Long Relief (Hardball 1)

He felt a guilty pang, thinking of Coach. It seemed pretty disrespectful to make a move on the guy’s daughter in his own park. Well, not his park. But definitely his team’s home turf. They’d played their last game with black armbands on in his memory just back in October. It hadn’t been that long ago.

Then, another guilty pang assailed him. Maggie was probably still mourning her father, was probably still confused and emotional during a difficult time. He should have thought of that last night, before taking her home.

Too late to think about that now, and he needed to get his head clear before the damn anthem.

Suddenly, Maggie’s voice echoed through the park. For a split second—not for long, but the thought definitely crossed his mind—he wondered if he was having a stroke. It was just the pre-game broadcast running through the sound system. Chris went to the fence and took a peek. There she was, larger than life, her gorgeous curls pulled back into an unbelievably fluffy ponytail tucked through the back of a ball cap. He wanted to think of it as an empty, cynical gesture by an owner who cared about the money more than the game, but even this close to the Jumbotron, he could tell it wasn’t the same crisp, new hat she’d worn at her welcome reception. The brim was bent from constant worrying in a tense dugout, and the logo was the old style, the one Chris had only worn for two years before the team had updated it.

It was her dad’s hat.

He’d been so completely focused on the hat, he hadn’t been paying attention to what she was saying in the interview. Smiling at Luigi, the SportsChannel Grand Rapids announcer, she was saying something about how proud she was to be the new team owner, and how great it was to see so many fans turning out for game day. But it wasn’t her words that captured him, it was the way she said them like she believed they really had a chance this season. That they would go all the way and not blow it in the end.

“Now, let me ask you about this,” Luigi said, holding up a copy of the press. “‘Is Grand Rapids baseball dead?’ Is baseball dead here in Grand Rapids? How would you respond to this?”

Maggie didn’t miss a beat. “If I were going to dignify that with a response, I think it would have to be if baseball is dead, why are all these fans here? Why are season ticket sales exceeding expectations? I think if baseball is dead in Grand Rapids, no one told these people.”

Beaming, she waved up at the fans who’d gathered off-camera to gawk, and their hoots of approval could be heard across the park before the sound system relayed it.

There was more than just a touch of her father in her. She had the same brashness and bravado that had endeared Ron Harper to fans in the sixties, mixed with her own warm, genuine charm.

Chris’s smile faded, and a tight knot formed under his ribs. He turned away from the screen. She’d made it damn clear that she wasn’t planning on pursuing anything with him. There was no sense in pining over her, especially when he should be focusing on the game.

It just seemed damned unfair that the one woman he couldn’t have was the one he wanted. And it seemed even more unfair that the game, the one thing that he’d never been distracted from, wasn’t enough to hold his attention now that he’d had her.

* * * *

Around the bottom of the fourth inning, when no one had been killed by a line drive to the stands and the stadium hadn’t caught fire—yet—Maggie let herself breathe again. She’d spent the first inning schmoozing with all the advertisers and vendors Molly had invited to spend opening day in the owner’s box.

She and Molly had shared plenty of immature giggles over that phrase in the last week.

Finally, Maggie got a chance to settle back, have a drink, and watch the game the way the rest of her guests were: on a giant plasma television perpendicular to the huge windows and balcony seating that provided a bird’s eye view of the entire diamond in real life.

“Uh-oh, Skipper’s headed out to the mound,” someone near the window said, moments before the announcers pointed it out on screen.

It wasn’t a good sign. The pitching coach had already been out to speak with the starter the inning before. A second visit, from the manager, usually meant a change was coming. The cameras had caught Ken Holmes on the phone to the bullpen in the third when Andy DeSalvio gave up two runs. Now, with the bases loaded on a walk, it looked pretty certain he was going to pull relief.