feel my fingers anymore. I don’t know if I’m holding on to the last out or nothing but air. I’m sure the TV announcers are showing the instant replay and already know the answer. If the ball fell out, Kyle would have seen it, right? I must still have it if they’re not sure where it is.

An anxious buzz runs through the stands. Everyone was seconds away from bursting into full-blown party mode, and this unexpected turn of events has put a crimp in their plans. They’re waiting with bated breath, ready to erupt—either in exultation or agony. There’s no telling which way this will go.

The umpire is Paul Hannigan, a seasoned member of the crew. He’s been around a long time and has seen a lot, but probably nothing like this. No matter how many times the game is played, there’s always the possibility of something new happening.

He looks down at me, whispering just loud enough for me to hear him, “It’s there, kid. Great play.”

He lifts up my glove as the other umpires converge around us. The call goes out, proclaiming it an official out, and the crowd erupts into a tidal wave of joy. I’m already sprawled on my back as my teammates start jumping on top of me. Shit. I’m going to end up at the bottom of this pyramid of bodies. Pedro was swarmed the last time we won and he said that he was so sore he couldn’t move for days afterward. But any pain I endure will be worth it.

We won.

Haphazardly, but we won.

I wanted to be remembered with the greats, huh? That fall-down play that brought me to my knees is destined to live on the highlight reels for years to come. The sight of me falling flat on my ass is sure to outlive me. And if one more person hurls their body onto the pile, they’re going to have to carry me off the field.

And I don’t even want to think about my knee.

***

In the locker room, the rest of the team is celebrating and the champagne is flowing. The clubhouse staff has covered everyone’s locker with plastic, and reporters are protecting their expensive camera equipment to keep it from getting wet. All of my teammates are already donning the official World Series Championship shirts and hats. I always wondered what happened to the version that Major League Baseball makes up for the losing side. I’m sure they must be valuable collectors’ items, denoting the winning team that never was.

But I’m not with my team, basking in the glory.

I’m in the trainer’s room with Liam as he works out the logistics of bringing an ambulance around to pick me up for an MRI. My knee is red and swollen again, and it can’t support my weight. In the melee that ensued out on the field, Liam and his assistant hauled me out of there.

“When I saw your knee give out, I thought it was on account of the cold and your joints were stiffening up. But when you ended up in the middle of that human sandwich out there? Jesus, Chase. Couldn’t they jump on somebody else?” Liam shakes his head, assessing the damage.

“It was in the heat of the moment. They didn’t know what they were doing. It wasn’t on purpose. It’s been so long since my knee acted up I think half of them even forgot about it.”

“But, Chase, we brought you all the way back from the brink, only to see you go down like this. It’s not right. You still had a few good years left in you. Now? I just don’t know.” Liam hangs his head, rubbing the back of his neck.

I don’t even care that we just won it all. I clench my jaw, fighting back tears. I just want Grey.

“All right, the ambulance is here,” Liam says, glancing at the text he just received. “They had to send another one over because they need the ones stationed around the field for crowd control, in case anyone gets hurt. That’s what took so long. It’s a madhouse out there. They’re going to take you out without the siren. We don’t want anyone to know you’re in there.”

“Do you think I can wait for Grey? I know she’s probably trying to fight her way back here as we speak, but there are so many people. She probably got stuck somewhere coming down from the luxury box.”

“Do you know where she is exactly?”

“My phone is in my locker. I haven’t had a chance to check it.”

“I’d rather send you on ahead and have her catch up with you later. Once the reporters find out you’re in here, they’re going to want to talk to you. Security is already stretched to the limit. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to hold them off. There’s only one cop stationed outside the door.”

“Mr. Heimlich was here tonight, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. First time he’s been back since his stroke.”

“Is there any way you can reach Terry? I’m sure he’s with him.”

“Hold on. Let me see what I can do,” Liam sighs, scrolling through his phone. “This really sucks, Chase. You should be out there celebrating with everyone else instead of hiding out back here. You won the damn game for them.”