Page 10

The steak smells amazing, but, shit, I can’t stomach anything right now.

I lost my dad when I was in the minors, and Stew stepped in back then, taking a scared kid under his wing. I’m scared again right now, and it’s been a long-ass time since I felt that way.

“We have a guest,” Maria says, coming back out onto the patio. Sullivan is trailing behind her. I pop up out of my chair.

“I’m sorry to intrude. I was going to call, but I didn’t have your number,” she says, actually looking sheepish. It’s not an expression I’m used to from her. Immediately the fear becomes sheer panic.

“Stew . . . is he . . .”

“He’s okay,” she reassures me.

“Thank fuck,” I say, and let out a shaky breath before lifting my beer and chugging the last of it.

“He’s out of surgery and kind of spacey, but he’s insisting on seeing us and won’t calm down about it. So the doctors called Rita and she told them to let us in before he has another heart attack.”

“Yeah? Let’s go.”

She has a car waiting for us and I open the door and hold it for her.

She slides past, her shoulder ghosts my chest. There’s a scent she wears, light and soft, like baby powder and .

. . lavender, maybe? It contrasts so entirely with the hard edges of her personality that I actually let out a soft snort.

“What?” she asks, smoothing that pencil skirt under her knees as I climb in after her.

“Nothing. Just glad we didn’t kill our boss on my first day.” She opens her mouth and I can feel her sharp retort coming, but I shake my head. “You were right. I fucked up.”

“Yes, you did,” is all she says, and it’s what I deserve for giving in, even an inch apparently.

Silence reigns for a couple of blocks, the neighborhood relatively quiet until we turn past the stadium and the sidewalks are lined with people walking to dinner and their local bars. “I killed the story.”

“What?”

“I had Juan call Pete and had him kill the story about your Daniel Wilson quote.”

I can’t really believe what I just heard. Is she calling a truce?

“What’s the catch?” I ask.

“Nothing big. You’ll do an exclusive sit-down with him in the next couple of weeks in return, but you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Except on TV and sports radio.”

“Yeah, well, don’t listen to it. They’ll move on by tomorrow. It’s football season.”

“It’s that easy?”

“No, but it’ll drive you insane. New York isn’t LA . They lose their minds over everything . You gotta learn how to tune it all out or it’ll become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t do it again,” she says. No “you’re welcome” or “no problem”, just . . . “don’t do it again”.

So, not a truce then. Just damage control.

The hospital is operating like it’s the middle of the day. Bright lights, people everywhere in the waiting rooms, walking the halls, doctors and nurses hurrying to their next patients, EMT s heading back out in the night in their ambulances.

I’ve always hated hospitals. I lost both my parents in one and if that isn’t enough to make me loathe them, the only time I was really in one myself was when I tore my lat midway through my career and had to sit out nearly an entire season because of it.

Apparently, Sullivan knows where she’s going, confidently heading straight for the elevator instead of stopping at the desk to ask.

When the elevator doors close behind us, there’s a short gasp, followed by a “Yoooooooo,” drawn out under the breath of whoever is standing behind us. And then the voice follows up with: “Are you Charlie Avery?”

I turn and nod with a smile at the young man behind me, standing there with his wife or girlfriend, who doesn’t look like she has any idea who I am. “Yeah, man. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Bro, do they, like, make you get a physical to be the manager?”

Sullivan snorts next to me and murmurs, “We probably should.”

“Nah, I’m just here to visit a friend,” I say, ignoring her.

“Shit. Everything okay?”

News of Stew’s heart attack must not have gotten out yet.

“Yeah, turns out he’s gonna be fine.”

“Glad to hear that, man. My sister just had her baby, so we’re gonna go see her, but can I get a pic real quick?”

“Of course,” I say.

“I’ll take it,” Sullivan volunteers, just as the elevator dings.

We pull in tight, the guy holding his hand up in a peace sign while I point at him like he’s the man.

They get off the elevator and the doors close before Sullivan lets out a chuckle.

“Is that your whole life? Just everywhere you go people want to take a picture with you?”

“Pretty much,” I say, sending her my best million-dollar smile and a wink before dropping the facade and rolling my eyes at myself.

The elevator dings again, saving me from whatever she’s about to say. The cardiac care unit is laid out in front of us, a large nurses’ desk surrounded by small glass rooms, each one with a patient hooked up to all kinds of machines, whirring and beeping, keeping them monitored and alive.

That panic from earlier – that faded when Sullivan said that Stew was alright – is back and it’s solidified into a hard knot in my stomach: small, but present, and making itself known.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I follow Sullivan past one patient and then another before we arrive at Stew’s room.

One of the nurses nods at us. “You’ll be Ms Sullivan and Mr Avery?” she asks, checking a clipboard.

It’s definitely past visiting hours. There’s no one else there. Clearly an exception is being made, so I make sure to be as polite as possible. “Yes, ma’am, that’s us.”

“You have ten minutes,” she warns, before waving us in.

Stew’s awake, hooked up to various machines, one probably monitoring his heart, another looks like maybe oxygen levels and there are tubes in his nose probably helping with his breathing post-surgery.

“Hey Skip,” I manage to say, even though now it feels like there’s an actual rock in my gut.

“Figured you’d be out of it a little longer,” Sullivan chimes in, but her voice is soft, way softer than I’ve ever heard it before. She approaches his bedside and reaches for his hand, taking it in hers, careful not to disturb the IV .

I stand behind her, my back to the glass wall. The room is small, barely big enough for the two of us to crowd beside his bed.

“No rest for the wicked,” Stew rasps, and lets out a slow breath before answering the question neither of us asked. “Triple bypass. Lucky to be alive, apparently. Don’t feel that lucky right now. They split me open like a chicken.”

Sullivan cringes, but I force myself to laugh, knowing that’s what Stew wants, and the grin that lights up his face lets me know I read it right.

“I . . . we . . .” she starts and stops. “I’m sorry we were so . . .”

“You didn’t clog my arteries, Frankie,” he cuts her off gently. “Smoking for twenty years and forty years on the road eating terrible food did that just fine. Though I wouldn’t mind if you two could refrain from the bickering around me.”

“Done,” she agrees.

“You got it,” I confirm.

“Good,” he says, nods firmly and then winces.

“What was so urgent you need to see us tonight?” Frankie asks, her voice still soft.

“I’m gonna take a leave of absence. Doctor’s orders. Nothing stressful for at least a few months while I recover, and apparently my job is stressful.”

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, leaning harder into the glass wall.

“You’re taking over.”

He’s not talking to me, though.

He’s talking to Sullivan, looking right at her.

“Interim General Manager, until I get back.”

Sullivan backs up a step and then another until she’s barely an inch away from me and that soft scent invades my senses when I inhale.

It takes a lot of self-control to not reach out and put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

I’ve never seen her so thrown before. It’s so stunning that the creeping panic I was feeling in this godawful place melts away.

“Stew, you can’t just . . . there are other guys who have been . . .” she stutters, but he shakes his head.

“There’s no one else. I know you have what it takes to run this team and you’re going to prove me right. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees.

“And you,” he says, his eyes flickering over her shoulder to me, as she finally realizes just how close we are. She steps away quickly, glancing back at me as she does. Her eyes are still wide in shock and I’m not sure if she’s actually taken a breath. “You’re going to help her.”

“Stew, I’m no GM .”

“No, you’re not. You don’t have the head for it. But the organization is going to need to know you have my back re this decision.”

“Done,” I agree.

“Good,” he affirms, and lets out a heavy breath, his eyes flickering closed. “You can kick them out now.”

I don’t realize who he’s talking to at first, but then a voice calls from the doorway.

“Your ten minutes was up ten minutes ago,” the nurse from earlier says. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Sullivan leans over and presses a kiss to Stew’s forehead. He waves her away. Then I approach and press my hand to his forearm. He’s warm to the touch and that’s a relief. I somehow thought he’d be freezing cold, but, no, he’s warm and alive and he’s going to be okay.

“I mean it. You’re going to help her,” he whispers, his eyes still closed. I’m sure Sullivan doesn’t hear it.

“I promise.”

Then he pats my hand and, with a final squeeze of his arm, I follow Sullivan out the door and back to the elevator.

It’s empty this time.

“You don’t have to help me,” she says, as the doors close, turning to me and looking me dead in the eye.

“Skip asked, so I will.”

“Then I need one thing from you.”

“What’s that?”

“The best way you can help me is to stay out of my way.”

“What? No, that’s not . . .”

“You and I don’t see eye to eye on what makes a great baseball team. We never have. Do I have that right?”

“You do.”

“Stew entrusted me with the team in his absence and he wants you to help. So I’m asking you not to interfere with my decisions.

I have a plan for this team. It’s why they hired me and it’s why Stew asked me to take over.

If you want to help, you can stand there and look pretty and agree with everything I say when I pitch to ownership on a decision. ”

“I don’t think that’s what Stew meant when he asked me to help you.”

“What was with you back there, anyway?” she asks, and I nearly get whiplash at the change of subject.

“What?”

“The arms crossed and the ‘get as far away from Stew as you could’ stance.”

Ding!

We’re at the ground floor.

I stride past her out of the elevator, but she keeps pace easily enough even in those heels that bring her forehead right to my nose.

“I don’t like hospitals,” I say, as we finally escape out into the Brooklyn night and I pull in a deep breath of crisp air, only slightly tainted by the exhaust from the ambulances idling at the curb.

“Fair enough,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself and rubbing them up and down against the chill. “Where’s the car? He said he’d be right around.”

“So that’s it?” I ask.

“What’s it?”

“You’re just letting it go? Me helping you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You know how Stew said that you don’t have the head for being a GM ?” she says, as the car pulls into the driveway and comes to a stop right in front of us. She opens the door for herself and then turns back to me.

“Yeah?” I ask, stepping closer and getting another hit of that fucking incredible scent as her eyes flash at me, the streetlights making them sparkle.

“Well, I do.”

The implication is clear. She’ll allow me to be there because she knows she can run circles around me.

I should be insulted.

I should be furious.

And I’d have time to be either of those things if I wasn’t so fucking turned on by it.