Game Changer, page 4
"Why?" Brooks’s gaze is direct and unwavering. He knows I’m up to something.
"Sandy, it’s only the end of July." I drop my spoon, letting it clang loudly against the side of the bowl. "You guys have a hell of a lot of baseball to play between now and October. Someone has to fill in. Terry isn’t going to be able to replace Kyle’s production numbers without giving up something in return—something big." I pause, taking a deep breath, ready to give voice to the crazy thoughts swirling around in my head. "But what if we gave him something better? Something no other team has."
"Like what? The world’s biggest pain in the ass?" Brooks can’t resist busting me. "As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one player who fits that description, and his number-twelve jersey is already taken."
"But what if there was someone who could fill that role…temporarily?"
Brooks’s loyalty to Kyle runs deep. He’s not going to accept just anybody. That’s why I have to be convincing.
I keep going even when he starts to frown. "What if it’s someone who shares Kyle’s DNA?" I lower my chin, afraid of how Brooks is going to react when he figures out what I’m too afraid to say.
"Sasha, c’mon. You know Nate has a long-term deal with Boston. There’s no way Terry would pick up his salary, not with what they’re paying Drake. Besides, Nate’s an outfielder who bats cleanup. He’s not gonna push for some sentimental deal just because Kyle’s laid up."
I slurp my soup, drawing it out so Brooks will keep talking.
"And don’t even think about Matt," Brooks protests as I keep eating. "The doctors don’t even want him getting on a plane to see Kyle, what with his pacemaker and all. There’s no chance of him suiting up for the Kings anytime soon."
I take my time scooping the wonton onto my spoon. I’m ignoring Brooks, and I can tell it’s already driving him insane. I better put him out of his misery.
"You’re not considering every Roberts," I respond, summoning the courage to raise my eyes to his.
"What…your dad?" He tosses his napkin onto the table, getting mad. "Sasha, that’s not even funny. Your brother’s entire future is on the line and all you wanna do is talk nonsense? And here I thought you were the smart one in the family."
I’m prevented from biting his head off when the waiter deposits our main course on the table. Even though the service is exceptional, the guy’s timing couldn’t be worse. Now, I have to regroup. I should just spit it out before I lose my nerve.
Once we’re alone again, I jump in feetfirst, not giving Brooks a chance to interrupt me. "What do the Kings love more than anything else?"
"Drama," he retorts, scooping some sesame chicken onto my plate.
"True," I chuckle, pushing my plate closer to him. "What else?"
"Spectacle," he replies, indulging in my game of word association.
"Exactly!" I exclaim as he spears a piece of chicken with his chopsticks.
"So what? They always wanna be the best at everything. That’s nuthin’ new." He shrugs.
I wrap a strand of lo mein around my fork. I’m too famished to struggle with chopsticks. The only way I’m able to use them is when they baby me and tie a rubber band around the two ends, but Brooks has gotten a lot more sophisticated since the last time we dined together. He’s not just a small-town boy from Oklahoma anymore. Traveling across the country and eating out a lot must have honed his skills.
"Yeah, but the Kings want to be the best and the first…" My voice trails off, causing Brooks to pause with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
"You’re not serious," he starts, lowering them back onto his plate.
"Why not?" I goad him, daring him to say what I’ve only been hinting at.
"You? You wanna play for the Kings?" He said it, not me. "I’m sure Arnold Heimlich would love that. He’d burn the stadium down before he’d let a woman take the field. You know he’s one of those good old boys who go on and on about preserving the integrity of the game. "
"But just consider it for a minute." I reach across the table to take his hand, and I feel the hair stand up on the back of my arms when he wraps his fingers around mine. I’m not used to touching him. It’s been so long since we’ve been in each other’s company, but the sparks are still there, even after all this time. "Heimlich is a businessman. He has to know that fans would flock to the stadium to see the first female player in the history of the game. The little sister of the Roberts brothers could be his star attraction. I guarantee he’d have sellouts for the rest of the season. I’d make him a fortune."
"But it’s not about the money," Brooks protests, slipping his hand out of mine.
"Of course not… Not for me. But for people like Heimlich, it’s all about the bottom line and getting butts to the ballpark. If I make a convincing enough case and show him just how much he stands to gain by letting me do this, it’s the only way that Kyle will be able to hold on to his job, at least for now. I need to give Kyle a chance to get back on his feet. Buy him some time." As long as Kyle gets matched with a transplant donor and his body doesn’t reject the new heart he doesn’t even have yet… But I keep my pessimistic thoughts to myself.
"So you really think your brother is gonna make some kind of spectacular comeback?" Brooks questions me openly, doubt evident in his tone. "And who’s to say that, even if he does, Heimlich will let you go? If you start bringing in a shitload of money, why would he ever let you walk away in order to bring Kyle back?"
"Because that’s going to be my strategy going in, and I intend to stick to it," I respond, crossing my arms and trying not to think about how much I already miss holding his hand. "The only way America’s going to go along with this is if they know I’m only doing it for my brother and that’s it. People know Kyle. They respect him. They respect Matt and Nate. They’re All-Stars and possibly future Hall of Famers. The public will be a lot more accepting of the idea of a girl playing baseball if I’m the one who ends up bridging the gender gap."
"So even if you’re terrible, you think fans are just gonna put up with you because you’re just some sob story? That somehow they won’t be able to resist rooting for the underdog?" Brooks shakes his head at my audacity even though I detect a begrudging sense of admiration in his eyes.
"I’m not some charity case. I’m capable of more than you know. I wouldn’t even attempt this if I didn’t have an ace up my sleeve." I challenge him, refusing to back down.
"You do?" Brooks inquires, skeptically. His stance is rigid as he sizes me up. He’s one of the premier shortstops in the game and I’m telling him that I have some hidden talent that he can only dream of. Yeah, I’m shameless like that.
"I can bunt like nobody’s business and you know it." I dab my mouth with my napkin, waiting for him to contradict me.
My ability is unique to say the least, even if I couldn’t get a top collegiate program to take a second look at me.
"But if no college softball program saw a use for it, why would the Kings?" Brooks guts me to the quick like he has a window into my thoughts. "Yeah, with your good looks and your last name, you’d be a marketer’s dream—the new face of the game, no doubt about it. But if the Kings put you front and center and you can’t deliver, what then? If you’re the one everyone’s coming to see, how are the Kings gonna be able to spin it if you end up costing us wins?"
OMG, he thinks I’m hot. That makes me feel good even if he’s not buying a word of what I’m saying. He knows better. Things like this just don’t happen. Not many people get a second chance at their dream, especially on such a grand scale. I’m letting my imagination run wild, but it’s the only plan I have.
"Sandy, just let me go in and talk to Terry. Get Chase to set up something with him this afternoon. He won’t refuse me five minutes of his time, especially after what happened to Kyle. He owes it to me out of respect for my brother if nothing else."
"And what about me? Did you ever stop and think that I might not be able to handle being around you again?" His eyes burn into mine like he’s daring me to deny the attraction that’s simmering between us.
Forget college. Forget staying away from him. If I could have Brooks all to myself, I’d be willing to do almost anything—even take my brother’s job.
"Fortune cookies for you," the waiter declares, striding over and sliding them on top of the check folder.
"Open yours," Brooks urges like our future depends on it.
I humor him, removing the plastic wrapper and cracking it open.
"‘Attempt much, excuse little,’" I read out loud from the little scrap of paper.
"…in bed," Brooks says, adding that overused, cliché line, smiling at me ruefully. But from him, it’s not groan inducing. Instead, it’s more of a turn-on.
"Um…what does yours say?" I ask, blushing to the roots of my hair.
"’You’ve been chosen for the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games,’" he drawls, making me laugh, just like he always does.
I know Brooks doesn’t agree with me. He thinks this is a bad idea. I’ll just have to convince him that it’s not. He’s trying to be a good friend and watch out for me. But if I can actually pull this off, he’ll come around eventually. I know he will.
Because I’m hoping that, by the end of the season, we’ll be a lot more than just friends.
Chapter Five
Brooks
I love summer days like this, driving up to the stadium, getting ready to kick another team’s ass. But today’s even better. Today, I have Sasha with me.
I’ve envisioned this so many times in my head that I can’t stop looking at her. I think I’m freaking her out, but I’m only trying to convince myself that this is really happening. A lot of guys have their wives drop them off and pick them up. Some of them even travel with us when we’re on the road. I’m usually the odd man out, but not this time.
Yet the thing is—Sasha wants to be a whole lot more than some player’s wife. She’s about to ask Terry to make her a New York King. Only Sasha.
But Sasha Roberts has always been a step above every woman I’ve ever met. Why am I surprised that she wants to take it to the next level? I’m not thrilled with the idea, but if anyone can pull it off, she can.
Now it’s just waiting to see if she’s persuasive enough to make it happen.
I drive my Lexus LX SUV into the players’ underground parking garage. The windows are tinted so that no one can see in. It’s not my style, but being that I’m such a recognizable figure in New York, management recommended taking the precaution as a worthwhile security measure. When I still had my secondhand junker, fans used to follow me for blocks, banging on the windows, begging me for an autograph.
I peek over at Sasha as she unfastens her seatbelt. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into. Not really. She’s used to the recognition her brothers get wherever they go, but it’s going to pale in comparison to the frenzy she’s going to create if Terry Bloom gives her what she wants. If he agrees to make her an official member of the New York Kings, her fame will live on long after she leaves the team. She’ll always be known as the girl who triumphed in the battle of the sexes, leveling the playing field in male-dominated sports, blazing a trail for others to follow.
And she’s going to draw a lot of flak for it. Some people are going to hate her for breaking a men-only tradition that’s stood for over a century. Many will say that she doesn’t belong here, that she’ll only stir up trouble in the clubhouse, become a distraction. Guys who find themselves mired in a slump are going to blame her for their hitting woes. Pitchers who can’t find the plate will say that it’s her fault they lost focus. She’ll be the scapegoat for everything that goes wrong. I’ve seen it happen before, especially with Drake. When reporters hounded him after his marriage hit the skids, the locker room turned into a feeding frenzy. Guys didn’t feel at ease anymore. There was always so much tension and hostility hanging in the air, all because of one player.
And that’s not even taking the opposing teams into account. If she gets on base a lot, pitchers are going to get embarrassed. If she plays solid defense and nabs some outs, hitters aren’t going to like it. Baseball is such an ego-driven sport, and no guy is going to want to lose to a girl.
But the only reason I’m letting her do this is because I’ll be right there with her every step of the way. It’d be a suicide mission if she tried going it alone. So many things could go wrong. Her teammates could shun her. The umpires could hassle her. Opposing teams could intentionally throw at her. Fans are bound to scream terrible things at her. It’s not going to be a cakewalk.
If I didn’t think she could do it, I’d turn around right now.
I just hate that this is the only way to keep Kyle off the chopping block. But if this ends up destroying Sasha’s self-confidence, I’ll never be able to forgive myself. I believe in her, but I can’t get images of the abuse Jackie Robinson endured out of my head. Are people ready to see a woman take the field? Something tells me that they’re not.
"So you’re really gonna do this?" I ask, sliding into my designated parking space, near the elevator.
"If they say no, they say no. But if they say yes…" She gulps. "I expect you to hold my hair out of my face when I throw up."
She wants me to laugh, but I can’t. I’m too worried about her. She’s not big-boned or muscular like a lot of softball players. I’ve seen footage of her play on YouTube. She’s spry, wiry, and quick on her feet with a fast bat and a sharp eye. She relies on her reflexes more than her physical strength. She’s never going to pull the ball the opposite way or throw across the diamond, but she compensates in the areas she’s lacking with her speed and agility.
If Terry signs her, Tony, our manager, will probably bat her ninth, at least until he can get a feel for what she’s capable of. Her strike zone is going to be compact compared to a guy’s, so she can definitely use that to her advantage. Pitchers will have to hit their spots if they plan on striking her out. She has the potential to draw a lot of walks and get on base. She might not have to bunt as much as she did in high school in order to make it to first.
And that’s not even taking into account all of the hoopla away from the field. The paparazzi will be sure to follow her every move. The media will want every free second of her time. The fans will act like she belongs to them. The attention she’s going to elicit will be overwhelming.
That’s why I’m glad she’ll be living next door to me. At least I’ll be there to help her decompress after a game. I’ll be around to answer any questions she has and give her tidbits of advice whenever she needs it. Last year was my first full season up here in the bigs, but factoring in the time I filled in for Chase when he was injured and what I’ve accomplished so far this year, I consider myself a relative veteran. I’m not some rookie. I know the ropes, the ins and outs, what to do and what not to do.
And the reason for that is Kyle. He learned everything there is to know from his brothers, and then he taught it all to me. So far, none of us have ended up on the back page of the tabloids. We keep a low profile. When we go out, we drink moderately. If we want to let it all hang out and go crazy, we do it behind closed doors at private parties where the only people there are those we know and trust. We’re careful. We’re not stupid.
That’s not to say we’re choirboys. Nate never met a woman he didn’t like. He’s not married, so he’s allowed. Kyle likes to smoke weed—in order to relax, he claims. Since we travel through four different time zones during the season, sometimes he needs a little help falling asleep. And me? I tend to cyber-stalk Sasha Roberts whenever I’m feeling down. It sounds harmless, but it’s an addiction like anything else.
I blame it on Kyle. He’s always so tightlipped when it comes to his sister, not telling me anything that’s going on with her, never keeping me in the loop. I had to resort to other means to find out what she’s been up to. If I couldn’t call her, I could pretend I was talking to her by recording these stupid, one-sided video conversations she’d never see, telling her how my day went and what was going on in my life. If I couldn’t text her, I could steal Kyle’s phone whenever we roomed together on the road and send her some random messages like, "Where are you?" or "Get to class," letting her think they were coming from him. If I couldn’t friend her on Facebook, I could follow the posts on her wall, wishing we were doing all of these killer things together that she could brag about to her friends.
Yeah, it was sad and pathetic. But it was all I had of her—until now.
So is that why I’m not putting a stop to this ridiculous idea of hers? Probably. Am I sorry that I don’t have the balls to stand up to her? Not yet. It’s selfish and reckless on my part, but I don’t want to let her go. Terry may very well shoot her down, but I don’t think he will. She’s placing a golden ticket in his hands, and I know he won’t hesitate to cash in on her misfortune.
The key is getting Sasha out at the end of the year. She’s going to be getting some major publicity, drawing plenty of awareness to Kyle’s plight. If Kyle stands a chance at getting a new heart, this is it. Everyone knows high-profile figures don’t linger on some damn waiting list. Somehow, they always move to the front of the line. Look at the former vice president, a well-known figure but also a chronic heart attack victim. It didn’t take long for someone else’s heart to be placed inside his seventy-one-year-old chest. Kyle’s a young professional athlete, a much better candidate. If the Kings think he’s on death’s door, they’ll do everything in their power to ensure a happy ending to his story. It’s what they’re good at. If they have to buy Kyle a heart off the black market, they will. Because when it comes down to it, there’s no crying in baseball. The fans need to walk away happy…or they might not come back.
I’m gambling everything I have in one hand—my feelings for Sasha, the life of my best friend, the very future of the game. It’s not that I’m an egotistical asshole thinking that I can manipulate all of these moving pieces. It’s just that I probably watch too much TV, where taking outrageous risks are commonplace and expected. I’ve grown accustomed to watching characters take matters into their own hands. Like Olivia Pope on Scandal—they don’t wait around. They fix things. Just like Sasha.
