The Lucky Charm (The Portland Pioneers) (35 page)

“That feels nice,” she mumbled into his chest. “Don’t stop.”

“Your wish is my command,” he replied, his gruff voice dropping down the usual half octave. A shiver of sexual awareness flickered through her. Between how sexy he was in the morning, and that voice, she was pretty much putty in his hands and he knew it.

His phone rang, and Jack cursed under his breath, muttering something about turning it off.

But he didn’t.

“Hector,” Jack said, his voice raising back up to his normal tone, along with an extra veneer of formality. “No. Sure. I can be there early. Everything okay?”

Izzy tensed. It was unusual for Hector to ask any of the players to come in early. Usually for a 7:00 p.m. start time, the players would trickle in around two or three, for stretching and batting practice. She glanced at the time on her phone. It was only eight thirty. Pretty early for Hector to be calling. The trade deadline had passed, but she knew Jack harbored a deep, secret horror of being sent down to the minors. Hopefully his recent slump wasn’t enough reason for that to happen.

Jack ended his call and settled back into the mattress, pulling the feather bed over his boxers. He seemed relaxed, but she knew he couldn’t possibly be. All the thoughts that had just run through her head were no doubt sprinting through his, running lap after lap.

She knew what she needed to do, but that didn’t mean she liked the idea of doing it.

“I’ve got to get up anyway,” she announced, sliding her legs out of bed and barely holding back a squeal when they hit the cold hardwood floor. “We need to get you some rugs.”

“This is one-hundred-year-old pine. No rugs for you. Gotta toughen you up,” he announced with zero sympathy. She couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t even protested once about their lack of morning sex. If anything, this strengthened her resolve. Secretly, she was still convinced that the story
she
wanted to run was going to be good publicity for him. And while baseball was still about winning games, it had also become about stars, and if more fans came to the ballpark to see Jack Bennett, the livewire of the Portland Pioneers, then it wouldn’t matter if he went 0 for 20 at the plate. Management wouldn’t hear of sending him down.

Izzy only hoped she hadn’t waited too long and that today’s meeting wasn’t about Jack and the bench.

“You going to be around this afternoon?” Jack asked, and his own feet hit the floor. If he was getting up now, and not sleeping another hour or two after she left, things were bad, indeed.

“Actually, I’ve got a story,” she said apologetically as she headed toward the bathroom and the shower. She only hoped he wouldn’t ask what it was.

“After the game, then?”

“Sushi?” she asked, cranking the water up to hot.

“I’ll call ahead,” he confirmed. “Make sure you bring the wig.”

“It’s in my bag,” she called over the shower curtain. Relaxing into the hot spray, Izzy began to plan.

After she finished drying her hair, she found that Jack had already left. It was early to go to the ballpark, even for him, and she felt a pang in her heart. He wouldn’t want to worry her; wouldn’t want her to know how upset he was about the possibility of the minors.

Of course, having the house empty also made it easier for her to do what needed done.

She ate a banana bran muffin over the sink during her first phone call. “Nick, glad I reached you,” she said brightly to the one cameraman she didn’t think Toby had in his pocket. He’d been kind to her on more than one occasion, and she could only hope that she hadn’t mistaken his trustworthiness. “I need a huge favor.”

Her second phone call was to Corey Rood. Right before she dialed, Izzy had a moment of blinding panic that this was all too last minute and he wouldn’t be available to film today, but she shouldn’t have worried. He was thrilled that she’d actually called and wanted to do the interview and agreed to meet in an hour.

Izzy took extra care with her hair and makeup, and chose a tailored jacket the color of ripe oranges, and a slim black skirt. She hoped she’d look cheerful but serious; a respected journalist but one who could take a joke.

Even Toby would have been impressed by how carefully she shaped her interview questions. The one thing she could say she’d learned this year was that stories were all about the superficial. People would believe what she wanted them to believe, if she could only present it to them the right way.

Corey Rood just wanted the attention. Jack didn’t want the attention, but he needed it. And she only had to convince Toby that he should run the story he needed instead of the story he wanted.

Izzy gave her reflection one last glance in the mirror hanging in Jack’s entryway and pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to calm the nervous butterflies in her stomach.

Piece of cake.

“You wanted to see me?” Jack leaned against the doorjamb and tried to look casual, when in reality, his heart was about to beat right out of his chest with dread.

Please don’t send me down, please don’t send me down, please don’t send me down.

Hector looked up from the papers he was sorting on his desk. Probably putting together his lineup for the night’s game, Jack thought. “Thanks for stopping by. Close the door.”

The hesitant, trying-way-too-hard-to-be-casual expression on Hector’s face sharpened his anxiety to a deadly edge, and he shut the door with a quiet click and skirted the desk to sit in the spare chair. It creaked as his butt hit the vinyl seat, and Jack felt fear clench around his heart. Was this the way it went down? Was this the way you ended up being moved from relevance to nameless obscurity? Shuttled from team to team until you faded into nothing?

Jack’s palms began to sweat as Hector eyed him seriously.

“Why do I get the impression you don’t have your head on straight lately?”

Jack’s only thought was
deny, deny, deny
. “It’s just a little slump,” he replied, slowly. Casually. Like he hadn’t wondered the same thing a hundred times in the last month.

Hector’s eyes narrowed.

“Let me make it clear.” Hector leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. “I don’t give a shit if you strike out some, or don’t hit the ball very well for a few games. I get worried when you start trying too hard at the plate. When your at-bats start to look like dog crap.”

Jack’s throat tightened. “Dog crap?” he asked.

Hector leaned back in his equally creaky chair. “You’re thinking too hard. Wanting it too much. You gotta relax into it and trust your instincts. Like you used to.”

Jack wanted to grimace, but he kept his expression neutral. The truth was, he hadn’t needed Hector to say it; he knew what he wasn’t doing at the plate and that his batting average wasn’t going to do him any favors, but it felt wrong to not be trying harder. Working harder. Not doing everything in his power to not throw this season away.

“I’ll work on it.” Jack shifted restlessly in the chair, hating the feeling that he was somehow being interrogated on his fucked-up mental state. Because between Izzy and Ismael moving the team to Vegas, he was a big churning mess of
need to succeed.

“I didn’t bring you here to lecture you,” Hector sighed. “I want to know what’s got you up in a big twist, chasing balls. Jumping the gun.”

Jack just shrugged.

“Is it what I told you about Vegas? About moving the team? Because that’s not a sure thing, you know. And you playing your heart and soul out, it’s not going to save the Pioneers. This is a numbers game for Butler. He couldn’t care less what you do on the field.”

He wished this was actually true, and for a split second, he almost told Hector about the deal Butler had made with him, but something kept him quiet.

Maybe he didn’t want to ruin anybody else’s sleep at night.

“I know that.” Jack mulishly crossed his arms over his chest and focused his gaze on the crack on the wall behind Hector’s head. “I know he doesn’t give a shit.”

“But you do,” Hector said shrewdly. “You care a lot.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Jack asked, annoyed. “I can’t just stop.”

“Okay, then, tell me what you’re trying to force.”

“It’s not to stay…” Jack finally admitted. “It’s because it’s the last chance. You always tell us to make the most of our opportunity. I just want to make the most of this year. If I get what I want, maybe it won’t piss me off too much when Butler moves us to Vegas.”

And it was true. All of it. He needed to leverage it all to do the nearly impossible.

Hector smiled sadly. “I can’t tell you to not try for the playoffs. That’s what we’re all supposed to be trying for, when it comes down to it.”

“But?” Jack asked.

“If it’s supposed to happen, it will. You can’t force it, you can’t singlehandedly drag the team to the World Series. It doesn’t work that way. Slow down. You love the game. Enjoy it.”

Nothing had felt right since Butler had issued that ultimatum. Not at the plate, not in the field, not even hanging out in the clubhouse. He wished he could return to a time when he hadn’t known the price of his own peace of mind.

“Jack, nobody is expecting you to be Miggy Cabrera. You’re a good player, sometimes a great player. You hold this team together, but if you keep going this way, you’ll hate the game by the end.”

“I don’t want that.”
And I don’t want to hate myself either, for not trying hard enough, and for falling short.

“Then go, hit a few balls around and try to remember what used to make pitchers hate you. I’ve got to finish this batting order.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack gave Hector a mock salute.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“I
know you’re angry.” Personally, Izzy was kind of proud at just how livid Toby was and how calm she felt. Actually, it was more of an out-of-body experience. She could practically see herself as she faced off against her boss over the interview he’d never authorized her to conduct.

“Really, Isabel? You think I’m angry?” His lips curled into a sneer and he practically spit the words at her, his hands curled into fists on top of his big desk.

“I understand this interview wasn’t your idea, but I think you should watch it and let the tape be your deciding factor.”

“It’s that good?” His tone told her exactly how good he thought the interview probably was, but he still picked up the DVD case she’d slid across the desk.

He toyed with the case for a good minute, just glaring at her. Izzy felt her breath shorten in her chest, but every heart-stopping pause was worth it. Not only could she protect Jack from being sent to the minors, if this story blew up the way she hoped it would, Toby could stop looking for the mysterious redhead. And that was good for everyone.

Finally, Toby opened the case and slid the DVD into the player behind his desk. Taking a steadying breath, Izzy looked up at the TV and prayed that out of three quarters of a mostly disastrous season, this interview was her Mona Lisa.

They watched in silence. Toby didn’t even make his usual grunts, and Izzy hoped that was a good sign. But then, she’d known she’d nailed the interview as she’d stood in front of the camera, and watching it now was only a confirmation of what she already believed. The real question was whether Toby was capable of letting go of his irrational hatred and admitting she’d done something well.

The interview drew to a close and Toby hit the power button, leaning back in his chair, contemplating her through narrowed eye slits.