Page 2 of The Catcher
How the fuck did one person destroy an entire elevator?
I clicked on a gossip site and saw a picture from the night he was arrested. Tanner Courtenay was a very tall man around 30 years old, broad-shouldered and lean, with messy ink-black hair and uncanny-looking gray eyes that stared down the photographer. In the picture he had his arm slung around two beautiful women and he looked drunk and arrogant. Like he was used to getting whatever he wanted.
Great. Always my favorite kind of client. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t dealt with this kind of guy repeatedly back when I worked in PR.
Classic jock, I thought dismissively, flicking through various gym selfies he had posted on Instagram.
My goal was to get this job done as quickly as possible so I could be back at Oak Park in a few months to prep for the new school year.
2
The Phoenixes had their home stadium about two hours away, and the next week I packed up my reliable old Subaru and headed over to the hotel room I planned to stay in until the job was done. The goal was simple: improve Tanner Courtenay’s reputation so it didn’t draw focus from the team. The Phoenixes were struggling, 10 games out of the second wildcard spot, plagued by defensive errors and poor playing. The local sports media had been lambasting the team, and Tanner in particular. His five-year contract was up this fall, and he was looking for another one. I looked up his statistics. He was hitting .197 which, according to my googling, was bad.
After I checked into my basic and impersonal, but luckily roach-free, hotel room, I organized all my professional clothes and looked out the window. My hotel balcony faced the stadium directly. A game was just ending, and I watched as the crowd streamed out, half-heartedly waving big foam fingers. The Phoenixes had lost again.
I slept all right. Ever since breaking up with my ex Noah several months ago I hadn’t slept very well. No matter what TV shows or podcasts I listened to, I always heard his voice in my head before falling asleep.
God, you’re shit at that, Emrys. You’re lucky you’re skinny. Otherwise I wouldn’t give you the fucking time of day.
You want a baby? God, that’s so fucking embarrassing. If you want to have a baby get a better fucking job. It’s embarrassing telling people you’re a kindergarten teacher.
I squeezed my eyes tight, trying to ignore his voice, and I turned over and went to sleep with the hotel’s air conditioning humming in my ears.
The first morning of my new job I examined myself carefully in the mirror. I hadn’t worn these kinds of professional clothes in a while, since I got to dress so casually as a teacher, so I smoothed the pencil skirt over my legs self-consciously. I had long thick honey-brown hair, the blonde streaks more visible now because it was summer. I had braided my curls into a long plait down my back. I usually wore dramatic winged eyeliner to school because the kids loved it, but today I had just settled for a quick swipe of eyeliner and a brush of mascara. I had soft hazel eyes and a pale heart-shaped face with a touch of sunburn on my cheeks. My pin-striped pencil skirt and white top looked neat enough. I reluctantly shrugged into a suit jacket, even though it was going to be hot, because I wanted to make a good impression on the first day. People often wanted to dismiss me because I was tiny and had a soft voice.
When I arrived at the stadium, I waded through the endless paperwork, hearing the faint crack of a bat as I signed form after form. Then I was given a cursory tour of the facilities and dumped in a big conference room to wait for my client.
The room was beige, with a huge dark wooden conference table, the walls covered with different framed baseball memorabilia. I eyed them without much interest and didn’t bother looking closer. I was just here to do a job, collect my money, and go back to my real life.
There was a television on in the room, and I was watching the highlights of the game that had just ended, cocking my head curiously at the screen. It was alittlemore interesting than I had thought. The Phoenixes’ uniforms were a striking black, with silver lettering and white feathers spread over the backs of their jerseys to represent the mythical bird.
“This was the only highlight of the game for troubled catcher Tanner Courtenay,” the announcer reported, and I watched my new client throw out someone trying to steal, the mask flying from his face with the power of his arm. I didn’t think I could read lips very well, but I could read the string of curses he let out before jamming his mask back on.
Christ, he looked like a real asshole.
“Otherwise, the catcher went 0-for-4,” the announcer continued, and I saw Tanner absolutely swing for a pitch that was in the dirt, spinning around in a circle, then slamming his bat on the ground.
“Yikes,” I said out loud.
Suddenly, I saw a ball fly by my face and the television screen exploded in front of me, the picture disappearing with a sickening crunch. Glass sprayed everywhere, filling my lap and covering my legs.
I gasped, stumbling out of my chair, and whirling around.
And there was my new client Tanner Courtenay. In person, he seemed much bigger than he had on television, maybe almost 6 and a half feet tall, with broad, powerful shoulders and an angry face with glittering eyes. He was still wearing his uniform, the jersey unbuttoned, the undershirt sticking to his chest.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snapped. “Baseball dickriders aren’t allowed in here.”
My mouth dropped open. “I-I-I’m not a dick rider,” I protested, horrified to hear my childhood stammer coming back.
“I-I-I-I,” Tanner mocked, stepping closer to me. “Answer my question.”
I backed up until my ass hit the big table, my nice high-heeled shoes crunching on all the glass.
“I-I was hired to help you with your image,” I said, struggling to keep my voice from trembling.
He cocked his head and I felt frozen in place. His eyes were such an uncanny shade of silvery-gray, cold and unfeeling.
“What, are you some kind of PR person?” he asked. “We already have a whole team of them here.”
