Holm, Stef Ann (10 page)

The
thirteenth player hadn't voiced his opinion.

Alex.

Even
if he voted with the rest of them, it would change nothing. She'd still be the
manager. They'd have to give her a chance. Because they didn't have a choice.
And neither did she. It was either her or Bertram Nops. And Mr. Nops didn't
count. So she was it.

Alex
took the jersey from his cubby and slid one arm through a sleeve. Watching him
dress with deliberate slowness brought a tingle across her skin, a rush of
color to her cheeks. Slipping his other arm into the shirt, he began to do up the
length of buttons. "What the hell do I care who tells me when to pitch?
The game's still played the same."

"But
she's a woman, Cordova," Bones complained.

Alex's
gaze roamed over her with molten heat, from the brim of her hat to the hem of
her skirt. Just that one look ignited a flame in the bottom of her stomach. She
fought the urge to press her palm into her middle to still the warmth within
her.

His
tone deep and quiet, Alex said, "I can see that."

"But
we can't take orders from a woman."

Taking
his white pants off the hook, he stepped into them, completely heedless of
Camille's presence as his fingers slipped buttons in place on the fly.
"Get over it."

The
players stared at each other, sending silent messages through the clubhouse.
She didn't move an inch; she barely breathed. She took the time to size them up
in return.

They
were a ragtag bunch, it was true. The Harmony Keystones were local men. Some
lived in Harmony, others in Waverly and Alder. They worked at the feed and
seed, the lumbermill. Another farmed with his dad. Several were bricklayers. No
matter how much her father wanted to believe they were professional-league
material, the fact of the matter was, they were just hometown players. That's
all they'd ever been. And right now, clinging to hope and league salaries was
all they had going for them.

But
the right person could make the difference. She had her work cut out for her,
but she could do it. She had to.

With
every ounce of conviction she had, she found herself announcing, "I want
you to know that my vision for this club is quite ambitious. I may be a woman,
but I know the game. I can reverse the direction this team's been going."

Since
they were listening, she hastily added, "The margin between a winning club
and a losing club isn't always that big. It depends on how the players look at
themselves. I've read the rule book and I know how to improve batting
statistics. We'll practice fielding better and shagging balls. Everyone will
work together as a team."

Alex's
eyes met hers as she articulated her message. "And we can go to the
pennant if we all try. It could happen, you know. You all have potential. And
with Alex Cordova onboard, the Keystones can learn a great deal." She took
a deep gulp of air and smiled.

Then
she waited for their reactions.

A
few mumbles, quiet conversations, and shrugs. After another long moment, the
players finished dressing without protest. Specs slid the curtain shut and
those men who needed to change into trousers concealed themselves behind it.

Camille
didn't think she could resume normal breathing, much less sit down at the desk.
So she reached for the leather notebook and opened it. Feigning great interest
in that book was how she kept from thinking about what was going on around her.

With
their spike shoes on and bats in hand, and with the basket of balls carried in
between Cupid and Charlie, twelve men filed out of the clubhouse.

Only
Alex remained. He came toward her; she stilled in anticipation. She didn't know
what she expected him to do, and she didn't understand why she'd wanted his
approval.

Her
discomfort was unfounded. He made no attempt to touch her. He merely propped
the ball of his foot on the edge of her desk to tie his shoe. Looking up at her
through the hair that fell in his eyes, he said, "You didn't tell me not
everyone would be happy to see me."

"I
didn't know they wouldn't be." She wanted to assure him he was welcome.
"I'm sure Cub will find you to be an asset to the team. They've all known
my father wanted you to play with them. So it's no surprise."

"Yeah."
He fit his gold felt cap backward over his head, then turned to leave.

"Mr.
Cordova, I'm glad my being here doesn't bother you."

"It
doesn't bother me because you won't last a week." Then he walked out into
the rain, leaving the door open behind him.

The
patter of droplets smacked the ground, the sound filling the vacant clubhouse.
Her smile deflated, and she gripped the desk's edge before sinking into the
chair.

If
she hadn't been so knocked off-kilter by his assumption, she would have been
outraged. Wait a minute—she
was
outraged. He had no more faith in her
than her father did. Alex had let her go on and on about what a difference
she'd make, all the while mentally seeing her quit when she'd barely started.
That talk about "getting over it" had nothing to do with her. It had
everything to do with getting over
her
because
she
wasn't going
to be around long.

Camille
lowered her chin to her chest and sighed. Her energies had been wasted on a man
built of granite. A terrible sense of injustice beat within her heart.

Then
she remembered a crucial piece of information, something her father had said to
her the night he'd made her the manager. Anyone else would have been
disheartened by Alex Cordova's prophecy, but not Camille, not in light of what her
father had said. The odds on her survival had just gotten better: her father
had declared she wouldn't last one day, but Alex had just lengthened the
estimate to one week.

Pushing
to her feet and grabbing her notebook, she nodded to the empty room with
renewed spirits.

There
was something to be optimistic about after all.

* * * * *

Alex
remembered his first uniform playing semi-professional for the Buckeye Brawlers
when he was seventeen. Hell, he'd been so proud to wear it, he'd slept in it
that night. Getting that uniform had been a long time coming.

He'd
immigrated to America when he'd been twelve, leaving behind a grandfather in
Cuba who'd since died. His childhood was a painful place he rarely revisited.
It had been filled with war and bloodshed. Anger against the revolutionist
Spaniards, deaths that came too early, and disillusionment with the Roman
Catholic church. Once in Philadelphia, he grew determined to be a regular
Americano. And he'd slowly succeeded, in a way his cousin Hector would never
understand.

Hector
Herrera and his family had taken Alex in and given him food and shelter in
return for the money Alex earned. They got him work in a textile mill rolling
bolts and feeding machines with thread, a job that lasted some eight years.
He'd hated almost every day of it. Baseball was the only thing that had kept
him from leaving his cousin's house and heading out on his own. Hector's was a
place to stay while he gained some respect among the sandlot bunch.

Sean
O'Brien. Arthur Daley. Fellows he had admired, grown up with in a time that had
been both heartbreaking and heavenly. Along with other boys from the
neighborhood, they'd formed their own team, the Philly Billy Clubs. Together,
they'd go out to Shelton Field and watch the Hogee Knox team by crawling under
the fence so they wouldn't have to pay their five cents.

One
day Arthur arrived and showed off a silver dollar his father had won in a poker
game the night before. So Arthur's mother wouldn't find out about it and give
Arthur's father hell, the old man had given the silver to Arthur. The gang of
boys had asked Arthur what he was going to do with it, and he'd declared he was
taking them all out to the ballpark on Saturday to watch the game between the
Philadelphia Athletics and the Brooklyn Bridegrooms. Well, hell, you could have
heard their cheers all the way to Independence Hall.

It
was the first professional game Alex had ever seen, and it reaffirmed his
desire to wear a uniform, throw a regulation ball, and use a glove. A year
later he played for the Buckeye Brawlers, then the Cincinnati Stars. Two years
after that, he'd been bumped up to the majors. To his amazement, his contract
had been bought by the Brooklyn Bridegrooms before the Orioles had him.

Anybody
else would have said it was a dream come true. But for Alex Cordova, it had
been the beginning of a nightmare.

Leaning
his back against the dugout wall, Alex watched Camille. She kept an umbrella
over her head while gingerly stepping over the soggy ground, skirt held high,
but modestly so, searching for spare balls that might have been planted in the
tall outfield grass. The practice of hiding balls to take away home runs was a
common one. But the hunt for them came before the game; not before batting
practice. Apparently, she thought her own players would try to stiff her.

She
was a curious woman. He hadn't been able to fully get her out of his thoughts
since the day she'd come to his carpenter's shop. He'd figured that after he'd
signed his contracts, he wouldn't have to see her again. How wrong he'd been.
Her showing up at the clubhouse had been a big surprise.

Why
in the hell would she want to manage a baseball team?

Maybe
he could understand it if she were mannish. On the ugly side. Large-boned.
Ungainly. But she was the opposite of that. So opposite, he couldn't figure her
out. Not that he wanted to. Not that he should.

He
was here in body only. He was disconnected from the emotions that went with
ball playing. He didn't feel. He didn't care. All he wanted was his money.

"Well,
if it isn't the old shoe man." The greeting came in a contentious tone.
"Hey, Regal."

Alex
shifted his gaze to the man who'd walked up beside him. With the exception of
being in a Boston Somersets uniform rather than in a Cleveland Spiders uniform,
Cy "Cyclone" Young looked exactly how Alex remembered. Every angle of
his frame was exaggerated by the tight fit of his jersey. His arms were long
and almost appeared to dangle from the sleeves of his shirt. But it was that
right arm that could shoot a ball into the catcher's mitt with a crack. Below
the bill of his cap, his pomaded hair parted down the middle with two inward
curls on either side, looking much like commas... or horns of the devil—
whichever way a person wanted to look at it. Alex knew which one he preferred.
That remark about the Regals did it.

"Cy,"
Alex said noncommittally so as not to kick up a conversation. He didn't feel
like rebuilding old acquaintances. Not that he and Cy had ever been friendly.

"How'd
that go?" His arrogant smile said he knew exactly how the advertisement
went and he was going to recite it. Sure as it was raining, he did. " 'The
whole world loves a winner. How would you like to be in Alex "the
Grizz" Cordova's shoes? "The Grizz" wears Regals.'"

Alex
cursed the day he ever agreed to wear Regals as part of the shoemaker's
campaign. For a solid year, that advertisement board had been on every outfield
wall, in every stadium he'd played in. He'd had to wear the shoes, too. They'd
given him over a dozen pairs.

"Don't
wear Regals anymore, Cy. Don't have to."

"Guess
you don't." Cy reached into his back pocket for a tin of chew, opened the
lid, and stuffed a large wad of the flaky tobacco into one cheek. As he worked
it into a wet mass, he spoke through the lump. "You dropped out of sight,
Cordova. Where the hell have you been for the past three years? Not in this
standing-water town, have you?"

Alex
never discussed where he'd been. Where he'd come from. That was his business.
"Been around."

"And
landed on this dung heap. Like a bottle fly." He chortled.

Alex's
jaw ached from the tight clamp of his teeth.
Son of a bitch.

Batting
practice was called by both managers and Young departed for his side of the
field. Alex wanted to take a piece out of his ass. So much for hiding emotions
from himself

The
next thirty minutes were spent fielding balls, pitching fast ones, practicing
double and triple plays, and keeping the mud from seeping inside shoes. Alex
went through the motions without thought, as if doing something he learned as a
child. He hadn't forgotten. But he did it without heart or conscience.

When
it was time to return to the dugout, Alex glanced up at the grandstands, which
had only a handful of fans. They wore coats and capes, had open umbrellas, and
sported rubber shoes. Mostly men; a few women. Alex took off his hat and
acknowledged Captain's clapping.

Sitting
on the bench, his uniform soaked through and rain dripping from the ends of his
hair, Alex waited as Camille came beneath the dugout. Her appearance hardly
showed the effects of the weather. Hat still perfect; dress hem just a little
muddy on the bottom; hair in place. All neat and tidy.

"All
right... let's put that practice out of our heads and concentrate on winning
the game."