I flinched for a minute, surprised at his question.
“I do,” I said, my reply slow. “Have a pen name, I mean.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, it’s okay?—”
“R.M. Dioro. My initials and my grandmother’s maiden name. I’m mysterious like that.”
His throaty chuckle once again killed me.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m always looking for a good book.” His smile was almost wistful as he lifted a shoulder.
“How do you know my books are good?” I teased, smiling until he eased closer.
“Someone that passionate about writing couldn’t possibly write bad books,” he whispered, brushing my lips with a quick kiss before he backed away, holding my eyes as he reached into his pocket.
“This should be enough to get her home,” he said, leaning into the cab and handing a couple of bills large enough to be too much to the driver.
“I hope you got the inspiration you needed,” Silas said as I stepped inside.
“I got it in spades,” I told him, reaching for the door handle as he still held it open.
“Take care, Slugger.”
He finally shut the door, giving me a little wave as the driver pulled away from the curb.
He didn’t ask to see me again, and I didn’t expect him to. Silas asking to know my pen name wasn’t the same, but it was still a surprise. If he really wanted to find me, my author pages had all my social links.
I tried not to look into it because if he really wanted to speak to me again, he would have asked for a direct way. It was silly to have even a flicker of hope that I’d hear from him again. It was best to head home with all this wonderful inspiration andsomehow figure out how to use it and forget about it at the same time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SILAS
“Can I come in?”
I looked up from my desk and exhaled a sigh of relief when I spotted my friend Lee standing in the doorway to my office.
“I have a few minutes before the circus starts,” I said as I set down my pencil.
Lee was the team chiropractor and had been one of the physical therapists for almost as long as I’d played for Washington. In the last couple of years, I’d seen a lot of him, thanks to the aches and pains that plagued me toward the end. So much so that he’d become one of my closest friends, and he was the only one who knew my concerns about how long I’d be able to play.
He’d been encouraging but honest, although not as encouraging as the beautiful writer I still couldn’t get out of my head after almost a month.
When I’d taken the job with the Bats, Lee had asked if they were looking for any staff, so he could be closer to his daughter in New York or at least have more chances to see her if he were based in Brooklyn. I was happy to put in a good word and have a familiar face around.
“Strategizing?” he asked, running a hand through his dark hair as he nodded to the scribbles on my notepad.
“Still tinkering with the lineup. What’s up?”
“Everyone looked good this morning, but Becker has a tweaked shoulder.” He nodded to the desk. “He insists he’s fine, but I’m watching him. I’d keep that in mind.” He jutted his chin to the piece of paper on my desk.
“Of course he says that,” I murmured, circling his name. I had him batting fourth behind our other three strongest hitters. Nate Becker loved to chase home runs, and the former manager had had him locked in as cleanup for the past season.
He had the best stats on the team, along with the most arrogance, as sometimes happened with someone young and talented. But he’d had as many strikeouts as hits last season because all he’d wanted to do was swing for the fences to tally up another home run. I’d watched videos of all the players to get a feel for how they played, and I shook my head every time Becker came up to the plate and sliced his bat through nothing but air, chasing pitches nowhere near the plate.
I was still getting to know my team, and they were a good group of guys from what I could tell. Becker was the one who’d roll his eyes at a drill or any suggestion I’d make. I could only imagine what he’d say if Lee told me I had to bench him for opening day.
