Big Leagues (16 page)

She grinned. “Tomorrow! No game. No work. I
can’t wait.”

Benji cleared his throat. “Say, Cat
…”

She looked up from the book of coupons she had
been perusing.

“Have you been to the—”

Da-da-da-dut-da-duh … Charge!

She bit her bottom lip. “Sorry, that’s my cell.
Just a sec.”

He nodded.

She hopped up and pulled the phone from her
bag, silencing the song. When she spotted the caller ID, she
groaned: “Hohenschwangau Stadium.”

Benji peeked at his watch.

“This is Cat … Yeah … W-what? Dustin, I just
got home … Well, who told you to stay late? I haven’t even unpacked
… Emergency? W-what kind of emergency? Okay, okay. I’m on my
way.”

She snapped the phone shut, and Benji shot her
a look of sympathy. She shook her head. “So much for my off day.
Apparently there’s some sort of emergency and the entire staff is
being called back to the office.”

Benji’s forehead creased. “Emergency? Like a
baseball emergency? What does that even mean?”

“It could be anything. Scheduling change? An
injury? A blockbuster trade?”

“Hmm.”

“Benji, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Can we
pick this up another time?”

He stood up and waved her off. “Of course.
Sorry about the day off.”

“You said it yourself—the news never sleeps,
right?”

She glanced down at their steaming cups of tea,
sighed, and slung her bag over her shoulder. Benji followed her as
she hurried out the door.

The parking lot was jammed full. You would
think it was two hours before game time rather than midnight on an
off day.

“Hey, Winston, any idea what’s going
on?”

The usually chatty guard merely shrugged his
shoulders and lifted the gate. After parking in the first spot she
could find, she hopped out of the Jeep and headed to the tunnel. A
set of headlights twirled around the row of cars and sped toward
her. She had to jump out of the way as star slugger Brett Hable’s
black Corvette swung into his parking spot.

The players were called back, too?

Cat picked up her pace. During the six-month
season—not counting a month of spring training—the players had a
total of twenty days off to spend with their families. The
organization had drawn up a list of commandments they gave out with
the front office manuals, and number six was as clear as the other
nine: players are not to be disturbed on a rest day. Not for
payroll questions, not for legal updates and definitely not for
promotional purposes. The only exclusion was for transactional
moves and even then, communication went through the player’s agent.
With the trade deadline looming, Cat’s best explanation for the
midnight meeting was news of an epic deal about to go down. Now,
seeing how the sixth commandment had been broken, she had a grim
feeling the spontaneous summit was not to announce a new starter to
the lineup.

She walked into the crowded lobby and saw every
member of the organization she’d met in the last two weeks: the
clubhouse manager, the players, the coaching staff, the trainers,
the administrative staff, the lawyers, the scouts, the special
assistants, the advisors, the accountants, the interns, the
secretaries, the grounds crew, even the off-duty security staff.
Each department split up and formed small cliques around the lobby.
She snuck over to the media relations crowd.

“What’s going on?”

Dustin, who had his back to her, didn’t even
bother to turn around. Kiara, her gray UNLV tank top and sweatpants
providing a stark contrast against everyone else’s business attire,
shook her ponytail from side to side, her dark eyes wider than
usual. The rest of the group offered nothing more than worried
shrugs. Cat shifted from side to side, scowling at the heels
torturing her throbbing feet. They were normally her most
comfortable pumps, but after a cross-country flight, even kitten
heels had fangs.

As the congregation grew, one man was visibly
absent.

“Mr. König was the one to call this meeting,
right?” Cat whispered.

Before anyone could answer, the elevator
chimed. Erich König swept into the lobby, the team doctor and the
head of security trailing behind him with hurried footsteps.
Erich’s tie was loose around his neck and, for the first time since
they had met at his casino, Cat saw the team’s owner without a suit
jacket.

“Everyone, thank you for coming. I am sorry for
interrupting your evening and calling you back at this late hour.
However, I am even more apologetic to be the bearer of this news.
There has been a tragedy in the Chips’ family. We just received
word that …”

All eyes remained on Erich König as he pulled a
handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed the corners of his
eyes. His once undetectable accent had emerged as he haltingly
clipped each syllable and the Ws disappeared from his
“vords.”

“Excuse me. We just received word that beloved
outfielder, Jamal Abercromby, went into cardiac arrest on his way
home this evening. He veered off the road and paramedics were
notified by the emergency response system in his car. I am afraid
by the time they arrived on the scene, it was too late.” Erich
dabbed his eyes again. “He is dead.”

The room’s collective gasp was followed by a
gap of silence. Stricken by the loss of one of their own, the group
of players broke first. A few sobs rang out. Many stood with mouths
agape, the color drained from their cheeks. Tears ran down faces.
Jamal’s fellow outfielders sunk to the ground and buried their
heads in their hands.

Each of the faces of Cat’s media colleagues
shared the same expression as her own—a ghastly mix of disbelief
and dread. Dustin stared down at the floor and had yet to bring his
head up.

“I know, my friends, this is terribly
distressing. I am certain everyone is stunned, as are we. Dr.
Goodall is assisting the team of investigators to expedite this
painful process and we will, of course, keep every one of you
apprised of the information we receive. The Abercromby family is
planning the arrangements and there will be an announcement
forthcoming on the dates.”

Numerous heads nodded helplessly. Erich
directed his moistened eyes to her. “Catriona?”

Her head shot up.

“Before you leave tonight, could you write a
statement for the public? Include the very basic information,
nothing further. Until the investigation concludes, we should keep
his heart attack classified. Please, request respect for his family
during this time.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He directed his attention to the next group.
“Public Relations, you will release Catriona’s statement to the
appropriate media outlets.”

Their response was to set their heads in motion
like a circle of bobbleheads.

Cat leaned over to whisper to the group, “Just
give me an hour to draw it up.”

Erich König turned to the players. “Grief
counseling will be available over the next week. I beg each of you
to take advantage of those services.” Addressing the rest of the
baffled faces, he said, “I have nothing further. Everyone, please
exercise caution on your journey home tonight. Also,
bitte
,
bear in mind that for the time being this is a private
matter.”

The group filed out, their murmurs rising in
volume.

“Cat, do you want me to stay?” The glassy-eyed
intern tugged on Cat’s sleeve. “I can help you.”

She turned and gave her a gentle pat on her
bare shoulder. “Oh no, sweetie. Thank you. You’re not even getting
paid for this. Why don’t you go home, get some rest? There’s not a
whole lot to do right now anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, you go. I’ll definitely need your help
tomorrow, though, okay?”

Kiara rubbed her eyes. “Okay. Bye,
Cat.”

Cat shuffled to the elevator with a few other
employees. The ride up to the fourth floor was silent.

After staring at the blank computer screen for
several minutes, Cat put her fingers to the keyboard. They froze.
She drew them back and tried again.

Nothing.

Stifling a yawn, she placed her hands once more
on the laptop keyboard. Finally, a soft clicking broke the
silence.

Chips’ rookie outfielder Jamal Abercromby died
early Friday morning after his car skidded off Townsend Road in
Spring Valley. More details will follow as they are released by the
authorities. The Chips organization is greatly saddened by this
sudden tragedy and respectfully requests thoughts and prayers for
the Abercromby family.

She e-mailed the generic statement to Public
Relations and waited for a confirmation. Minutes later, her message
alert beeped.

“Thanks, Cat. I’ll send this off to all the
major sports networks. Word of warning: they’re vultures. They’re
not gonna let this one rest until they know everything. Privacy be
damned.

—
Chris

Cat stretched out her stiff legs.

It’s gonna be a long night.

It was two o’clock in the morning before the
national sport websites broke the story, releasing no more
information than her statement. Cat kept her eye on various message
boards to monitor their reactions. She spent an hour absorbed in
the fan sentiment:

MadDog3482inNY:

WHOA!!!!!! Car wreck? Crunked?

CrosstownWS2011:

So who’s playing CF for the Chips
now?

SmittyBaller:

My fantasy team is screwed.

Sox4Life:

’Roid rage. No doubt.

The comments were mere sparks compared to the
blaze to come in the morning, but they gave Cat early insight into
the fans’ gut reactions, specifically with the “s-word.”

Steroids.

This was not the first time she’d heard the
rumors about her team. The Chips’ instant success had come easy,
but where “easy” went, suspicion tagged along. Suspicion set its
target on the roster.

The roster, where has-beens rebounded to
comeback heroes.

The roster, where potentials turned into
overnight idols.

The roster, where injuries healed in half the
estimated time.

The roster, where deep-pop flies turned into
winning home runs.

Just one of those strokes of luck would spur
whispers of performance-enhancing, and the Chips had struck the
jackpot with all four, three years in a row. Suspicion lit the
torches that witchhunters intended for Hohenschwangau Stadium, and
their flames had been burning since the team’s inaugural
season.

Cat rolled her eyes. The scripted response
played through her mind. Drug testing had become so commonplace and
precise in the last few years that it was difficult for one player
to get away with as much as an unapproved Flintstones Chewable. The
idea that an entire team could be using anabolic steroids or growth
hormones without detection was ridiculous.

Nevertheless, the skeptics and cynics couldn’t
be dissuaded. Baseball chat rooms were packed with disbelievers
from eight to eighty years of age, and they all pointed accusatory
fingers at their hated rivals. They claimed the commissioner was
blackmailed, that the organist was in on the scam, that even the
hot dog vendors were being paid off. They went so far as to declare
that modern baseball was one big sham. Hiding behind screen names
and avatars, they failed to take into account that such a
conspiracy would not benefit anyone outside of the Chips
organization. The cynics glossed over the fact that the drug
testing was conducted by a reputable laboratory with no connections
to any of the teams and that the tests were monitored by the
commissioner’s office. The skeptics never examined why—if a massive
conspiracy did exist—no former players or disgruntled ex-staff
cashed in on what would indeed be an incredibly profitable
exposé.

Cat found the whole idea silly. However, silly
or not, the message boards proved she was going to be busy fielding
the same suggestions about Jamal Abercromby. The fans were going to
have a lot of questions. Responding to those questions was the
least dreamy part of her dream job. She jotted down everything she
read online, even the most offensive implications, and added a few
concerns of her own. She rubbed her eyes and looked out her open
door to the dark, empty fourth floor. When had everyone left? The
emergency exit sign shrouded the deserted desks in a soft green
glow and created more shadows than light. The silence said it
all.

Go home, Cat.

* * *

Before she left, instead of taking the usual
right turn to the parking lot tunnel, Cat swung a left and strolled
down to the clubhouse.

Maybe just one last look at Jamal’s
locker.

The open cubbyholes were the only personal
space the players had on the entire grounds. That notion struck her
as very wrong. Without the players, Hohenschwangau wouldn’t exist,
and yet, their claim to the whole stadium was a mere eight cubic
feet. She entered the doorway and looked toward the southwest
corner. Just last week she and several other eager media hounds had
crowded Jamal Abercromby to gush about the spectacular catch that
had robbed the opposition of a home run.