“It is,” she agrees with me, a rare enough occurrence that I don’t know how to respond. But it’s hard not to remember the last time she and I stood outside an empty ballpark together.
Glancing down just enough to take in her profile, I see a strand of silky blonde hair has escaped, and I resist the urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear.
“Was a great place to play,” I add, and cringe at how bland and generic I sound. Really? I couldn’t come up with anything better than that?
“Practicing your answer for the reporters when they ask you about it?” she retorts, rightly mocking me.
I’m off my game. It’s been too long since I sparred with her like this and she never holds back.
It’s one of the things I respect about her.
“And how does Russell Field compare with Dodger Stadium?” I ask, recovering, in my best imitation of a nasally sports reporter.
Sullivan lets out a short huff of laughter before cutting it off with a cough I’m pretty sure is fake.
“C’mon,” she says, “Stew’s around here somewhere. If you’re here for an interview this early, it’s because neither one of you want anyone to know, and standing out here admiring the ballpark is bound to get you seen.”
Dutifully, I follow her toward the entrance reserved forplayers and the front-office employees, where an assistant she calls Gregory is waiting to take our luggage and escort us to the executive elevator.
“Ms Sullivan, welcome back,” Gregory says, and then, as he turns toward me, “Mr Reynolds requested you join him and Mr Avery in their meeting once you’ve been able to freshen up.”
I glance back at her and, yeah, she looks a bit worn around the edges. Half a day on a plane from Tokyo would do that to anyone, but, despite that, I have to admit it doesn’t make her any less gorgeous. Just a little disheveled. It’s a good look on her.
I manage to mostly control the direction of my gaze while she stands in front of me in the elevator, before getting off on the floor below where I’m headed.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” she calls back, as she walks away, and I allow himself to appreciate the silky slide of her skirt over her curves.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shoot back, but she’s already rounding the corner and out of sight.
Gregory clears his throat roughly, the younger man sending me a narrow-eyed glare as I lean back and allow the elevator doors to close.
I shrug one shoulder in mock defeat. “Not my biggest fan.”
The glare doesn’t soften.
Right. Okay. She’s got allies here. Strong ones, if Stew’s personal assistant is in her corner.
There’s no reason why she shouldn’t.
In all our showdowns, I never accused her of being incompetent. It would make sense that what she’s helped build in the last year would have made people loyal to her. The Eagles were a joke at the end of last season, and since she came on board they’re a team on the rise. But they need more than just people crunching numbers to make them into a championship-caliber team.
And that’s why I’m here.
Ding!
The elevator arrives and, when the doors open, Stew is on the other side, a broad grin spread over a tanned face with more lines than I remember and a swathe of hair, grayer and a bit thinner than the last time I saw him too.
He looks good, though. Really good. And happy to see me. I’m only a step out of the elevator when he pulls me into a bear hug, quite the feat since he was always at least half a foot shorter than me and has lost an inch or two more in the last twenty years.
“Hey kid,” he grumbles, in that gritty voice of his, forever made rough by years of yelling at umps and corralling baby hot-shot ballplayers who thought their shit didn’t stink.
“Hey, Skip.” He’ll never not be my old skipper, the man who taught me so much about what it meant to be a professional baseball player instead of an overgrown kid playing a child’s game.
“Been a minute since anyone called me that. C’mon back. Let’s get started and maybe, by the time I’m done, I’ll be callingyouSkip.”
Oh, yeah. I’m in.
Chapter 3
