The Change Up (19 page)

Helen Anne stared at her, butter knife pointing at Rachel in accusation. “Who are you? Everybody needs a little distraction? Since when? You always said you couldn't afford to be distracted. Wasn't that what you told me when I asked if you wanted to be at Macy's birth?”

Ouch.
And yes. But in Rachel's defense, she'd been under pressure with a deadline from her father to lease every last retail space in a King of Prussia outlet mall they'd recently purchased. Not to mention seeing her sister's lady parts torn to bits hadn't ranked high on Rachel's list.

Helen Anne dropped the knife into the sink with a huff and a clang.

Was that when things had gone drastically wrong between them? Rachel didn't know for sure. They'd never been best friends, but they'd been closer than this.

You still have some time left. Do something with it.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there,” Rachel said. If only for the distance the decision seemed to have put between them.

Helen Anne nodded but didn't look at Rachel. “It's water under the bridge.”

Rachel didn't believe her, and she sensed it was going to take more than an apology to fix whatever had gone wrong between them. More than words. Actions. And time, too. For the first time in recent memory, Rachel was willing. Someday—sooner than she'd been willing to admit—it would be just the two of them left.

“Mom!” Macy slid into the kitchen in a pair of knee-high fuzzy socks, her mobile phone in hand. “I have to go see Mr. Fry play baseball today. I totally forgot, and the game is at eleven. You can take me, right?”

“Of course not,” Helen Anne said. “It's Saturday. I open the store at nine.”

Macy's eyes widened. “But this is important. Mr. Fry said we can get extra credit for going. You own the store. Can't you just not open it until after the game?”

Helen Anne laughed. “No, and you don't need extra credit for fourth-grade P.E.”

“But everyone is going!”

“So now we get to the truth. This is about hanging with your friends, not seeing your gym teacher play baseball. Isn't it?”

“Maybe you can go with a friend,” Rachel interjected.

Helen Anne's eyes widened just like Macy's had, and then she grinned. “That's an excellent idea! Aunt Rachel is looking for distractions these days. She can take you.”

“Yes!” Macy fist-pumped with her phone-free hand.

The know-it-all voice in Rachel's head whispered,
Here's your chance to make actions speak louder than words.
“Sounds like a plan,” she said. And a few minutes later, she realized it was actually a good plan. She could spend the day with her niece, doing something that would hopefully mend a little of the rift between her and her sister, and while she was at it, she could scope out more of the local baseball talent to see if anyone else was worth recruiting.

A few hours later, Rachel and Macy walked carefully down the grass-and-gravel hill toward the Arlington Parks field complex. The paved parking lot was full, so Rachel had pulled onto the grass and left her BMW under a tree beside the picnic pavilion. When in Rome …

But now, it was all she could do not to slip on the soles of her favorite ballet flats, which were entirely impractical here. Macy did much better in her little white tennis shoes. They were covered in eyelet and secured with bows. Cute, stylish, but definitely capable of off-roading. Rachel made a mental note to pick up a pair. Then, she squashed that plan with the simple reminder that she wouldn't need something like that once she was back in Philadelphia.

“Can I sit with my friends?” Macy asked when the bleachers were in sight.

So much for spending time with her niece. But Rachel had been ten once, too. “Where are your friends?”

Macy pointed to a pack of six preteen girls sitting behind the first-base dugout.

“If you leave that spot, you need to tell me. I'll be at the top of the bleachers over there.” She pointed to the metal-and-wood structure behind home plate and nearest the snack bar, figuring the placement would give her a good view of the field and Macy, who would only have two possible places to go—the snack bar or the restroom—if she chose to leave the bleachers. “And watch the game. Don't be talking the whole time about boys.”

Macy made a prune face. “Aunt Rachel, boys are weird. Besides, I like baseball.”

“You do?”

Macy nodded. “
Duh.
I play softball, which is almost the same thing as baseball, and Pop-Pop has taken me to lots of games.”

Rachel stopped at the bottom of the hill and faced her niece. “He has?”

“Yep. We go see the Pirates all the time, but …” Her green-eyed gaze flashed to the ground. “Well … he can't do that now.”

“No. I suppose not,” Rachel said with a heavy heart. “But maybe your dad will take you.”

“Probably not,” Macy said. “He's always busy.”

Like Rachel's dad had been when she was little. “Well, I bet your mom will.”

Macy laughed, reddening her cheeks. “No way! Mom hates baseball. She says it's long and boring, and she doesn't like the way they scratch and spit.”

Yep, that sounded like Helen Anne. “Well, then I'll take you. I like baseball.” The guys weren't bad to look at, either—despite the scratching and spitting. She grinned.

“Would you really take me?” Macy asked.

“Absolutely. We'll look at the schedule and make a plan. But don't forget about the Aces. They'll be playing baseball right here in Arlington. You can go to every game and sit right behind home plate.”

“You think?”

“I know. Pop-Pop owns the team.”

“Yeah, but you're selling it.” There wasn't any accusation in Macy's eyes like there had been in Helen Anne's.

“That's the plan,” Rachel said, feeling oddly conflicted.

She was grateful when a redhead called out and waved to Macy.

“I gotta go,” Macy said. “I'll see you later. Oh, and Mr. Fry is number ten.”

Hopefully the guy had a good game, because there were kids crawling all over this place. Adults, too. Maybe she should've brought Aces' season ticket information. Yes, she definitely should have. This was a targeted audience, and she was missing a great opportunity to help the newly hired marketing team boost generally lackluster sales. What was wrong with her?

Rachel caught a whiff of fresh popcorn as she passed the snack bar, and her mouth watered. When was the last time she'd had salty, crunchy, artificially buttered popcorn?
Oh, what the hell?
she thought and detoured for a bag and a bottle of water. Then she climbed the bleachers, using the warped, wooden seats as steps, and settled at the top.

The players were in their respective dugouts while the coaches and the officiating crew met at home plate. Mr. Fry was number ten and presumably on the home team, since that was the dugout the kids were gravitating toward. She would root for the home team and hope Mr. Fry put on a show.

“Play ball!” the home plate umpire yelled, and the home team spilled from their dugout, wearing ugly pea-green-and-mustard-yellow uniforms with a cartoon image of a large duck wielding a pitchfork on their chests.
The Devil Ducks.

Rachel chuckled around a mouthful of popcorn. This was bad. No self-respecting man should wear pea-green pants, especially not the pitcher, who wasn't in the greatest shape …
Ooh.
She cringed as he turned away.
Hello, number ten.

But Mr. Fry had some serious zip on that ball. During warm-ups, it whizzed in over and over, landing with a sharp pop in the catcher's mitt.
Never judge a ball player by the way his pants fit.

“Batter up!” the umpire called, and the little guy who'd been warming up in the batter's circle walked toward the plate. He looked about fifteen and ridiculous, wearing a baggy black-and-red uniform with the image of an old-time burglar on his chest.

She squinted to read the team name.
The Bloody Bandits.
Nice. What was with this league?

“Strike him out,” she said around another mouthful of popcorn. Sitting this one down shouldn't be too hard. Mr. Fry was twice his size. But the first pitch was a ball. The guy in front of Rachel said it was because the strike zone tightened up when the batter was smaller. It made sense, and it seemed to really rattle Mr. Fry, who quickly fell behind in the count—three balls and no strikes.

The kids along the first-base line started chanting, “Strike, strike, strike, strike.” And whether that egged on Mr. Fry or messed with the batter's head, the ball whizzed over the plate to make the count three and one. On the very next pitch, a foul ball made it a full count, and you would've thought the entire game was riding on this one pitch by the sounds of those kids.

Windup. Fast pitch. Swing and a miss.

“Ring him up!” yelled the guy in front of her.

Rachel shoved another handful of popcorn into her mouth so she could clap. Good for Mr. Fry. Hopefully, he would have an easier time with the next two batters, who were probably normal-sized gu …

Sam Sutter strolled out of the dugout looking startlingly sexy in his silly uniform. Rachel's popcorn stuck in her throat, and she hacked.

The guy in front of her turned and asked, “You okay? You need help?”

She shook her head as she fumbled with her water bottle. “I'm good,” she managed between coughs.

But she wasn't. Seeing Sam in a pair of perfectly fitted baseball pants was very bad … for all the right reasons.

• • •

It's just like riding a bike
, Sam told himself, even though he had a hunch it wasn't quite the same. Before the game, he'd warmed up, hit well, and fielded decently. There was nothing left to do but put it all together in real time.

He swallowed the nerves and dug his feet into the dirt around the plate.
See it. Hit it.

He set his stance and relaxed his eyes in an effort to pick up the ball when it released.
No changeups, please.

The first pitch was low and outside. Sam sat back on his heels and let the umpire call, “Ball.”

Nerves rattled in his chest, and he imagined them as thoroughbreds behind the gate. The minute he swung, those nerves would release in an explosion of power, driving the ball over the wall.
See it. Hit it.

He swung and missed.
Fucking changeup.

Now, those nerves taunted him. He was old, rusty, washed up, and delusional. He stepped out of the batter's box and acknowledged that all of that might be true, but it would take more than one strikeout to prove it.

He stepped back into the box and settled into his stance.
See it. Hit it.
And when he exhaled he added,
Just have fun.

The ball barreled toward him high and hanging, curving slightly at the last possible second. He opened that gate and swung with the strength of all the pent-up nerves.

Crack!
Sam could've sworn he heard the ball rip the air as it ascended into the outfield at an alarming rate. He dropped the bat and focused on the first-base coach who was swinging his arm wildly. Sam's feet hit the ground with such force he felt the vibration all the way to his neck. Faster. Faster still. And then he saw the umpire behind second base give the universal whirly motion for home run.

The weight of ten long years lifted off his chest, and he felt free. No more pounding the ground. The rest of his run was effortless. He floated around third with a smile on his face.

Bright sunshine split the clouds as if to say, “What took you so long? Welcome home.”

“Old man's still got it,” Ian said as they crossed paths and high-fived at the plate.

“You bet your sweet ass I do.”

And that's when he saw her.
Rachel.
On her feet at the top of the bleachers. She was framed by clear blue sky, and she was beaming. But it was what she did next that lit something deep and dangerous in his chest. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and blew him a kiss.

He steadied his breathing, tipped his hat beneath his helmet, and smiled.

There was no reason to overinflate the meaning of her being here. He had a fan in those bleachers, which was cool. Fans made everything better, including the way he played.

Sam ended up four-for-four with six runs batted in, and he more than held his own on first base. The Arlington Aces didn't seem like such a long shot now. And as he packed up his bag, he found himself shuffling work schedules in his mind, delegating tasks to new hires who showed promise, explaining his decision to his father and brother.

But he still wasn't sure. Could he competently run his half of the landscaping business while he spent four months of the year playing baseball?

On his way to join the team for a victory toast at the tailgate of Ian's truck, Sam detoured to where Rachel was waiting alongside the snack bar.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, hoping she would say she'd come to see him.

“Well …” She looked down the first-base line, where a crowd of kids was talking to the pitcher through the fence. “That's my niece's gym teacher. She wanted extra credit, so we came.”

“Seeing me must've been a surprise.”

She smiled that sultry smile that made him want to back her against the snack bar for a victory kiss. “You're always a surprise, Sam Sutter. But now that I know what you're truly capable of, I won't take no for an answer.”

He gave her a slow, smoldering look. “I could say the same thing about you, you know?” Visions of her flush and full in front of the fireplace bombarded him until he had to ask, “Are you busy tonight?”

“I'm always busy.” But her crooked grin made him think he stood a chance.

“Too busy for a little uncomplicated fun?”

She glanced at the kids again. “You really are persuasive, aren't you?”

“Depends on how you answer my question. What do you say?”