The Lucky Charm (The Portland Pioneers) (3 page)

BOOK: The Lucky Charm (The Portland Pioneers)
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“But it’s
baseball
,” she whispered plaintively. “It’s worse than watching paint dry.”

“And if Mitch had asked you to paint the wall
and
watch it dry, you would do that, too. You have too bright of a future to waste it with all this nonsense,” Charlie said sternly. “You’re made of better stuff than that. Besides, it’s only for a season, then you’ll be back up here, and better for it.”

“Promise?”

A shadow crossed Charlie’s face for a split second and then Izzy remembered what other bomb Mitch had dropped today. “I can’t promise, Iz, you know that. I don’t have the power anymore. But I’ll see what strings I can pull. I’m not out entirely. That helps.”

“They shouldn’t be able to force you out like this,” Izzy insisted stubbornly. “It’s not right.”

“I’m more concerned about you actually signing the contract and not throwing your career away.”

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” she said bitterly.

Charlie’s expression softened. “Don’t ever let yourself believe that,” he insisted. “You’re your own person, Izzy Dalton. You
always
have a choice. I want you to remember that.”

“Even when I’m suffering in Portland?”

“Even when you’re suffering in Portland.”

The Portland office was much smaller than the Seattle one, and not nearly as showy.

Izzy had spent almost her entire plane trip to Portland reading up on the Pioneers, the last expansion team created in the American League of Major League Baseball, and every article had made her want to turn around and tell Mitch she’d changed her mind. She’d much rather have
no
job than this job, but Charlie’s little speech about the job she
really
wanted kept her on the plane and in her seat.

The receptionist was snobby or bored. Either way, she could barely be bothered to glance up at Izzy’s arrival.

“Hello.” Izzy had to force a smile. “I’m here to see Toby Palmer.”

“Of course. You must be Ms. Dalton. I’ll let Mr. Palmer know you’re here.”

She retreated to one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs and perched on the edge, ignoring the impulse to fidget, even though the mysteriously invisible tag on the neckline of her black silk shell itched horribly.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway leading to the lobby, and Izzy stood, smoothing her ivory wool skirt, and plastered a smile on her face.

She’d also done her research on Toby Palmer. He’d been in sports television for over thirty years, most of those as a producer, though he had done some game calling when he’d first started in the business. He was smart and quick and rumored to be ruthless. As he came forward to greet her, Izzy already knew he wasn’t going to be much like Charlie because as she’d stood, he’d checked out pretty much everything she had to offer.

Sexist pig.

It was a reminder that this job wasn’t anything like her old one—she wouldn’t be the invisible action behind the scenes, she’d be front and center, right in front of the camera—and suddenly, nausea blossomed at the base of her stomach.

Izzy forced her smile, and reminded herself that she’d never failed yet.

“Ina, hold all my calls.” This was directed toward the receptionist, as Izzy followed her new boss down a series of hallways flanked by row after row of cubicles. Toby’s office was at the end, with a halfway-decent view of Mt. Hood, or what might have been a halfway-decent view if it hadn’t been clouded over and drizzling outside.

Izzy took a seat in front of the desk and folded her hands in her lap as he settled in the big leather captain’s chair. “Mr. Palmer, I appreciate the opportunity to join your team.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to lie and tell you all sorts of pretty smelling shit, Dalton. You’re stuck with me, and I’m fucking stuck with you. So cut the bullshit.”

Izzy gripped the chair handle at this rather unorthodox response. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” she said, trying for an optimistic cheer, when all she felt was disbelief at the situation she’d landed in: dumpy office, losing team, shitty boss.

“The Pioneers are
bad
,” Toby continued, “and they’re not really on the verge of getting better.”

Her knuckles turned white on the chair. “You’d better be careful or you’ll scare me off,” Izzy said. It was all bravado she didn’t feel. In Seattle, under Charlie, she’d felt assured of her place. She’d been confident and sure and in charge. Now, all she felt was a paralyzing fear that she’d fail.

“If only,” he said darkly, smoothing back his full head of white hair. She could give him that; unlike Charlie, he still took good care of himself. A bit of a belly, but other than that, his suit fit moderately well, and his facial structure was still chiseled enough that he must have been handsome when he was younger. She hoped all of the above was evidence of a wife he still loved, not a ploy to attract another. The last thing she needed was a sexual-harassment problem.

He got to his feet, wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that faced Hood. “You look like you might have some potential, Dalton. But there’s nothing on this resume about broadcast experience. Or baseball. Am I just supposed to shove you out there and let you wing it?”

As it turned out, she could also dislike her boss. He’d been her boss for about five minutes now, Izzy estimated, and he’d been nastier to her than Charlie had in six years.

“I guess…” Izzy stuttered. “I do have
some
experience.” Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring up her single class in broadcast journalism.

Toby waved a hand like he wanted her to stop defending herself.
Time for that later,
Izzy thought, clinging to her last shred of optimism, and changed the subject.

“Why don’t you tell me about the team?”

Even that was a disaster, though. “Why don’t you tell
me
?” he challenged with a frown. Like he knew that she was not only clueless about broadcasting, but equally clueless about baseball.

Izzy knew what she wanted to tell him. This team was on the verge of falling apart. Maybe it could be saved, but from what she’d read, the chances were that it would disintegrate sooner rather than later. As she debated how much opinion to give, she started off by stating the facts of the Pioneers’ last season. Facts were safe. Opinions, not so much.

“By August last year, the Pioneers had a wild-card playoff spot virtually locked up, but a sixteen-game losing streak during the last part of the season guaranteed they’d lose it. It was the ninth year of the Pioneers’ existence and the ninth year without making the playoffs.” That was the extent of what she knew about the Pioneers. No, she corrected herself, that was the extent of what she knew about last year’s baseball season.

Toby said nothing, but looked unimpressed. Izzy struggled to recall any other facts she’d read and came up empty. Finally, he stood and walked over to the window that overlooked the city skyline.

“For years, Portland claimed they wanted a professional baseball team. The city adores the Blazers, the NBA franchise, and even the Timbers, the new MLS organization. But the Pioneers have had historically bad attendance, and nobody watches our coverage either. Basically, Portland couldn’t care less that we’re here, and that won’t change until the Pioneers can find a way to win when it counts.”

“And you think this year is the year?”

“We all thought last year was the year. There might never be a year.” He sighed and maneuvered behind the desk, flopping down in his massive leather chair.

“I didn’t even want a new reporter,” Toby continued, his voice ripe with annoyance. “Seemed pointless to me, but I didn’t get much choice in the matter.”

He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d been stuck with her, much as she’d been stuck with him. If he’d been anyone else, she would have tried to commiserate in their mutual misery, but with Toby’s eyes narrowing in on her, she couldn’t quite work up the nerve.

Still, Izzy knew she should say
something.
Something about hope for the future, about being happy to work with him, but her mind was totally blank. After all, nobody was happy about this situation.

“I’ll try my best not to make you regret it too much,” she finally said with the hardest edge to her voice that she dared. And she would. She wasn’t a quitter, even under these circumstances. It seemed impossible that mere days ago, she’d been so certain of her own invincibility, of her own ability to turn everything she touched to gold.

Toby just grunted, and Izzy shut her mouth.

The good news, Izzy contemplated as Toby grudgingly showed her to her cubicle—her
cubicle
, she thought with something that might have been affront; even the on-air talent didn’t rate an office here—was that it seemed like the Pioneers had hit rock bottom. So had she, so they had that in common.

“I’m assuming you’ll need some time to get things settled in Seattle?” he asked, and she nodded, glancing around the beige walls of her new prison.

“Then you can just meet us in Florida. No point in coming back here, because the entire office is practically relocating for the spring.”

Florida. She’d almost forgotten that baseball’s one saving grace was avoiding the worst of the wet months by training in the state most resembling paradise. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Only one hundred and sixty two games,
she thought sardonically,
plus bad hotels, bad food, obnoxious boss
.
A job I don’t know how to do. Things are definitely looking up.

CHAPTER TWO

“I
’m sorry, sir, but you can’t put your feet up there.”

Jack Bennett opened the eye closest to the flight attendant and didn’t bother to hide his grimace.

It was
her
—the same girl who’d already interrupted his nap three times. First, she’d asked if he wanted a refill on his ginger ale. He’d replied, observing that in his experience, drinking more of the beverages the airplanes supplied usually correlated with an above-average need to use the airplane facilities and really, he needed more room than that little cramped closet with its black hole of a toilet. But thank you very much for asking. He’d then promptly shut his eyes again and forgotten all about the conversation until an hour later when she’d tapped on his shoulder again, this time bearing gifts: a pathetic little bag of lightly salted mixed nuts.

The second time around, Jack wasn’t quite as nice. He’d raised an eyebrow at her offering and asked if they didn’t have anything more substantial. This
was
first class, after all. Blondie had given him an astonished look and disappeared back to the front of the plane, unfortunately pressing the paltry snack into his hands as she’d left. He’d glared at the bulkhead in front of him, and wondered where the hell he was supposed to stash them, because in his mouth wasn’t even a remote possibility. Finally he’d thrown them in his backpack, knowing he’d find them six months later and wonder why on earth he’d ended up with a bag of mixed nuts, looking worse for the wear.

He supposed it could have been worse; they could have been pretzels. He hated pretzels.

The third time, her tap was downright forceful, jerking him out of a perfectly pleasant dream involving him and a baseball field, the grass green and crisp, the sky a flawless blue overhead.

She’d smiled her most charmingly ingratiating smile and had proceeded on a long rambling explanation that culminated in the opinion that his neck looked mighty uncomfortable in the position it was in and wouldn’t he like a pillow to use to position it properly? Jack had stared straight ahead through the entire recital and had only been surprised that she hadn’t offered to support his neck personally.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

He was sure she was a damn pain in the ass. Jack was remembering all the reasons he didn’t like to fly commercial and they were all exemplified by this annoyingly fussy, fake-looking flight attendant.

When he didn’t answer her question, she fled again, but this time she thankfully took the offending item along with her. Jack didn’t feel much like trying to stuff a cheap airplane pillow into his backpack.

This was now her fourth time bothering him, and Jack had to admit the truth—she’d clearly recognized him and had decided he was a surer bet than any of the other men in first class.

He glanced down to his feet, comfortably propped on the first-class bulkhead.

“I don’t understand.” He didn’t move his feet. When the team flew on their chartered plane, he
always
sat this way, and had been doing so for years. Today was the very first time anyone had told him it was against the rules.

Because, of course, it wasn’t. Not really.

A wrinkle appeared between the attendants’ dark blonde brows, the expression marring her pale complexion, and for a split second, she paused, clearly flustered. Jack merely gave her a bland stare in return. She was pretty enough, he guessed, if you liked that plastic look in a woman. Him, he liked a little more challenge. If Noah had been awake, he would have been eating all this up. Of course, all that was predicated on Noah being in the
aisle
seat, which Jack had offered to take when they’d come aboard. He was pretty sure he was never going to be that self sacrificing ever again.

The wrinkle disappeared, and the flight attendant set her chin firmly, leaning farther over into his personal bubble. That settled the question; she was possibly the most persistent flight attendant in the history of flight.

“I don’t think
you
understand,” she bit back, “but who you are has nothing to do with the rules on this airplane. You still need to remove your feet from the bulkhead.”

He understood perfectly. She was pissed that he hadn’t fallen all over her, and so she was going to hound him just because she could.

“Oh?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “And who am I?”

She ignored the question. “Your celebrity has nothing to do with this conversation.” She pulled back, crossing her arms over her chest, as if it wasn’t his celebrity that had brought about this ridiculous discussion in the first place.

BOOK: The Lucky Charm (The Portland Pioneers)
6.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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