chapter 16
IN THE TOP of the sixth inning, the Patriots were down 1-0 to the Nationals after a misplayed grounder by Josh Gavin led to an unearned run off Nate Carter in the fourth. Taylor could only hope her guys weren’t about to perpetrate an April Fools’ Day joke on their rabidly loyal fans. She watched from the GM’s suite as the sold-out stadium rocked to blaring music and the incessant hum of alcohol-fueled excitement. There was nothing quite like opening day of the baseball season. Every team, even the biggest dog in the league, started out on equal terms with an unblemished record. Today, at least for a few hours, anything was possible.
For the Philadelphia Patriots, losing their opener would particularly suck because nothing short of a World Series berth in October would satisfy fans that had grown used to winning since the beginning of what had come to be known as the Carter Era. The brilliant left-handed ace had kept them super-competitive even when the team had suffered through a couple of injury-plagued seasons. Now, with a Murderer’s Row hitting lineup to support Carter and the eleven other talented starters and relievers, pre-season prognosticators had tapped the Patriots to win over sixty percent of their games, even though that constituted an extremely high bar for any professional baseball team. As legendary Dodger manager Tommy Lasorda once said, no matter how spectacularly good a team is, it’s going to lose one-third of its games. Unlike football, there was never going to be an undefeated season in baseball.
As usual, Taylor watched every play with rapt intensity, but when the Patriots were in the field, she had difficulty focusing on anything but Ryan Locke. It was the first time he’d played a regular season game at first base, so she’d expected him to be a little nervous. But not this nervous.
All game long, Ryan had been practically jumping out of his skin as he paced and kicked dirt and hammered his fist into his glove like he wanted to kill it dead. For some players, that indicated nothing but the ferocity of free-flowing testosterone, but she’d seen enough of Ryan to know that his actions were as much about nerves as fiery competitiveness. Even a base hit to center field in the first inning hadn’t seemed to calm him down, and a strikeout in the fourth had made it worse. So far he’d fielded his position well enough, but then again he hadn’t faced a challenging play, either.
She couldn’t help worrying about him. And wondering. What had happened over the weekend—most of which he’d apparently spent on the road coming north—to ramp him up like this? As a veteran, even the transition to a new position shouldn’t have made him so thoroughly wired.
The last time she’d seen Ryan—and the only time she’d spoken to him since that fateful meeting in Sand Key Park—was following the final exhibition game on Friday. He’d made a monumentally bad throwing error that afternoon, and she figured he’d be beating himself up about it for days. Barely realizing she’d made her way downstairs, she’d found herself outside the Patriots clubhouse after the game, fretting over whether she should butt her nose in. When Ryan emerged, she’d sucked it up and tried to give his morale a little boost, nervously telling him that the error was no big deal and that the team was in fact pleased with his play so far. He’d been polite but coolly reserved during the short, tense meeting, so she wasn’t sure whether her words had done the slightest bit of good.
When she’d asked him about his plans for the trip north, Ryan had told her he was driving up on Saturday and heading straight to New York to see his daughter before arriving in Philadelphia late Sunday evening. Taylor couldn’t help thinking that meeting had something to do with Ryan’s obviously agitated state.
“Carter always struggles a little when the weather’s this frigid,” Dembinski said from his seat beside her.
“Just about everybody does,” Rick Clark chimed in. “It’s colder than a hooker’s heart out there tonight.”
Taylor winced at the turn of phrase, but there was no denying that this was another of those northern city opening days when coffee and hot chocolate might outsell beer in the stands. The temperature had been forty-two degrees at game time, and was no doubt quite a bit lower by now. She missed Florida already.
“The last thing we can afford is to go two or three down with only twelve outs left,” Dembinski said. “We really need the damn double play.”
After battling Carter for a walk to open the inning, the first batter had promptly stolen second on a wide throw from Nick Rome to second baseman Esteban Nunez. Carter, obviously bearing down hard after the error, had then struck out the next batter for one out. Next, the fleet-footed Nationals shortstop hit a slow grounder straight up the middle and managed to beat out the second baseman’s throw, even though Ryan had stretched his long body as far as he could to receive the ball. With runners now on first and third with one out, the best way for the Patriots to get out of the inning would be a double play, as Dembinski had said. To that end, the Patriots’ shortstop and second baseman played deep, while Ryan and the third baseman had to play nearer to the bag to hold the two runners close.
When the next batter hit a sharp ball almost straight down the first base line, Taylor gasped. But Ryan reacted by throwing his body toward the line, his big glove extended. Though he got his glove on the ball, the hard landing took its toll and he was a little slow getting back on his feet after the jarring impact with the infield dirt behind first base. Still, Taylor thought he should have time to throw out the lead runner at second to start the double play.
But her heart fell to the floor when Ryan pumped his arm twice before letting go. And when the ball finally left his hand, it curved well to the right of second base, past the shortstop’s outstretched glove, skittering away into the outfield. The runner on third scored in a trot, and by the time the ball got back to the infield, there were Nationals on second and third with only one out.
It was a disastrous error—a blown opportunity to get out of the inning.
A chorus of boos cascaded down from the stands, every one of them aimed at Ryan Locke.
* * *
RYAN’S GUT TWISTED tight and his blood felt like it was boiling through his veins, from his cap all the way down to his cleats. But he refused to hang his head. He couldn’t blame the fans for booing him, but he’d quit baseball before he’d ever let his disgust with himself show on the field. Getting your ass kicked by fans was part of the game. Not the fun part, that was for sure, but everybody went through it—even the all-time greats. Instead of moping, he stared daggers into the Nationals’ clubhouse, focusing his rage on the enemy instead. There would be plenty of time for self-recrimination once the game was over, as well as worry over why he couldn’t throw a baseball straight anymore when it counted.
With a grim nod, Nate Carter beckoned to him as he left the mound, headed toward first base. Ryan figured Carter had probably already gotten a sign to intentionally walk the next batter, so he couldn’t figure out why he would want to talk strategy when the situation would be straightforward. With the bases loaded with one out, it meant a double play was essential if they were to prevent even more runs from scoring.
“Sorry, man,” Ryan said when their eyes met. “I rushed the throw, and it just got away from me.”
That was utter bullshit and Carter must surely know it. Yes, Ryan had been jarred by the hard landing, but he’d still had time to make the throw to start the much-needed double play. Unfortunately, when he fished the ball out of his glove, it had seemed like some weird, alien thing—certainly not a baseball. Not something he’d been tossing around with ease since he was three years old. It felt like he’d never touched such a foreign object in his life, much less thrown one, and it had shown in his utter lack of control.
Nate gave him a look loaded with skepticism. “You okay, man?”
Ryan snorted, ignoring the ache in his side. “My ribs are gonna be sore tomorrow but, yeah, I’m okay.”
“No, I meant mentally,” Nate said with a barely perceptible shake of his head. “It’s like you’re standing on a bed of friggin’ hot coals or something. Jesus, just try to relax, Ryan. We’re going to be fine.”
Easy enough for you to say. And, no, I’m not okay—mentally. I’m completely screwed up, so bent out of shape by my kid that I can barely think straight. And now my arm seems to have gone from barely adequate to pretty much hopeless.
“I’m good,” Ryan said, forcing a small grin. “Trying a bit too hard, I guess. Opening day jitters. But I won’t let you down again.”
God, I hope not, anyway.
“Like I said, relax. You’re going to be fine.” Nate clapped him on the shoulder and headed back to the mound.
Unfortunately, Ryan didn’t share his teammate’s confidence. He wasn’t one damn bit sure Devon was going to be fine, which meant that he wouldn’t be either. And now he had to come to grips with the fact that his throwing was getting worse. What had started to be shaky in the exhibition games had turned into a full-fledged train wreck in the home opener.
People like Taylor and Nate were going out of their way to be supportive, but how much more rope would Ault and Dembinski give him?
* * *
OPENING DAY HAD never failed to ignite Taylor with excitement over the promise of the coming season, not even when she’d worked for teams that had only a faint hope of a great year. This opening day, though, had turned into a nightmare. Ryan’s costly error had put the Patriots in a hole and now, down by two runs in the top of the ninth, they faced runners on second and third with two out. A base hit here would salt the game away for the Nationals.
Somewhat surprisingly for the first game of the season, Jack Ault had not pulled Nate Carter for a pinch hitter. Although the ace had not been quite up to his usual form, all the runs except one had been unearned and Carter had thrown less than a hundred pitches. Even more surprisingly, Ault had not pulled Ryan from the game, either. She had to assume the manager wanted his bat in the lineup despite his increasingly obvious shakiness on defense.
On the first pitch, the Nationals’ batter rapped a ground ball between first and second. Ryan reacted instantly, ranging to his right to stab the ball before it squirted through into right field. Pivoting, he planted his left foot, pumped once, and then fired the ball toward Carter who had outrun the batter to first.
Taylor’s heart seized in her chest as she watched the ball sail above Carter’s head. Somehow, though, the lanky hurler managed to leap high enough to snag it. When he came down and landed on the bag, beating the runner by a half-step, it looked like he had a snow cone in his hand. But he’d made the play, and the first base umpire jerked his arm in the out signal. The fans heaved a collective sigh of relief as the inning ended.
But Ryan’s face was whiter than his jersey as he jogged off the field.
“Jesus, that was too close,” Dembinski said as he paced behind Taylor and Clark. “What the f*ck’s wrong with Locke, anyway? A ten-year-old could make a better throw than that.”
Taylor swiveled to look at the fuming GM, her insides twisting into knots. “It must be the pressure of playing a new position for a new team and a new set of fans. You can see he’s feeling it.”
Her boss shot her a skeptical glare. “Yeah, well, I might forgive him for this mess, but he won’t have that luxury much longer unless he gets his act together. And neither will we, goddamn it. Your ass and mine are both on the line over this guy, Taylor. You’d better never forget that.”
No kidding. Taylor was well aware that every play Ryan made, good or bad, would reflect on her. Dembinski could say all he wanted that his ass was on the line, too, but if somebody had to take the fall for a failed experiment with Ryan Locke, that somebody would be her, not the man who had the ear and the confidence of the team owners. The buck was supposed to stop at the top, but Dave Dembinski was nothing if not a survivor. If a sacrifice was deemed necessary, getting rid of an AGM like her was an easy fix.
“I always said he’ll make up for any defensive lapses with his bat and his intelligence,” she countered, trying not to sound defensive. “I still believe that.”
Dembinski snorted and then slurped some coffee without answering.
* * *
IN THE ON-DECK circle, Ryan swung the weighted bat in a few lazy arcs. He might feel like a useless sack of shit at first base, but put a bat in his hands and his comfort level ratcheted up fast. His high throw for the last out still grated on him, but the main thing was that the team had prevented two more runs from crossing the plate. And Carter’s forgiving if slightly worried grin as he tossed Ryan the ball sure hadn’t hurt, either.
In front of him, Jake Miller certainly cut an imposing figure at the plate. Tall, blond and built like a classic lumberjack, the veteran Pats’ slugger whipped his bat back and forth as brawny Nationals closer Tommy Blaisdell pawed the mound. With Patriots’ Aiden Marriner on second base and two men out, the hurler was pitching with great care to Miller since the last thing the Nationals wanted was a home run ball that would tie the game. Ryan, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than for Miller to slam one out of the park. Not only would that knot the score, it would give him a chance to get on base with the winning run. He’d faced Blaisdell many times in his career and knew that the veteran fireballer didn’t seem to have his best stuff today. If he could lay off the guy’s wicked slider, he had a good chance to draw a walk.
But Miller wouldn’t get a chance to swing the bat. With a 3-0 count, Blaisdell fired a cutter low and outside, and Miller jogged down to first. With runners now on first and second, Ryan adjusted his batting helmet and strode to the plate as the crowd continued to roar out encouragement. The PA system blasted out the Patriots’ rally theme to pump up the fans into an even higher frenzy, and they responded with a wall of cheering noise.
Ryan didn’t think the closer was about to challenge him with straight heat with two men on base. Instead, he’d nibble at the corners for two or three pitches, and then get Ryan to chase a fastball high and tight—the pitch that had always given him the most trouble.
Blaisdell checked the runners on both bases and then delivered a fastball that Ryan thought just missed the outside corner.
“Strike one!” the umpire grunted.
Shit. It was a close call, but the ump had given the benefit of the doubt to the pitcher, much to the crowd’s displeasure. Knowing better than to glare at the ump in this situation, Ryan stepped out of the batter’s box for a moment to cool off before returning and pawing away more dirt. He took a few vicious practice cuts and then fixed a hard gaze on the closer, as if daring him to throw a hittable pitch.
Blaisdell delivered a cutter that just missed. Ball one.
Ryan smiled on the inside. One more ball and I’ll have you where I want you. Two balls and one strike—a good hitter’s count.
The pitcher snarled and served up a slider that might have gotten a little piece of the outside corner. Ryan laid off it and the ump stayed quiet, perhaps in atonement for giving Blaisdell the first pitch. Ball two.
The crowd went nuts.
Ryan had to make a quick calculation. Would Blaisdell try the slider again? He was in love with that pitch, but he likely wouldn’t want to miss and go to a 3–1 count. His fastball was more reliable, but also more vulnerable to being hit. Since hitting in the major leagues was as much about calculating—and even guessing—as it was about as raw talent, Ryan knew he’d have to make a good decision. If he waited for a slider, he’d likely never be able to catch up to the closer’s fastball. If he guessed fastball, it would be hard to react to the slider’s sharp break. And if Blaisdell crossed him up with a change-up, Ryan would be entirely screwed.
He guessed fastball, probably up and in, and readied himself.
Blaisdell went into the stretch position and checked the runners. Both had small leads off their bases as neither Marriner nor Miller was a particularly agile runner. When the ball left the pitcher’s hand, Ryan recognized the spin instantly and started his swing. He’d guessed right, and the fastball screamed in at him, high and tight. Ryan clubbed it hard, sending a bullet shot straight over the third baseman’s head into the left field corner.
Ryan sprinted as hard as he could, knowing he’d easily get a double out of it. But as he turned the corner at first and headed for second, he saw that the ball had taken a crazy-angled bounce off both corner walls and scooted past the outfielder back toward the infield. By the time the guy chased it all the way down and picked it up, Ryan had already rounded second and knew he had time to make third base. He slid just to be on the safe side, but the throw came in a good second after his foot hit the bag.
The stadium rocked like an earthquake had just hit the city. As Ryan got up, he watched Marriner and Miller slap high fives at home plate with the next batter, Ricky Gretsch. Miller turned around and looked down at Ryan, then gave his chest a thump with his fist in salute.
A game-tying triple. His heart racing from both the long run and the flood of adrenaline coursing through his body, Ryan glanced up at the middle skyboxes and wondered what Taylor was feeling at that moment.
The fact that he’d immediately thought about her in such a heart-pounding moment made him shake his head. But it had been her idea to bring him to the Patriots in the first place, which meant her ass was on the line right along with his. Like their fates were linked together.
Or maybe it’s because I’m nowhere near to getting over her.
Ryan kept trying to get his full focus back on the game as he watched the Nationals’ manager signal for a pitching change. Getting over Taylor? What the hell was he thinking? They’d had sex one night. They’d talked a few times. She’d gotten cold feet about her job and told him not to keep knocking on her door. Big deal. There’d never been much chance that it would have worked out for them, anyway.
Still, here he was, standing on third base with the noise of a delirious crowd hammering his ears, just ninety feet away from crossing the plate to give his team a home opener win, and yet his mind was focused on how much he missed his lovely, sexy little AGM.