Petite Madeleine: Drew's Story (Meadows Shore Book 3) (15 page)

“I know this feels mighty personal, like your manager abandoned you, but what happened last night wasn’t about you.”

“No, he didn’t give us a second thought while he was tipping back the bottle and acting like an old fool. I don’t see how you can give him another chance, or expect us to give him one either.”

Drew ignored him this time, no sense in engaging with a blowhard. It never ended well. “How many of you have had experiences with alcoholism? A family member, a friend, a teammate?” About two-thirds of the hands in the room went up.

“How many of you have lost someone you cared about, someone you loved?”

“From the booze?”

“From anything.”

Nearly every hand in the room shot up.

“Most of you know Ski’s wife, Sarah, died about a year and a half ago. Anyone who’d ever spent any time around them knew how crazy they were about each other. They’d been married for thirty-three years. Longer than any of us have been alive.” He paused to give his words some time to sink in.

“It would have been Sarah’s birthday yesterday, and Ski spent it alone, wondering how they would have celebrated if she’d been alive. Blaming himself, because on the day she died, he left for the ballpark after she’d complained of a headache.”

He was on the verge of talking about something he never talked about outside of his family. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to share, today, with them. But with twenty-five sets of eyes locked on him, waiting for him to say the right thing, to do the right thing by them, just as he’d promised on the day they’d signed, he didn’t see that he had much choice but to open up, put his weakness on full display.

A team was like a family, and when there was a problem, when one of its members was in trouble, everyone needed to man up. And right now, it was his turn.

“My parents died unexpectedly when I was in college. My aunt and uncle, who lived next door, died with them. After the numbness lifted, a thick layer of grief covered every inch of my soul, choking me, pulling me a little closer to hell each day, until I began to welcome death, hoping it would end my misery.”

He’d just shared something about himself that he’d told no one but his therapist years ago. It was unnerving, but he had to finish. “You can’t begin to imagine the pain of profound sorrow, the bleakness of unyielding depression, until you’ve experienced it for yourself. I was lucky, because I had my family and friends to help me. They held out their hands, and when I wasn’t strong enough to hold on, they held on to me.

“They gave me a chance. And I promised myself that if I were ever in a position to grab someone who was sliding into that black hole, I would. That’s why I have it in me to look past this incident with Ski.”

He finally took in a full breath “And I’m asking you to give him a chance, too. I can’t make you do it. It’s not in anyone’s contract. But I had a hand in hiring most of you, and while I don’t claim to know what’s in your heart, I know about your character. I know what kind of men you are, because it’s what I cared most about when I was assembling the team.”

Silence accompanied Adam’s apples bobbing up and down, shifting, squirming, and the sounds of throats clearing. Finally, someone spoke.

“My little sister died when I was fifteen. I was in a world of hurt, so much that I started cutting myself.” The scrappy shortstop lifted his arms, displaying the scars on his wrists and inner forearms. “I was so numb, it was the only thing that made me feel.”

Dozens of pairs of eyes glanced at the scarred arms and darted away, unable to face the grim thought that someone like Sully, a mega-talent, a loyal friend and teammate, could have mutilated himself. But if that’s what they were thinking they didn’t have much time to ponder before the next voice spoke up. Josh Arrighetti.

“For a year after my mom died, I drained every bottle of booze I could get my hands on. I drank before school, after school, during school. I was thirteen.” All eyes were trained on the normally quiet-spoken center fielder. “My dad was in too much pain to notice. All his energy went into wrestling with me for what was left in the bottom of the bottle. A janitor at school caught me drinking in the bathroom between classes, and instead of turning me in, he took me in. Put a baseball bat in my hand and taught me how take out all my anger, all my frustration, on a little white ball.”

“We need a team meeting, just the players, and we’ll let you know how it pans out,” came a voice from the back of the room. It was Mikey Torres, a shy guy who seemed to prefer video games to human interaction. Probably not the person Drew would have chosen to lead a team meeting. But sometimes people surprised you.

After about forty-five minutes, four young men were in his office. “We’ve made a unanimous decision to stand behind our manager. We need you and JD to come back into the locker room and talk to us about how it’s going to work with the media and shit.”

They were a young, scruffy quartet, but it looked like the team had found its leaders.

The storm began midday. It started with howling wind, then the sky turned pitch black and the heavens opened, dumping a deluge over Boston. Drew studied the radar map—not a dry minute in sight until well past two a.m.
Thank you, God!
He’d hang around and wait for the game to be officially called, but it was a mere formality, saving him from the distasteful task of facing the press today.

Reporters had been calling all day, but he took no calls, and he made just one.

“Hey, Cass.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’ve had better days, and I’ve had worse. No one died. Not yet, anyway.”

“Low bar.”

“When you’re responsible for a team of young, hormone-fueled athletes, low expectations make for a more contented life. How’d you hear?”

“Television.”

“Local channel?”

“ESPN.”

He groaned. “O-kay. The game’s been called, but I’ll still be late. I’ve got a lot of work to do with the communications people, and I need to be involved with the game planning for tomorrow. I’m sorry your first weekend in Boston ended up being a bust.”

“Don’t be. I’ve got a pretty amazing memory to take home with me.”

“And what would that be?”

“The dumplings, of course. They were outrageous.”

“Ouch!” He laughed for the first time all day. “There might have been one or two other high points. Don’t you think?”

“One or two? Speak for yourself.”

“I’d give anything to be home with you right now exploring more of the high points. I miss you.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

“My schedule for the next couple of days is going to be brutal, and I hate to see you hanging around with nothing to do. Maybe you should change your flight, and go home tonight.”

“It’s Boston, I’m pretty sure I can find something to do. But you’re under a lot of pressure. Do you want me to leave? Would that make your life easier?”

“Do you want the nice guy to answer, or the selfish prick?”

“The selfish prick, please.”

“I never want you to leave.”

She smiled. “You do what you need to do, then. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

He sat with the communications and public relations specialists for two hours, and wasn’t happy with a thing they’d come up with. They were heading down the wrong path as far as he was concerned, and he was getting antsy listening to one bad suggestion after another.

Texts and emails of support had come pouring in from his brothers, cousins, and from friends all across Boston and the league. But what he needed was to take the temperature of Blues’ nation, to hear what the faithful were thinking. It would help him formulate a media plan for after tomorrow’s game, when he’d be forced to explain the actions of their manager. But the more time passed, the more he thought about it, the less he felt like long-drawn out explanations were the way to go.

“We’re chasing our tails now, accomplishing nothing. Let’s break for the night, meet back here at seven tomorrow morning. Nothing gets released until then.”

The perky public relations woman with little black wings painted on the outside corner of her eyes spoke up again. “If we want to get a press release in tomorrow’s paper, we need to get it out by midnight tonight.”

“Nothing goes out tonight. And I’m not convinced a press release is how we should handle this situation.”

“But…”

“Seven tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know if I have an epiphany sooner.”

“Will ownership be on board with this?”

Normally, he didn’t mind being second-guessed. Once or twice it had even kept him out of hot water. But she’d been a huge pain in the ass all day, and now she was publicly questioning his judgment and his authority to make decisions. He’d had a total of two and a half hours’ sleep last night, and was running on fumes. As far as he was concerned, she was sitting on two strikes. So he did what any experienced catcher would do under these circumstances and called for an inside curve ball, one that would make her back off the plate, not just tonight, but forever.

He looked directly at her, and spoke in a tone that sent the temperature of the room plummeting. “Putting a spit shine on bullshit is your job, everything else is mine. Nothing about this situation goes out tonight,
or ever
, without my explicit approval. Nothing. If anyone has a problem with that, I’m accepting resignations.”

No one said another word. “See you at seven. I’ll pick up breakfast for everyone on my way in.” He left the room, and headed directly to the parking lot.

Now he needed to spend a few hours getting this straight in his mind.

He knew what he wanted to say, but first he’d see if he was all wet. Fortunately, he knew two places where die-hard fans hung out, and where he could get a fair sampling of opinions.

After a beer at the VFW with a group of salt of the earth guys, and then a round of pool with the kick-ass firefighters in Somerville, he had solidified his plan. Now all he wanted was to crawl into bed, curl himself around Cassie, and sleep for a hundred years.

The apartment was quiet, but she’d left him dinner with a note sitting on the bowl,
Heat this up in the microwave, and there’s a salad in the fridge. Wake me up if I’m asleep
.
Love, Cassie

He peeked into the bedroom, and there she was in the middle of his bed, tucked under the covers. There was something right with the world after all.

He was so hungry he didn’t even bother heating up the pasta. Instead, he grabbed a fork and ate it cold while standing at the sink, picking at the salad. It had been a grueling twenty-hour day, and tomorrow would be no better.

After rinsing off the dishes, he went into the bathroom to rinse himself off before climbing into bed with her. He didn’t want to wake her, but he needed to hold her against him while he slept. He pulled her close, and she stirred, “I’m home. Go back to sleep.”

He kissed the back of her head, and she pressed her naked backside against him. And the next thing he knew, she was on her knees, with her weight on her forearms and he was behind her, his hands gripping her hips, lost in the sensation of long, deep strokes and her sultry moans.

* * *

They lost the next night’s game. In truth, it was a game that they probably would have lost with or without Ski. The opposing team had a better pitcher, a much better pitcher. It was as simple as that. But it wouldn’t make it any easier to face the press. The loss had given the jackals something more to sink their teeth into, as though they didn’t already have plenty.

Tommy James, the player who’d voiced his displeasure about Ski’s behavior, stopped him on his way into the pressroom. “What are you going to tell them?”

“That it’s none of their fucking business.”

“For real?” A grin slowly slid over James’ face.

“I’ll pretty it up some.”

“Whatever you’re going to say, we’re with you.”

Yep, sometimes people surprised you. “I appreciate that. Well, here goes nothing.”

He strode to the podium and scanned the room.
Vultures.
They had a job to do, but so did he, and he was in no mood to indulge an overzealous press today.

“Before I take questions, I have a brief announcement: Joe Jacowski’s out for the foreseeable future. Ski needs to take care of some personal matters, and then he’ll be back. Could be a week, a month, six months.” He shrugged. “We’re taking it one day at a time, and that’s what I’d advise everyone else to do, too. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter. When I have more news, you’ll have more news. If you’ve got questions about tonight’s game, I’m listening. Otherwise, we’re done here.”

While he was speaking the Blues’ players filtered into the room and formed a tight circle around the perimeter. They’d done it, he suspected, because it was the only way to cram that many bodies into that space, but the circle of strength had a menacing effect nonetheless.

“You owe your fans an explanation. They’ll want an explanation, they’ll expect one,” admonished Jim Rogers from his usual front and center seat.

“I don’t think they do.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Someone jeered from the back of the room while the rest of the gathered press snickered and guffawed at what they perceived as his naiveté.

“No, I’m not.”

He studied the room, not afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. “Blues’ fans are the best in the country. The best in the world. We welcome them into our house and treat them like they’re family while they’re here, and when they can’t be here, they welcome us into their homes. No one’s been more loyal than our fans, stuck with us through thick and thin, and we appreciate it more than words can express.

“This here,” and he waved his hand over the room, “is about your insatiable thirst for information, the need to dig up dirt in every dark corner of the clubhouse. But Blues’ fans are better than that.”

If the assembled press corps weren’t such a shameless bunch, they’d be squirming by now.

“After the game was called last night, I visited the VFW and talked with some of the city’s finest. Then I went across the river to meet up with some firefighters—all lifelong fans of the team. What they told me they wanted is for their team to do well, to make them proud, and for the manager to make his way back to the clubhouse and take the reins again. I have no reason to believe that our other fans feel differently. And I thank them for that.”

He glanced around the room at the players who had filed into the space. The ones who had his back. “We all thank them for that.”

The pressroom was uncharacteristically silent. They’d expected him to be more forthcoming, perhaps dish a little dirt, just like the public relations and communications experts had advised. But it hadn’t felt right to him. Surely decency allowed for some separation between one’s personal life and one’s life as a member of the Blues organization. The press didn’t have the right to know every single thing about them, did they?

If this little move of his was successful, it would be a coup talked about for years by observers of the game. If not, well, the shit would hit the fan within twenty-four hours, and he’d be the scapegoat for all the team’s problems. For now, he took the silence as an opportunity to gather his papers and leave the podium. He was closely followed by twenty-five young men with chests puffed out, every one of them wearing Blues caps with Ski written across the inside of the brim.

Jim Rogers passed him in the hall outside the locker room later that afternoon. “You’re making a mistake, Harrington, a big mistake.”

“Maybe, and if so, I’ll have to live with consequences.”

* * *

It had been more than two weeks since Ski’s meltdown. The team had lost a couple of games at the beginning, but they’d found their groove and now were on a winning streak. She’d spent the time shuttling back and forth between Boston and Baltimore, often leaving Lola’s in the capable hands of her talented baker. Hiring him had been a good move, a very good move.

“Cass, we’re going to be here another of couple of hours, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“What will you do for dinner?”

“I haven’t given it much thought, but don’t worry about me. We’ll order something in.”

“Let me take care of it.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to. And I’ve already set the wheels in motion.”

“I owe you. Big-time.”

About forty-five minutes later Cassie pulled up to Blues Park in a cab, and security helped her carry a couple of large boxes into the clubhouse.

“Thank you,” she said to the young officers. “There’s plenty, so don’t be shy about coming back on your break to grab a late dinner.”

She’d texted Drew, and he was waiting inside for her.

“Manzo’s. Have I told you that I love you, and I’m chaining you to my bed if you ever raise the issue of going back to Baltimore again?”

About a half dozen coaches milled out into the open space where Cassie set up dinner. Every one more grateful than the next that they wouldn’t be eating lukewarm pizza again. They’d all been putting in extra hours to keep the team on course. Everyone had sorely felt Ski’s absence, but the coaches who worked for him bore the brunt of it. The coaches and the GM.

Drew opened the pastry box, salivating at the sight of thick, fudgy brownies. “Did you make these?”

“No. I planned on making cookies for you. I even made some cookie dough. But do you know your oven doesn’t work?”

“
Uh, no
. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Has it ever worked?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, of course.”

The guys were milling around, filling their plates, and they heard every word of Cassie and Drew’s conversation.