Page 19

FRANCESCA

Arizona was not on the agenda when I left New York to clean up the mess with Ethan Quicke.

But I’m here now and, in that brief moment between stepping out of the recirculated cool air of the plane and the air conditioning pumping through the airport, the dry heat leaking through from the tarmac reminds me that I did not pack for the desert.

“Wait,” I say, glancing into one of the few shops at the tiny airport our chartered flight landed in, though I don’t really feel like donning anything that proclaims ARIZONA across my boobs.

I mentally run through what I have in my bag, but it’s basically pajamas, the one suit I wore on the way in and the clothes I wore last night: jeans and long sleeves.

There’s a pair of cotton shorts in there that could pass, but nothing on top that wouldn’t be wildly inappropriate.

It’s going to be at least ninety degrees out there today and I’ll be spending it out in the blazing sun.

“What is it?” Charlie asks.

“Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”

“Uh,” he hesitates, looking me up and down quickly, but the speed doesn’t stop a soft jolt going through me. “I don’t think anything I own will fit you.”

“A t-shirt? I can tie it up.” He pauses and for a second his eyes go a little unfocused. “You know what, forget it. We can just stop at a store on the way.”

“No,” he assures me. “I have something. Hang on.”

He squats down and I’m hit with an extremely odd sense of deja vu.

He was a catcher and he probably spent more time squatting than some human beings spend standing.

He pulls a folded bit of navy-blue cotton from his bag and hands it to me.

As he stands, he lets out a muffled groan and the click in his knee is so loud I think it echoes up into the rafters of the terminal.

“I wore it, but it wasn’t like we ran a marathon. It should be pretty clean.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking it and disappearing into the bathroom.

One of the major demands of my job is the sheer amount of travel, sometimes to places no one has ever heard of before crisscrossing the country to see in person if my analyses prove true, to see if the players can live up or down to what the algorithm says.

I’ve changed in more than one airport bathroom in my life, though admittedly this bathroom that serves passengers that just flew a chartered flight is one of the nicer ones I’ve ever been in.

Even still, it’s a public restroom. Not exactly the height of luxury or cleanliness.

But as I pull his shirt over my head, I do what normally would feel absolutely insane.

I inhale. It’s the same shirt he wore last night, a faded Brooklyn Eagles logo printed on soft cotton that still smells vaguely like laundry detergent, but also clearly tinged with the lingering scent of him.

I lift my hair out of the collar, letting it fall down my back, and then tie the bottom of the shirt into a tight knot just above the small of my back and fold the sleeves up enough so they’re not hanging down to my elbows.

Paired with the sneakers I brought along just in case I got up the motivation to go for a run while I was away and it’s not a bad look for a minor league ballpark.

Okay, good to go.

“Huh,” Charlie grunts, when I rejoin him.

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed so casual for work.”

“I was pretty casual last night.”

I flinch. Again with the double entendre. It’s like I’m incapable of speaking around him without making it sound like I want to bang him.

Which, if I’m being honest, isn’t that far from the truth.

At least it wasn’t last night, just after telling him that I couldn’t go there with him, not again, closing the door behind me and immediately diving under the covers to try and get some relief.

I was embarrassingly wet when I shed my jeans and panties, it barely took anything at all, just a few flicks of my fingers, even though they felt too soft and too small.

So, I imagined his hands, warm, the way they were holding me while we danced ,and large, the way his palm and fingers were able to completely wrap around me, thumb pressing gently into the space just below my hip bone.

It wasn’t hard to imagine the same pressure between my legs, the callouses made permanent by the bat and ball over a lifetime sending me over the edge.

It was a quiet, shuddering release and I’m not exactly proud of it, but I didn’t know what else to do.

Just like he has before, though, he lets it go, though I can see amusement dancing merrily in his eyes.

“C’mon,” I say, pushing past the awkwardness coursing through me, “we’re going straight to the field. The game is at one.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” he says, tapping two fingers to his forehead in a salute before falling into step with me. “So, one more time, we’re here to look at . . .”

I pick up where he trails off. “Cole Davis, catcher. Archie Esposito, lefty pitcher – he’s getting the start today – and Xander Greene, centerfield.”

“And you really think you can convince ownership that they should go with them to start the season?”

“I wasn’t sure,” I admit, but then make sure I stare straight ahead, determined not to look at him when I say, “but with your backing and Stew’s, I know I can. It won’t take long before they prove themselves out on the field.”

“Three rookies: feels like one of those things your computer would say is too risky. Not enough data to form a conclusion? Does not compute,” he finishes, in an awful robot voice.

“You haven’t met them yet. They’re special and they’re mostly special because of each other.”

“What?”

“You don’t recognize the names?”

“Should I?”

“They’re sort of famous. All from the same town, played in the Little League World Series together, won it together and then won the California high-school state championship together.

So, we drafted them together . Figured, what could it hurt, maybe they’ll be able to recreate some magic at the pro level.

And they did, won the rookie ball championship two years ago.

Davis and Greene were a little further along in their development than Esposito, and he struggled without them, but once we promoted him to Double A, it was like someone flicked a switch, gave up five total runs in his final fifty innings pitched of the season. ”

He lets out a low whistle, like he’s impressed. He should be.

“Like I said, they’re special – the whole greater than the sum of its parts, and the parts are pretty damn good.”

“And you really think it translates to the major league level?”

“I know it does. The skill sets are there, but I want you to see for yourself and, if you think I’m right, then we fly back to New York tonight and, first thing Monday morning, I go in and pitch it.

Nakamura’s going to post soon and I can’t waste any more time.

Our focus has to be on signing him and making his transition to the States as smooth as humanly possible. ”

“Okay then,” he says, as we step out into a dry but blistering Arizona morning, “let’s go take a look at the kids.”

The ballpark is small, but intimate, in the way that minor league stadiums tend to be, with local sponsors splashed along the outfield walls, scoreboards from twenty years ago or more with lightbulbs still serving to indicate balls and strikes instead of the flashy screens you see in the majors.

There’s no upper deck, just one level lined with concessions up behind the seats on the concourse.

There’s a charm to it, almost like going back in time.

Actually, for me and definitely for Charlie, it does feel like we’ve stepped into the past. Camelback Ranch is also the spring training home for the Dodgers, once they moved their off-season operations from Florida to Arizona.

It’s a state-of-the-art facility where every winter dozens of ballplayers converge to prepare for the major league season ahead.

The teams are already on the field doing their last preparations before the game begins, playing catch, stretching out, waiting for the umpires to emerge from their changing room and start it up.

“Being back here is weird,” I say, giving Charlie an opening and he takes it.

“Fucking surreal is more like it,” he says. “Never thought I’d be back, honestly.”

“You didn’t think about coaching for the Dodgers?”

“Nah, I would have been a distraction for the current guys for sure. Besides, I needed to get out of LA . It was . . . time.”

“You needed to get out of the city that adores you?”

“It’s complicated. Why did you leave? Hometown girl and all that.”

“Stew made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Bull, they would have matched it. They loved you over there.”

“It’s complicated,” I hedge, not really feeling the need to unload my stupid divorce sob story in the middle of a ballpark.

It’s late in the fall league’s schedule and with a win today, their temporary team, the Glendale Desert Dogs, will be headed to a short playoff round.

“Do you want to talk to them beforehand?” I ask. “I can get a message down to the dugout if you want.”

Charlie shakes his head almost immediately. “Nah, I’d rather they didn’t know I was here. Let’s grab seats down at baseline and we’ll,” he stops at a vendor and points to a Desert Dogs hat, black and orange with a howling dog at the center, motioning that he’ll take two, “go incognito.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about anyone recognizing me,” I say with a laugh, but I pull my hair up into a ponytail and slide it through the back of the hat so it sits comfortably on my head.

He clicks his tongue like he disagrees as we find our section, up the third base line, a few rows above the dugout with a perfect view inside the first-base dugout.

That’s where our boys will emerge from in a few minutes.

It’ll give us a chance to see how they interact with each other and with their teammates during the game.