Big Leagues (12 page)

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful
…”

Cat belted out the Christmas carol in her
off-key voice and hiked up the concrete stairs with her tote bag.
“… And since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let
it—”

She halted upon seeing the door across the
hallway wide open. With a giant grin, Benji angled his head out to
the corridor. She was sure he’d heard every note. He sauntered
outside and leaned on his door frame, a twinkle in his scrutinizing
eyes.

“Couple things, neighbor.”

She brought her bags up to her chest and
clutched them protectively.

“First off, this is Las Vegas. I know you’re
new here, but there’s a better chance of the city being swallowed
up by the Grand Canyon than Frosty stopping by for a cup of hot
cocoa.”

She smiled meekly.

I could go for the former right about
now.

“And two, it’s July.”

She cleared her throat. “I uh, h-heard the song
on the radio. It was stuck in my head.”

“The radio?”

She owned up with a sheepish smile. “Well, last
December.” She sat her bags down and leaned against the stucco
hallway wall. “So what, were you just camping out here, waiting to
witness my next bout of humiliation?”

Benji put his hands up defensively. “Hey, what
do you take me for? I swear, I came out here with good intentions.
I stayed for the humiliation, but first, good
intentions.”

He held his index finger up, turned around to
grab a small package from his entry table, and presented it to her
atop his two flattened hands.

“I happened to arrive at the mailboxes at the
same time as our friendly neighborhood mailman. Saw this package
for you had a fragile sticker so I saved it from inevitable
mutilation.” He extended his arms proudly, and she peeked at the
return address.

“Oh, it’s a shot glass from my
grandma!”

Benji’s forehead scrunched up as she tore open
the package. “A shot glass? That’s nice. My nana usually sticks
with knitting me sweaters and the occasional scarf, but hey, I’d
probably get more use out of a shot glass.”

“No, it’s not like that. See?
Souvenir.”

Cat held the tiny glass in her hand so Benji
could view the Atlantic City logo. As he leaned in, she closed her
eyes and stole a sniff of the scent of his warm, citrusy cologne.
Hoping he didn’t notice, she took a step back.

“Grams brings them back for me from vacation.
Except I don’t think she knows they’re for liquor. Last time I was
at her house, she filled them with barbeque sauce and served them
with chicken nuggets.”

“Well, they’re definitely for
sauce.”

“I didn’t have the heart to tell
her.”

He chuckled, and she smiled. “Thanks for the
rescue mission. That was really decent of you.”

“Hey no problem.” He shrugged. “At least my
graphic novel didn’t lose its value in vain, right?”

Cat grinned.
Comic book
, she
thought.

“Well,” she said, “let me help you forget that
traumatic loss. How about tickets to the Chips game tomorrow
night?”

“The Chips?”

“I’m the new team reporter; that’s one of the
few perks I get to throw around.”

He shoved his hands in the back pockets of his
blue jeans and rocked back on his heels. “Chips … that’s baseball,
right?”

She nodded slowly. His eyes squinted beneath
his disheveled black bangs. “The one with the bats and balls? Three
strikes, that sort of thing?”

“Last time I checked. I take it you’re not much
of a fan?”

Benji’s mouth twisted grimly as he looked down
at his sandals. “I’ve never told anyone this. It was my mother. She
took me to a game when I was six and there was … an
accident.”

Cat placed her hand on her chest. “An accident?
What h-happened?”

His voice dropped. “It was before the game even
got started. Her finger—actually her whole hand, it was destroyed.
There was nothing anyone could do.”

“D-destroyed?”

Benji took a deep breath. He brought his
piercing stare up to meet her wide eyes.

“It was ripped off her body.”

Her eyebrows knitted in confusion. He raised
his own brows comically above an expression that shifted suddenly
from disturbed to delighted.

“Wait, did I forget to mention it was one of
those foam fingers?”

He beamed, and Cat groaned. She gave his
shoulder a gentle slap. “You’re kind of an ass, aren’t
you?”

He snickered and raised his palms up. “I’m
sorry. Bad joke. I just never really got into our national
pastime.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Never? Let me guess.
You’re allergic to apple pie, too?”

“Oh no. I’m afraid that’s an equally tragic
story that involves my father, an apple seed and an emergency trip
to the dentist.”

She giggled again, and their eyes locked
together. Cat’s pulse surged as her laughter trailed off. She
wondered if his eyes had gotten bluer since she last saw him. She
broke the stare and pretended to examine the shot glass.

He cleared his throat. “It would be nice to—you
know, catch a game or something with you. I just can’t tomorrow
night. I’ve got a night class.”

She perked up. “Oh, are you in
school?”

“Kinda. I’m an assistant professor in
evolutionary ecology, uh, biology, that is.”

She batted her eyelashes and pressed her lips
together. “Biology … that’s the one with cells and genes,
right?”

He burst into laughter. “That’s the one. Don’t
tell me, you have an equally traumatic story to rival my foam
finger tragedy?”

“Very much so. My ordeal involves a high school
lab, a squeamish student, an owl pellet and Sloppy Joe day in the
cafeteria.”

He held his right hand up in protest. “Say no
more, please!”

They smiled, and their eyes convened once
more.

Definitely bluer.

She blinked. “Oh, hey, I have a favor. If you
don’t want to, say the word.”

He waved nonchalantly. “No, please, I love to
do favors. Assuming it’s an incredible imposition, of
course.”

“Well, it’s mildly inconvenient.”

Benji stroked his chin. “Hmm … I suppose I can
find another way to put myself out. What’s up?”

“The team has a road trip to the Central. We’re
leaving tomorrow, and I don’t think the tiny mailbox out front can
hold ten days worth of bills and junk mail. Would you mind grabbing
it for me?”

“Sure. I have to warn you, I reserve the right
to read any magazines.” He brought an index finger up. “That
includes first dibs on perfume samples.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr.
Levy.”

She stuck her hand out, and he took it with a
soft grip, keeping her fingers in his grasp.

“So are you on the road a lot then?”

She gently slipped her hand out of his and
tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Oh yeah. Eighty-one away games, after all.
Then there’s a month of spring training down in
Arizona.”

“Sounds rough.”

“I know, right? I think living out of hotels
will get old real quick. Going out to eat every night by myself
will be kind of embarrassing.”

He shoved his hands back in his pockets and
traced the floor with his foot. “Yeah. Though I’m sure you’ll have
tons of burly, no-necked ballplayers for company.”

She eyed him carefully, trying to determine if
he was serious. “Not so much. I don’t date ballplayers.”

“Don’t date ballplayers? Isn’t that every
woman’s dream, snagging a professional athlete?”

“Sure.” She smiled. “According to professional
athletes.”

“I guess I just assumed … you like sports, they
like sports. Not a huge leap.”

“Nah. I have a whole theory on the
subject.”

Benji smiled. “A theory?”

“I won’t bore you with it.”

“Are you kidding? I’m a scientist. I live for
theories, theorems, hypotheses, conjectures. Don’t even get me
started on inferences.”

“Hmm, on second thought, it’s really more
speculation.”

“Darn, that’s above my pay grade.”

A door at the end of the hallway opened and a
laughing couple walked down the stairs. Cat cleared her throat and
pointed toward her apartment.

“We leave right after tomorrow afternoon’s
game, so I better get started on my packing.”

She dug through her purse, pulled out a key
ring and handed him the miniature mailbox key.

He bowed his head. “I shall defend your mailbox
with my life.”

“Thanks again, Benji.”

She stole one last peek at his baby blues and
wiggled her fingers at him before closing her door.

Otis Snow didn’t care for the weekly meeting in
the boss’ office. The fifth floor was hot, and it was even hotter
in his long-sleeved polyester security uniform and nine-inch
steel-toe boots. The average high for Las Vegas in late July was
106 degrees. Erich König had given Otis two options: long-sleeves
in the Vegas summers or laser tattoo removal. Otis opted to keep
his technicolored arms and hid them under the polyester, a choice
he regretted every time he stepped into the boss’ sunny
suite.

Boss says tats ain’t “professional,” but me
panting around his fancy office, sweating like a whore in church,
is all fine and just dandy.

Otis ogled the wet bar, desiring the ice bucket
as much as the scotch. Erich snapped the security guard’s attention
away by slamming a glass tumbler on his granite desktop.

“Ms. McDaniel, anything to report?”

“She’s not real sociable. Buncha calls to an
Ailsa McDaniel in Illinois, the grandmom.”

“Any other communications?”

“E-mails back and forth to a broad with the
Bulldogs—the ticketing supervisor I think. Pamela or
something.”

“Concerning?”

“Aw, girlie crap. How she likes Vegas, cute
neighbor, what’s new in Porterville. Talking about having her come
out here for a weekend.”

Erich nodded. “Keep me apprised of any upcoming
visits so I may offer Catriona a complimentary package at the
Palace for their entertainment.”

“You’re so generous, Boss.”

“I like to think so.”

“So when do I get one of them
suites?”

“When I hire you as the delightfully vivacious
new reporter.” Erich pointed to his luggage. “Take those down to
the car.”

* * *

Cat McDaniel’s eyes darted around the lounge
and out the window to the chartered 737. Air travel didn’t normally
unnerve her. She’d curbed that particular phobia after reading a
magazine article that weighed the likelihood of dying in a plane
crash versus other fatalities.

That bird is nothing compared to my one hundred
and sixty-two chances to take a foul ball in the eye or the soaring
shard of a maple bat to the chest.

She took one last swig of the stout Black
Russian and thanked the bartender. As she headed for the tarmac,
she worried her shifty glances and speedy walk were triggering
TSA’s watchful eye and tried to slow her speed. Cat’s nerves
couldn’t be reasoned with, though. They knew she was minutes away
from sharing the cabin with about fifty other individuals, all of
whom prevailed over her by virtue of their money, ability and, of
course, importance.

What’s the old saying? It’s nice to be
important, but it’s more important to be really
important?

She took a deep breath and hoped she didn’t
pale too much next to her flying companions’ power and
prestige.

Well, except for Dustin.

He was her only equal on the trip. She doubted
the junior reporter was saving a seat for her so they could play
Hangman on the way to Chicago.

That’d go well. “De_th to C_t.”

Cat stepped onto the plane and made a beeline
for a window seat in the first empty row she spotted, praying the
spot wasn’t reserved for Erich König or one of the other forty-nine
passengers of the utmost importance.

Er, forty-eight—can’t forget about
Dustin.

She immediately dove into her German
dictionary, attempting to remedy her apprehension with
incomprehension. Various players passed the row, not a single one
acknowledging her presence. Cat pretended the same indifference but
couldn’t help stealing a look at each stylish suit as the men made
their way down the aisle. She shifted in the roomy seat and cursed
both the itch of cheap pantyhose and the team’s strict dress code
for travel.

Eduardo Lopez, a young relief pitcher, stopped
at her row, threw his bag in the overhead compartment, and slumped
down in the seat next to her. Rap music blared from his headphones.
He closed his eyes and scrunched into the headrest. A flood of
relief washed over her and drowned the flutter of the butterflies
that had nested in her stomach for the last hour. A few rows back,
several players chortled as they asked the flight attendant for a
round of drinks and started a game of gin rummy. She turned around
to sneak a peek between the seats and snickered.