Big Leagues (14 page)

“No, thank you. And Maria? Do you find her to
be as wonderful an editor as I do?”

“Oh, Maria’s been great, too. She’s a busy bee,
though. I think I’ve seen her in the office maybe three times since
I started.”

He nodded. Cat offered a crooked smile, still
wondering what prompted this breakfast invitation.

“Catriona, they have a splendorous room service
menu here. Frankly, it is the reason this is one of my favorite
hotels.”

He pulled the lid off the buffet server, which
displayed three trays of scrambled eggs, buttermilk pancakes and an
assortment of breakfast meats. Erich motioned for her to help
herself. She gingerly lifted out a golden pancake and spooned some
fresh blueberries from a parfait dish.

“I really appreciate you having me up here, Mr.
König.”

“Well, the thought occurred to me we have not
had a moment to connect since your first day. I have a favor to
ask.”

“A favor?” Cat laid the butter knife
down.

“I am scheduled to appear on a local sports
radio show before today’s game.”

“Oh, uh, neat.”

“Regretfully, something has come up. I was
wondering if you would fill in for me instead.”

“Me?”

“Fan interaction,
ja
?”

“Did I say that?”

“I forget nothing.” He gave her a playful
wink.

She smiled. He had her caught in a rundown
between bases and there was no tricky maneuver to get her out of
this pickle.

“Okay, okay. What’s the old joke about having
the perfect face for radio?”

Erich chuckled. “Now that is malarkey, but I am
deeply obliged nonetheless. The interview will take place in the
home radio booth at noon for a few minutes.”

Few minutes. You can do a few
minutes.

“It is just a quick publicity appearance for
the club.”

“Anything for the Chips then.” She gave him a
quick smile.

* * *

A live radio interview ... Cat had small-talked
her way through breakfast with Erich, dutifully discussing the
food, the weather and baseball, but the minute the door to the
presidential suite shut behind her, she wiped the fake smile off
her lips and moped back to her floor, stepped into the isolation of
her hotel room, and slammed the door. At the sight of her flat hair
in the door mirror, she headed straight for her carry-on bag to dig
for her curling iron. She slung various items that were in the way
over her shoulder before giving up and throwing herself on the
bed.

“Public speaking!”

She kicked her heels against the comforter and
grabbed a pillow to shriek a muffled cry into its
feathers.

Public speaking is exactly why I got into
writing to begin with.

Cat threw the pillow against the wall and
turned her head toward the alarm clock. She cringed at the time. T
minus two hours and counting ...

That’s it. I’m not going. I’m sick.

* * *

As she fidgeted in the broadcast booth at two
minutes ’til twelve while an intern wired her for sound, Cat did
indeed feel sick. Her pulse raced, her body trembled and sweaty
palms awaited anyone who desired a handshake. A tall bald man
scrambled into the room with his hands raised
defensively.

“I know, I know,” he told the intern, “but you
can’t kill me. I’d be late for the funeral.”

He slid into a chair, threw on a pair of
headphones and flipped the various buttons on his control panel.
The intern motioned for Cat to sit in the other chair. She warily
sat down and sized up the host, who adjusted his microphone and
acknowledged her with a fleeting smile.

“I’m Max, by the way. You’re Catriona? Did I
say that right?”

She surveyed his control panel and counted the
switches. “Um, what? Oh, uh, my name. Perfect.”

“Cat-ree-own-a. Check.” He pushed his long
sleeves up to his elbows. “Let’s get this party started, shall
we?”

She put her hands in her lap and took a deep
breath. Max’s muscular arm reached past her to flip another switch.
An on-air sign appeared behind him, which made Cat’s pulse hit the
gas. During Max’s intro, she channeled the pages of
Iss-Yous!
and forced a supposedly calming smile.

Stupid book.

The smile only made her heartbeat speed up
until the tachometer’s needle dove into the red.

“With us today is the Chips’ lead sportswriter,
Catriona McDaniel. Catriona was nice enough to cross enemy lines
and, in the next few minutes, we’re hoping to extract some
classified information out of her.”

She fiddled with her fingers in her lap. Max
held out his cue sheet. “Well, first things first,
Catriona.”

“Please call me Cat.” The request came out with
a squeak. Cat dug her fingernails into her palms. At least she
hadn’t stuttered.

“Ooh, mee-OW.”

The tachometer’s needle wavered as annoyance
hopped behind the wheel and nervousness scooted over to ride
shotgun.

“I’ve never heard that one before,
Max.”

He laughed, and she smiled. Her heartbeat
idled.

“The claws are coming out already, folks, and
the game hasn’t even started. Okay, Cat, let’s get down and dirty.
What do you think of all the rumblings started by your team’s owner
about a salary cap for the league? König’s making a lot of waves in
the baseball world and the line’s been drawn. You’re either for the
cap or against it.”

She took a deep breath. She wasn’t prepared for
the topic but, like any fan, she had an opinion.

“Sure. I’m okay with capping the players’
salaries … if you slap a cap on Erich König’s, as well.”

Max’s hazel eyes lit up. “I’m not sure what you
mean, and I’m dying for you to explain.”

“My point is this, Max. If I thought a salary
cap would result in Little Bobby being able to buy a bleacher seat
with his lemonade money, then sure, of course, I’d give it two
thumbs up. To think that the cost of tickets, concessions or
merchandise will decrease under a salary cap is incredibly naïve.
Teams are going to charge what fans are willing to pay. The bottom
line is the only thing a salary cap will result in is a swankier
Rolls-Royce in the owner’s parking spot.”

Max pressed a sound effect button on his
switchboard and a car horn honked over the airwaves.

“Don’t you think a cap would make the league
more competitive? The way things work now, we’ve always got the big
city teams plunking down millions for a top free agent. The smaller
markets like us can’t compete with their spending. Don’t you think
this would level the playing field, if you’ll forgive my
appropriate, but trite, pun?”

Cat chuckled; her raging nerves were now in the
rearview mirror.

“Max, Max, Max. Do you really want to have this
conversation with a member of the Chips’ organization? We’re
underdogs, at least monetarily. Yet the Chips certainly haven’t had
any problems staying competitive with the boys on top. In fact, if
memory serves, several of those big spenders haven’t even gotten to
the playoffs in recent years.”

“You make a good point, Cat. This is certainly
a lively debate that I imagine isn’t going to end anytime soon.
Let’s move on to today’s game. You’ve got the ace on the mound who
nearly had a complete game in his last start. How many innings do
you see him notching today?”

She smiled, happy to be on a subject that
wouldn’t cause a national uproar. “I just talked with the skipper
this morning and he’s going to keep a strict watch on him,
one-twenty pitch count max, uh, Max.”

Max squinted at his notes. “I’d say that’d be
good news for us, but your bullpen hasn’t allowed a run in how
long?”

“Twenty-two innings and counting.”

“Ugh, you’re killing me here, scoop. One last
thing before we release you from our custody, Cat. Do you have any
good news for the home team?”

“Um … at least it’s not a
doubleheader.”

Max snickered and pushed a button on his
switchboard. A cat screech played over the airwaves.

“Cat McDaniel, folks. Another big thanks to the
Chips’ sportswriter for stopping by. I’ll be back with today’s
lineup after these messages from our sponsors.”

The on-air sign clicked off, and Cat sighed
with relief. She stretched her arms out in front of her as the
intern removed her mike. Max flipped off his headphones.

“That was great, Cat. I hope the sound effect
wasn’t too much.”

She waved her hand through the air. “Nah.
Thanks for having me. That was my first interview as sportswriter
for the Chips.”

“It was? Well it didn’t show.”

Scattered clapping sounded throughout the
stadium seats as the Chips ran onto the field for batting
practice.

“Ooh, duty calls. Maybe we can do this next
time the Chips are in town.”

He looked over at his clock and put his headset
back on. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Dustin waited outside the radio booth and
blocked the hallway when she tried to pass. He wore a smug grin to
complement his plaid button-up and Dockers.

Was he born with that expression? Is there such
a thing as an arrogant infant?

“I’m here to congratulate you. Heckuva
interview, Cat. I’m sure König will be thrilled to hear your
thoughts on a salary cap.”

She looked over his shoulder and
frowned.

“What are you talking about now,
Dustin?”

He crossed his arms and leaned on a mural of
Roberto Clemente. “Don’t you know König is one of the biggest
salary cap supporters in baseball? I’m sure he’ll love to hear his
newest employee thinks that’s only so he can have, what was it, a
bigger Rolls-Royce?”

“I simply gave my opinion on the
subject.”

Dustin sneered and pushed his glasses up on his
nose. “What’s your old saying, though?” He paused for a second
before snapping his fingers. “Oh yes, ‘we’re not paid to be opinion
columnists.’ ”

She sighed. “Unless we’re asked to opine,
which, if you were listening through those funnel cakes on the
sides of your head, you’d know I was.”

“I have a saying, too, Cat.” Dustin bent close
to her face, and his black eyes sent a chill through her body on
the warm summer afternoon. “Opinions are like bitches; everybody’s
got to work with one.”

The sting of his verbal slap knocked her jaw
open. His mouth curved into a half-smile as he strolled off toward
the press box. She stood in the hallway, stunned.

* * *

Cat sat on the bullpen bench pretending to take
notes on the ace’s warmup pitches before the game. She wanted to
avoid Dustin, so her options were either this or camping out in the
women’s restroom. She was due in the press box in just a few
minutes, but Pittsburgh was offering her too nice of a day to be
cooped up in the fish tank any longer than absolutely
necessary.

“Ah, Catriona. I tuned in to your radio debut
this afternoon.”

Cat squinted into the bright sun. The lean
silhouette of Erich König stood in front of her, his expression
eclipsed by the bright rays. He moved toward her and sat on bench.
Her stomach sprung into her throat like an Olympic gymnast. “You
did?”

He nodded and crossed his long legs toward her.
“I did. I’m afraid I have to take severe umbrage with what you said
about the Rolls-Royce.”

The tummy tumbler rocketed off the springboard
and raged through twists and spirals, determined to bring home the
gold.

Here we go. Stick a fork in me. He’s gonna fire
me right here and now. I wonder if they’ll make me pay for my own
flight home?

“You do?”

Maybe there’s a bus leaving today. Pittsburgh
to Las Vegas, how long could that take?

She swallowed hard, her gaze drifting to his
shoes.

How does he get them so shiny? I’ll probably
find out soon enough. On-the-job training in my next career as a
homeless woman who polishes shoes for a quarter.

“Oh, most definitely. Rolls-Royce? No,
Catriona, I am a Maybach man.”

Cat’s stomach stopped in mid-somersault. She
shaded her face with her hand and peered up into his dancing eyes.
“You mean, you’re not mad?”

“Of course not, Catriona. I did not hire you to
acquiesce in my every opinion. If I desired that, I would have
selected the
Schleimer
, Dusty.”

“Actually, sir, it’s Dus—, um, w-well thank
you.”

“Nur tote Fische schwimmen mit dem
Strom.”

Cat scrunched her nose. “Dead fish float down a
river?”

He chuckled. “Only dead fish swim with the
stream. A person without character chooses to follow the flow, but
you, Catriona, decide your own path.” He gave her a kind pat on her
shoulder as he rose from the bench. “You did terrific. I was really
impressed.”

Cat beamed as he strolled off toward the
dugout, his lean physique shrouded in sunshine.