Fastball (2 page)

Gripping her laptop bag tightly to her side,
Maddie jostled along with a bunch of guys from the local media as
she headed through the crowded clubhouse toward the manager. Jack
Ault was one of the true gentlemen of the game. Tall, with a
tanned, rugged face and a full head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair,
he radiated confidence in his team and himself. He treated all his
players with respect, and they responded by playing hard for him.
His fairness extended to reporters, too. Jack had always made time
to talk to her, usually with a mischievous twinkle in his baby
blues.

Maddie sidled up as he started to unbutton
his jersey, raising her voice over the din. “Jack, how bad is
José’s injury, and what are you going to do if he has to go on the
disabled list? Have you decided who’ll take over in right, and what
other changes will have to be put in place?”

The manager turned around, rubbing his face
as he tried to stifle a yawn. He took a half-step backward as five
microphones snaked close to his face. “It’s a fractured right arm,
Maddie. We don’t know about the extent of the injury yet—whether
it’s a clean break or something worse. But even in the best case
scenario, José’s going to be out for months.”

“What about Jake Miller?” one of the local
broadcasters asked. “He’s been hot at Triple A. Is he ready to come
up?”

Jack grimaced. “We wanted to give Miller a
couple of more weeks down in Triple A. Our plan was to get him at
least a hundred at-bats in Allentown before bringing him up. But
he’s progressed faster than we’d even hoped for. So, yeah, it looks
like we’ll be calling Miller up. He may still be a little rusty,
but even rusty he’s still one hell of a ballplayer.”

Maddie struggled to suppress a flare of
unprofessional excitement. She’d never met Jake Miller, but she’d
been following his career for years and had been eagerly
anticipating the day he’d be called up to the big-league team. She
wasn’t embarrassed to admit—well, not
too
embarrassed—that
she was a total fan-girl, fascinated by his powerful bat and
skilled outfield defense. On top of that, he also came off as a
straight-up kind of guy, one who was pretty modest given his status
as a star athlete.

His outrageous good looks sure didn’t hurt
one bit, either. If Maddie were still a teenager, she knew she’d
have posters of him plastered all over her bedroom walls.

Jake Miller was a hell of a ballplayer, and
his projected return after injury to the big league roster would no
doubt be on the front page of every sports section in the country
tomorrow. Despite his standing as a superstar, most baseball fans
knew little about Miller other than his decade of accomplishments
on the field. The man avoided celebrity status like it was toxic
sludge, and refused to talk to the media about anything but the
game of baseball, even though his looks and talent could have
easily landed him on the cover of dozens of glossy magazines.
Maddie had read everything about him that she could ever get her
hands on, but the essence of the man still managed to elude
her.

Surrounded by jostling, shouting reporters,
she stood rooted to the spot as an idea began to take shape in her
brain. What could it do for a writer’s career if Jake Miller
decided to break his own hard and fast, self-imposed rules?

And what exactly could
she
offer to
get him to consider doing just that?

Jake Miller cast his gaze around the nearly
full grandstand and bleachers. Allentown, Pennsylvania. Coca-Cola
Park. Not exactly Wrigley Field or Fenway, but baseball was
baseball, even in the minor leagues. Even when you were playing for
the Lehigh Valley IronPigs.

IronPigs
. One word, for God’s sake,
and obviously part of local history. The Lehigh Valley area was
steel country, down on its luck now, but once a mighty beating
heart inside industrial America—as important to the country as the
fields and dairies of his beloved native Minnesota. Still, being
stuck here was beginning to get pretty damn old.

One good thing about Allentown—its proximity
to Philadelphia. Sixty miles, and barely more than an hour’s drive
to the beautiful new ball park in Philadelphia. And Philly was
where Jake longed to be, back with the Patriots. Back in the major
leagues, his interrupted career resumed, finally healthy and free
of pain.

Jake swung a weighted bat in the on-deck
circle, waiting for his turn at the plate. There were worse places
to play baseball on a warm June night, but as much as he loved the
game for its own sake, he couldn’t imagine having to play in the
minors for the rest of his career. For him, thank God, it was a
matter of
when
he’d get back to the big leagues, not
if.

Of course, some in the Patriots’ head office
had all but written him off when he shattered his right ankle in
spring training last year. The freak injury had led to a botched
surgery in March that left him hobbling for months in a fruitless
attempt at recovery, and it had taken a specialist at the Mayo
Clinic to repair the damage. That second surgery had finally
pointed Jake in the right direction.

But it had been an arduous and emotionally
taxing journey of rehabilitation. Spring training this year had
been spent on the disabled list. Then, after six more weeks of
rehab, he’d been dispatched to Allentown for an indefinite period
of conditioning and adjustment to game conditions. The Patriots’
front office would only call him up when he was back to pre-injury,
peak performance. He’d been killing himself in Allentown,
determined to fulfill those expectations, all while counseling
himself to remain patient. But the Patriots’ general manager, Dave
Dembinski, had never been his number one fan, especially after Jake
had forced the Patriots to salary arbitration three years ago and
won. Dembinski didn’t like losing at anything or to anyone.

When it came time to bat, Jake stepped up to
the plate with a hyper-awareness that his team trailed the Buffalo
Bisons 4-2 in the bottom of the eighth inning. The gravel-voiced
announcer introduced him, drawing out the last syllable of his name
in a rousing call, and the crowd let out a long, appreciative
roar.

He took his stance in the batter’s box,
glaring at the Bisons’ pitcher. Unfortunately, he knew the guy
wouldn’t want to give him a decent pitch to hit. Not many minor
league pitchers wanted to face a healthy Jake Miller, not when he
had over three hundred and eighty home runs in ten seasons in his
back pocket. Most likely, this young reliever would try to throw
him four balls just off the plate, and then move on to try his luck
with the next batter.

But Jake was wrong, and was caught off guard,
reacting just a fraction too slow when the hurler smoked a fastball
on the inside corner with his first pitch. He whiffed the air above
the ball as it made a noisy thump in the catcher’s glove.

Amusement warred with irritation as he
settled back into his stance. At least the kid had the balls to
throw straight heat with two men on base, but Jake couldn’t believe
he’d been so asleep at the switch.

Unfortunately for the rookie pitcher, success
obviously went to his head and he made the fatal mistake of trying
another fastball. Jake recognized the pitch the split-second it
left the kid’s hand, tracking the ball as it came straight over the
heart of the plate. His reflexes took over and he rotated, whipping
his arms through the strike zone. The ball shot off the bat, and
the line drive was still rising when it cleared the fence in left
field.

Home freaking run.

Jake rounded the bases at a leisurely trot,
basking in the cheers from the packed stadium. God, hitting homers
never got old.

His three-run blast gave the IronPigs a 5-4
lead that held up through the ninth for the win. The afterglow of a
game like that never failed to amaze him, even after all these
years. He still heard the cheers from the fans and his teammates
long after he’d showered, dressed, and returned to his modest hotel
room. As far as he was concerned, tonight’s game should have sealed
the deal. If Dembinski didn’t call him now, Jake didn’t know what
he could do to convince the general manager he was still in the
game.

Two hours later, he finally gave up waiting
for his phone to ring and tossed the novel he was trying to read
onto his bedside table. Dembinski, the bastard, was obviously
ignoring him so he might as well call it a night.

When the hotel phone shrieked in his ear, it
yanked him out of a deep sleep. Jake glanced blearily at the clock.
Nearly three.
A stab of panic shot through him, pulling him
upright. Was someone back home in Minnesota sick, or worse? His dad
had been struggling with poor health on and off for months.

He lunged for the phone. “Hello?”

“Jake?”

The voice was familiar, and not a family
member. “Ralph?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” said Ralph Melillo, the
Patriots’ assistant general manager.

Jake relaxed, easing back onto the cheap
hotel pillows. “Jesus. You scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry, but I had no choice. José got hurt
tonight in San Diego. Broke his arm diving into the seats for a
foul ball. Rotten luck, but kind of a stupid move, if you ask me.
Anyway, Dave wants you on a plane first thing in the morning.
You’ll join the team here and play right field tomorrow night.”

Jake took a moment to shake the cobwebs out
of his sleep-addled brain, just to make sure he’d heard right.
Great freaking news, but tinged with regret. José Rodriguez was a
friend, and it sounded like the big Venezuelan would be out for
months, if not the rest of the season. “I’m happy to come out,
Ralph,” he said, “but it sucks about getting the call-up because of
José getting banged up.”

“We don’t know yet how long he’ll be out,”
Melillo replied in a clipped voice. “I heard the x-rays didn’t look
too good, but we won’t know more until after he sees the orthopedic
guy tomorrow. Anyway, you have to get an early flight this morning
to get here on time, so I’d better let you go. Do you want my
assistant to book your ticket? She’s used to getting calls in the
middle of the night.”

“No thanks. I can handle it. What hotel are
you guys at?”

“Same as always,” Melillo said. “The
Omni.”

“Great. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

Jake hung up and headed straight to the
shower, adrenaline and excitement coursing through his veins. There
was no point in trying to sleep. He’d shower, throw his suitcase
together, and jump into his Tahoe for the drive down the turnpike
to Philadelphia International. He’d catch the first flight out that
morning, and should be in San Diego in time to check in to the
hotel and maybe get a bit of rest before having to start his first
game for the Patriots in almost twenty long months.

And it was about damn time.

* * *

Jake’s flight to San Diego arrived a few
minutes early. He’d hoped to sleep a few hours on the way, but the
combination of his adrenaline buzz and the overpowering perfume of
his elderly seatmate had made that impossible. Fortunately, by
catching the crack-of-dawn flight, it left him some needed down
time before he had to get over to Petco Park. After checking-in at
the Omni, he was on his way to the elevators when he spotted Robbie
Benton heading across the lobby. Jake dropped his bag and grabbed
his much smaller teammate in a bear hug.

Robbie whooped a greeting and pounded him on
the back. “I heard at breakfast they called you up to replace José.
I can’t believe you made it this fast from freakin’ Allentown,
though. You buy a private jet? You’re rich enough, you
asshole.”

Robbie had always liked to rattle Jake’s
chain, ever since they first met in Single A ball. Jake had been a
talented but raw nineteen year-old, while Robbie was already in his
fourth year in the low minors. While Jake had shot through the
Patriots’ minor league system at lightning speed, it had taken
Robbie another three years to make it to Philadelphia. When he
finally did, though, he became a solid, slick-fielding shortstop
who nailed down the starting job for the next five years. Robbie
couldn’t hit much more than his weight, but his glove and his speed
on the bases had made up for his lack of production at the
plate.

Unfortunately, an aging body inevitably made
for a slower runner and a weaker fielder, so last season the
Patriots had called up a top prospect from the minors to replace
Robbie as the starting shortstop. Thrust into the far less
glamorous role of utility infielder, backing up at three positions,
Robbie had worked hard to stay on as a valuable member of the team.
And Jake did everything
he
could to make sure his pal knew
he was still important to the team, even if it was stretching the
truth.

Even so, he caught a trace of resentment in
Robbie’s feeble joke about the private jet. While Jake had enjoyed
star status and big contracts for a number of years, Robbie had
toiled for a lot less money. Now, under a new contract, his friend
was playing for a bargain-basement salary by major league baseball
standards. It sucked, but everyone who played knew the score.

“No, Rob,” he said with a grimace. “I took
the no-frills flight in coach, but I did get an organic granola bar
for breakfast. You love to travel first class, but you know I don’t
give a damn about that kind of thing.” He finished with a grin so
Robbie would know he was just yanking his chain back. But the truth
was that Jake really didn’t give a shit about most of the perks
that came with his life. Never had and hoped he never would.

“Well, excuse me for trying to make a joke,”
Robbie retorted. “You’ll never give up that aw-shucks, straight
from the Minnesota dairy farm bullshit, will you?”