Page 13

CHARLIE

There’s only one bed.

Technically.

There’s a sofa that I’m pretty sure will pull out into a bed if I look. And I will since I’ll obviously be camping out there tonight.

I toss my bag onto a luggage rack built into the wall and admire the view: not the tree-lined streets with the shadowy outlines of mountains in the distance, as nothing in the Bozeman skyline is high enough to obscure them.

No, the view I mean is Sullivan, leaning up against the door jamb that leads to the suite’s bedroom, pulling one high pump and then the other off her feet with a breathy sigh of relief that sends a visceral jolt through me.

She pads into the room, walking back and forth with her eyes closed, taking deep breaths, scrunching her feet as she does. Her toenails are painted a neutral color.

“What are you doing?”

“Making fists with my toes.”

That’s . . . not what I expected.

“Fists with your toes?”

One stormy blue eye opens and studies me, the other still shut. “Haven’t you ever seen Die Hard ?”

“I have,” I admit. “I just . . .”

“Didn’t think I would have?”

“Doesn’t seem like your style.”

“Yeah, and what’s my style?”

“ Moneyball ?”

She smiles and I know I’m right as she quotes, “How can you not be romantic about baseball?”

I roll my eyes, hearing Brad Pitt as Billy Beane’s voice in my head over hers. “I can be plenty romantic about baseball. I have a hard time being romantic about a team that never actually won anything getting lionized like it has. I think it’s been bad for the game.”

“Here we go,” she groans.

And she’s not wrong. I have opinions about that movie.

“They had Hudson, Zito and Mulder at the top of their rotation that year and you’re gonna tell me that Scott Hatteburg’s on-base percentage was why they won a hundred and three games?”

“I’m not telling you anything. Analytics were a thing before Moneyball , they were a thing before the book came out, before the movie came out and before you ever got to the big leagues.

And I’m not going round and round with you about it.

That bathroom has one of the biggest bathtubs I’ve ever seen, so, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go soak it in for a while before I have to deal with Ethan Quicke’s massive ego. ”

And that’s a visual that I absolutely will never get out of my head.

A tub full of steamy water, a smattering of bubbles, her hair up at the top of her head, a few strands falling down, stuck against the damp, glowing skin of her cheek and her neck, her toes peeking up out of the water at the edge of the tub.

Before my fantasy can travel up the length of her legs to where fuller, curvier parts of her would rise up out of the water, the click of the bathroom door closing behind the fantasy’s real-life counterpart pulls me back to the present.

The sound of water filling the tub escapes through the small gap at the bottom of the bathroom door, and while I can’t hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor, my imagination is good enough to know I probably should get the fuck out of this room before I spontaneously combust.

I know I have Quicke’s number somewhere in my phone. We were at an All-Star Game together a few years ago. Feels like a lifetime ago now.

—Just landed in Bozeman. You wanna grab a drink?

—Sure. You at the Armory?

—Yeah.

—There’s a bar on the roof. Meet you in ten.

The response is instant. Like he was waiting for someone to reach out.

Huh. Now that’s interesting. I wonder how many teams are actually going through with this dog-and-pony show Dan Wilson set up.

Probably not that many. The market for starting pitchers is pretty light this season and none of the major contenders will likely make any moves until Nakamura is off the board.

So maybe we can get a deal done here.

I snag a little notepad and pen from the desk, jotting down a deal just a shade under the specs Sullivan laid out for me.

The view from the rooftop bar is marginally better than the one from the hotel room, but oddly familiar to me.

Without the mountains in the distance, it could almost look like back home: wide expanses of flat land dotted with small cities laid in a grid pattern and small pockets of development popping up.

One day they’d be populated by families that all look as vaguely the same as the houses themselves.

I don’t see Quicke anywhere, so I find a seat in the far corner and wait, ordering an Old Fashioned from the bartender. My expectations aren’t high, but the drink is strong, the tang of the orange sitting pleasantly on my tongue.

When Ethan Quicke appears, it takes him a little while to make his way across the bar, stopping at every other table to shake hands and take selfies. Hometown boy makes good. I know the feeling. Montana isn’t exactly known for producing major league talent.

When he finally reaches me I’ve finished my drink and called the bartender over.

“Another Old Fashioned?” he asks, and I nod and then he looks to Quicke.

“Just a beer for me, whatever’s on tap.”

Once we have our drinks, I sit back with mine in hand and nod out toward the crowd where people are still buzzing about his entrance.

“Your adoring public.”

“Eh, the price I pay for coming home.” He takes a sip from his beer and then sets it in front of him, leaning in, elbows on his knees. “It was nice of you to make the trip. I didn’t expect it.”

“My team now. I want to have a say in who’s on it.”

“I was surprised when you took the gig. Always thought you’d ride off into the sunset and never be heard from again.”

“I have my reasons,” I say, but he waits me out and I give in. “A championship.”

Ethan considers that and nods. “And you think the Eagles can get you that?”

“With the right pieces in place, sure. I think that’s true of any organization.”

“And I’m one of those pieces?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I was sorry to hear about Stew,” he says, changing the subject.

“He’ll be okay.”

“You and Frankie Sullivan are holding down the fort until he gets back?”

“That’s the idea. More Sullivan than me.”

“Then why are we sitting here?”

“I thought I’d see if we could work this out.” I lean forward in my seat and take a sip. “I’ve been in your shoes, on the down swing, one last contract before you hang ’em up. I get it.”

“Okay, so you’re good cop and she comes in later as bad cop if I don’t take whatever you’re offering. Not a bad strategy. Dan thought that’s what you’d do.”

“Yeah, where is Dan?”

“Japan. Apparently Nakamura’s looking for an American agent.”

“He left you to negotiate your own deal?”

“I know what I want.”

“How’s this?” I slide the folded-up piece of hotel room notepaper across the table to him and wait, finishing my drink and gazing out into the Montana landscape.

There’s a grunt of what sounds like approval from Quicke and then the click of a pen and the scratch of it against paper.

He slides it back across the table.

Same specs, but one extra year.

It’ll make him thirty-nine at the end of the deal.

The same age I am now.

But he’s a pitcher with a rubber arm and he’s a lefty.

“Welcome back to the Brooklyn Eagles, Ethan,” I extend a hand to him, but he takes another sip of his beer and grins.

“One more thing and we have a deal.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to start Opening Day.”

“Don’t push it.”

He laughs and then reaches for my hand to shake it firmly.

Done and dusted.

That’s one of those cowboy sayings, right? If not, it sounds like it.

This almost makes that godawful flight stuck between a drunk asshole and a woman who I desperately want to touch even though I know that way absolute madness lies. She’ll be happy, though, and now maybe she’ll understand that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

“Do you have tickets to the game?” Quicke asks, as he stands.

I stand too and toss a few bills down on the table for the server. “Nah, not really my thing.”

“You should come. Both of you. I have a suite. I assume she’s waiting back in her room for word on whether or not she needs to come up here guns blazing to play the heavy?”

“Yeah, okay,” I agree, suddenly a little bit chagrined that I won’t get to see her in action. “Text me the details.”

My phone dings once and then again as I’m headed back down to the room, both messages from Quicke. The first is the info about the suite. The second is a link to his Instagram, where it’s a simple dark blue background with an NY . The caption is simple: Always home.

That was quick. Too quick and the feeling of victory I had all the way down from the roof crumbles and, before I can reach for my room key, the door flies open.

Her hair is thrown up into a riot of a messy bun and she’s wearing a tank top and cotton shorts with a light cotton robe over the top, just an inch or so longer than the shorts. She looks fucking amazing and absolutely furious.

“What the hell did you do?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, buying some time because I obviously know exactly what she’s talking about.

I manage to inch past her and she lets the hotel room door shut behind me before wheeling around, hands on her hips, clearly even more pissed at my evasion.

“Save it.” She follows me deeper into the room, nearly bumping her chest against mine as she pushes up onto her toes to make sure she’s looking me dead in the eye as she says, “I already got a text from Dan Wilson. You negotiated a deal with Ethan Quicke and you didn’t think I needed to be there when you did? ”

“Stew told me to help you. I’m helping. I got him at the number you wanted and no no-trade clause.”

“I didn’t want him.”

“What?”