Big Leagues (4 page)

Cat’s reverie was disrupted when Erich crossed
a leg over his knee and exposed a coordinating pair of cashmere
socks.

The man wears argyle socks, you ninny. He’s
pure class. He probably dates supermodels and sex kittens. I doubt
he gets his jollies by sexually harassing B-list
sportswriters.

Erich tapped the pen on the notepad and looked
around.

“Ah, on second thought, Ms. McDaniel, would you
mind if Lynette sits in with us?”

Cat’s eyes snapped up from his socks and gave
him a small smile with a shake of her head. Erich reached over to
the phone and pushed an intercom button.

“Yes, Mr. König?”

“Lynette, I would like to give Catriona my full
attention. Would you mind joining us and taking a few
notes?”

Cat glared at the desk calendar’s bold
numerals, resenting its smug reminder that two days had come and
gone since her interview in Las Vegas. She brought her attention
back to the computer’s blank screen for the hundredth time that
morning, mesmerized by the cursor’s rapid blink as it waited for
her input. She glanced back at the calendar and sighed.

It’s hopeless.

No hope here.

Fresh out of hope.

Mr. König had started and ended her interview
with the same statement: the season was halfway through and the
organization had to fill the position immediately.

Two days! How hard could it be to pick a
sportswriter from a group of freaking sportswriters? It’s not like
they were trying to fill the position from a pool of pet
psychologists.

Despite the stated need for haste, Cat hadn’t
heard a peep. Not the disappointing, but expected, “Thank you for
coming in but we’re going to go another direction,” or the amazing,
but delusional, “Pack your bags and start tomorrow.”

Well screw ’em. If this is how it’s gonna be, I
don’t want to work for such a rude man anyway.

Cat attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince
herself of that. She was repeating her new mantra again when the
fanfare of trumpets interrupted. She reached for the cell phone on
her desk, saw the Las Vegas area code and answered the call before
the ringtone’s victorious “Charge!”

“Hello?”

“Ms. McDaniel?”

Cat recognized the unenthusiastic monotone as
Lynette Sanders. She closed her eyes in an attempt to compose
herself.

“Yes!”

So much for composure.

She cringed, glad the secretary couldn’t see
her. “I mean, yes. This is Cat. Uh, Catriona McDaniel this is.
Speaking.”

Lynette’s annoyance once again came through
clear as a bell. “Please hold for Mr. König.”

Hold … Is that a good sign? If she were
delivering happy news, she probably wouldn’t sound so cold. You’d
think she’d muster up a “Hey, how are ya?” if she was speaking to a
future coworker.

The two minutes of Muzak weighed heavier on
Cat’s patience than the load of the last two days.

Mr. König’s velvety voice interrupted her
thoughts. “Catriona, thank you for holding. Hello.”

“H-hi, Mr. König.”

“So, tell me, how have you been? Everything
well in Porterville? I hope the valley is covered in
sunshine.”

“Oh, uh, it’s wonderful, Mr. König. We’re
looking at a scorcher today, though. Our five o’clock game is going
to hurt. What I wouldn’t give for a rain delay.”

He made a tsking sound with his
tongue.

“That is unfortunate. I am afraid you will also
be without an abundance of rain delays at Hohenschwangau. That is
assuming you accept my offer to come to Las Vegas.”

Cat sprung out of her chair. The other staff
members stopped their work and looked up in bewilderment. Tamela
dropped her papers and ran over. Grabbing Cat’s hand, she squeezed
her fingers with a tight grip. Cat bit her lip and nodded several
times. They jumped up and down, hand in hand. Cat halted their next
bounce, remembering that Erich was still waiting for a
response.

“You mean, I got the job?” she managed to
squeak out.

Just as his secretary’s annoyance had traveled
over the phone lines, so did Erich’s smile.

“Catriona, I would like to formally offer you
the position of senior reporter for the Las Vegas
Chips.”

Tamela released her grip, and Cat steadied her
shaky hold on the cell phone with her other hand. “Shushhh!” Tamela
rattled her index finger in front of her mouth to quiet the office
down. Cat’s mind spun from thoughts of the press box to what her
first clubhouse interview would be like. She struggled to utter
something semi-professional to her new boss.

“That is amazing news. I’m just blown away.
Thrilled. I can’t wait to start.”

“Well, to reiterate what I said at our meeting,
I prefer to commence next week, given the
circumstances.”

“Of course, that’s no problem at
all.”

“I shall transfer you back to Lynette so she
can make detailed arrangements.”

“Okay, great. Thank you, Mr. König, for taking
a chance on me.”

There was a pause on the line.

“You are welcome. I have a hunch you are going
to make this organization very proud. I will see you next week,
Catriona.”

Cat suppressed her emotions until the Muzak
took over for Mr. König. For the second time in a week, she filled
the Porterville ballpark with a joyous scream. This time, she was
joined by an office full of soon-to-be former coworkers.

After the impromptu celebration, wherein Tamela
fashioned party hats from old sports pages and served day-old
popcorn from the concession stands, Cat excused herself. The steel
door slammed shut with one last gust of air-conditioning. As she
strolled along the steamy concourse, she tuned out the players’
warm-up drills and replayed the meeting in Las Vegas in her head.
She searched for validation that tomorrow she wouldn’t be waking up
in her tiny bed to face another mundane day in Porterville. Bits of
the grilling interview flashed through her mind.

“I see from your résumé that you speak Spanish
fluently,
ja
?”

That had been Erich’s first shot. He lay back
in his leather chair, while Lynette scribbled away, waiting for her
answer.

“Yes, sir. I majored in Spanish in college,
with a double in Mass Comm, uh, Communication.”

“Impressive.
Español
is a valuable asset
for anyone in baseball. Do you have a flare for
languages?”

“I ... like to think so. I’m currently working
on German, actually.”

Thank you, Tams.

The fib had been Tamela’s idea. Cat had
stumbled upon a paperback of common German phrases, also hiding in
the bargain bin, and joked about sucking up in two languages.
Tamela’s eyes had sparkled as she thrust the language guide into
their shopping basket, swearing the book was the key to a standout
interview. Cat had barely scanned the cover, but when she found
herself in Erich’s office, she indeed felt the desire to stand out;
thus the five-dollar paperback morphed into a lie about online
classes and the pursuit of fluency. She was sure her prospective
employer had been downright tickled when she ended the interview
with a respectful, “
Es war nett, Sie kennen zu
lernen
.”

Cat shook her head in shame as she pushed the
memory away. Thankfully, her brownnosing had stopped short of
vowing to measure home runs in the metric system. Inhaling deeply
of the ballpark’s freshly cut grass, she made a mental note to
download some language lessons before Erich König found out she was
a fraud whose German proficiency started and ended with “It was
nice meeting you.”

After a résumé review, Erich had rolled out the
dreaded questions. He led off with an inquiry of her ninety-day
strategy, but she was prepared. He had nodded eagerly when she
explained her ideas for increasing the fans’ involvement with the
team.

“In this day and age, we can’t continue to keep
a fence up between the fans and the players.”

Erich leaned in and placed his chin on his
fist.

“Well, I mean, at least not figuratively. I
know the Chips wouldn’t be leading the league in home runs without
a fence to blast the balls over.”

They had both chuckled, and she’d surged from
the boost of confidence.

“Also, with a world of reality television,
social networking and viral videos, there’s an expectation. The
fans want to be more than just spectators.”

“Interesting, go on.”

“I think one of the easiest ways to appease
them is with a more interactive website—adding opinion polls, live
game blogging, maybe even a weekly interview with a player chosen
by a fan vote.”

Erich’s eyes hadn’t left hers, except for
occasional glances to make sure Lynette was still jotting
everything down.

A single cloud approached the afternoon sun and
briefly dimmed the ballpark. Sure, the interview had its good
moments, but she hadn’t hit every question out of the park. As Cat
walked back to the Porterville office, doubt crept into her mind
again.

“Catriona, you will have to excuse the
triteness of this question, but I enjoy hearing the responses, so
indulge me. What do you consider to be your greatest
weakness?”

“My greatest weakness?”

Oh boy, you might want to cancel your dinner
plans, sir.

“I guess I’ve always had an issue with public
speaking, I tend to get anxious—”

Erich checked his watch as she started down
that road. Cat interpreted his action as a sign of a trouble and,
like a novice racer, she cranked the wheel in the opposite
direction.

“N-not that I’m shy or withdrawn or anything
like that. Far from it. I’m a total extrovert, big team player.
What I just mean is that sometimes, in a group setting, I find
myself nervous. Not overly nervous, though. I don’t let it
interfere with my work.” She brought her hesitant eyes back to his.
“It’s just I’m not that good with w-words.”

Erich’s brow furrowed as her overcorrection
sent Cat skidding into the ditch.

Not that good with words? Good show, Cat.
Interviewing to be a sportswriter! Maybe for your next trick you
can tell him that sometimes you get Ryne Sandberg and Carl Sandburg
mixed up. Or that Babe Ruth is your favorite candy bar.

Cat ran her hands through her hair as the
interview’s lowlights poured in her mind. Moving away from the
grueling questions, Erich had apparently tried to lighten the
mood.

“Forgive me, Catriona. I have forgotten the
most vital question. You are a Chips’ fan, I hope?”

“Oh yes, sir. I bleed red.”

“As opposed to?”

He gave her a teasing smile and Cat felt her
face flush, the perfect example to her obtuse statement. “Well,
obviously. I mean, everybody does, right? But a Chips’ shade of
red, not the purplish, veiny kind.”

It’s a wonder he hadn’t dismissed her right
then and there.

The Bulldogs’ concessions started to prepare
for the game and the air filled with the scent of fresh popcorn.
Cat took a deep breath and let the buttery waves soothe her wounded
ego. Interview gaffes aside, she knew she didn’t have the
qualifications to be a senior reporter on a professional baseball
team. Besides lacking experience, she was replacing a Yale
grad.

Yale. The real Bulldogs.

It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her alma
mater. From the time her grandmother had told her the only way out
of the farmland was a college degree, Cat had never even considered
another school. She suffered through two years of community college
and a year of waitlisting before she entered the university’s
journalism program. Her grades were decent, great, even, if you
considered her situation. Transcripts failed to mention the night
shift and caring for a post-op grandmother.

Her credentials were barely adequate for the
Porterville Bulldogs, let alone the Vegas club. Cat was green, and
not the kind of green billionaires like Erich König
appreciated.

“This is your first season with the Bulldogs,
correct?”

“Yes, sir. I arrived right before the New Year.
In my short tenure, I’ve learned a lot. I know I haven’t
really—”

“I have heard nothing but raves about your
performance. It is especially impressive considering the brief time
you have been with the team.”

I wonder if he knows I only got the minor
league gig because they were desperate after the last reporter
announced her engagement to a dashing junior senator and thus, her
resignation—a mere two weeks before the start of the season. Had
the team been given more time to score another Little Miss Perfect
to post their lineups, my résumé would still be buried beneath
takeout menus on an intern’s desk.

Cat approached the office’s steel door and
again tried to push her uncertainties aside.

He’s right. I have done good work here, even if
I am only a pinch hitter to them.