We said our goodbyes, and I assured her I’d call her first thing in the morning. Hopefully by then, I’d have some sort of plan. Hell, I’d settle for a vague idea. How was it that somebody who knew so many people could have so few friends to turn to?
I’d told Viv that I needed a change, but really,Ineeded tochange. It was time the world met Clarke. Not some man’s daughter or some other man’s wife. Just Clarke, whoever that was.
It was about time I figured that out. A fresh to-do list would be a good place to start. Maybe Trixie could lend me a pen and paper.
Mind made up, I scooched out of the booth, twisting my mouth when my shapely thighs clung to the vinyl seat. Just one more reason to get out of Charleston—humidity. When I finally detached myself and righted my romper, I approached the counter.
“Excuse me, Trixie.”
"Yes, darling?"
"Could I bother you for some pen and paper?"
"Sure thing, honey."
While she rifled through her apron pockets, I turned to the man seated at the counter. "Jeff, is it?" I asked softly, so as not to startle him. He turned toward me, coffee cup still clutched in his hands.
“Yes, miss.”
“My name’s Clarke.” I extended my hand. He eyed it wearily before taking it in his. “Would you mind joining me for breakfast? My treat.”
Soren
Six Weeks to Opening Day
“We need to talk.”
There was a phrase nobody ever liked to hear. I wished I could say that this was the first time I’d been on the receiving end of those four simple but deadly words.
Like a 102-mph fast ball straight to the gut.
There wasn’t a sentence today that packed nearly as much of a punch. Then again, what did I know? I’d flunked eleventh grade English. Twice. The fact was, I only knew of one other phrase likely to make a grown man cower in fear. And that one did it in three words.
“Ooo, Sin’s in trouble.”
I gritted my teeth and turned toward Jared Pink—first-round draft pick and world-class loudmouth. One of these days, Pink’s mouth was going to get him in trouble. And just my luck, he’d been assigned the locker next to mine.
I wordlessly gathered the last of my equipment together before heading toward our coach's office, where the door was already open for me.
“Have a seat, Sinclair.” The imposing figure from behind the desk gestured to the empty chair across from him.
Brooks Bailey-Ward. The Third.
That was three generations of baseball royalty.
Ward was a two-time World Series winning catcher. His father, the second Brooks Bailey-Ward, was awarded a Golden Glove during his tenure with the Cubs. And his grandfather, the original BBW, had played alongside the two Willies—Mays and McCovey—in San Francisco.
There wasn’t a baseball fan alive who didn’t know the name Bailey-Ward.
I let the strap of my equipment bag slide off my shoulder before (gently) letting it fall to the floor. The last thing I needed was a fine for scuffing the boss man’s reclaimed-faux-whatever-the-fuck flooring. I took a seat, coughing to cover up the audible creak of my bad knee.
Damn, I need to get back into yoga.
I did my best not to recoil when my arm settled against the cool leather, sending a wave of shivers up my spine. There was nothing faux or reclaimed about this chair. Trust the guy who handled baseballs for a living to know real leather when he saw—er, felt it.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I told him. Truthfully, there was no way for me to know what the coach’s office had looked like before Brooks Bailey-Ward III made his mark on it. This was only our second time meeting in person. I’d gotten off the bus to Oregon two weeks ago, and I’d spent most of the time since then holed up in a buddy’s loft in SE Portland, dodging the paparazzi as best I could while gorging myself on ramen noodles.
“The floor’s refinished wood from Wrigley Field.”
