Chapter Four
The corridors of Turbos Stadium were quiet. The mad rush for nachos and the bathroom would come when the disastrous second inning was over. The Red Sox had scored four runs in the top of the second and the Turbos were currently lackluster at bat. Hopefully, the pitcher could get through the next inning without being pulled.
Sam was exhausted. He had just spent the morning at the Indianapolis Economic Club glad-handing local dignitaries and corporate ticket holders. He’d given a recycled speech after a VIP luncheon, explaining all the ways that the Turbos were going to be in contention by the end of September. After that he’d participated in a closed-door meeting in which the budget was twisted and stretched in a million different ways, except for the one way he wanted it to go. He couldn’t help wondering how long he could wait out another Halderman losing streak before suggesting a trade.
Tristan caught up with him before he entered the press box. He held a frozen parfait covered in berries that Sam didn’t even know they served at the stadium. “The whole bleacher section was chanting for Maisy Gray last night.”
“The whole bleacher section was drunk,” Sam said.
It was also three-quarters empty this afternoon. The Turbos’ other losing pitcher, thirty-five-year-old Romeo Lopez, was on the mound tonight. He’d come cheap from Cleveland and Sam had hoped he’d get another few years out of him before he hung up his glove. Unfortunately, the man didn’t seem to have anything left in the engine. He’d be lucky to last five innings tonight.
Tristan held up his smartphone. “The buzz has started again. Talk radio covered Halderman’s good luck charm for a full segment. Ricky Minolta says Halderman hasn’t been able to find his own nostril much less the strike zone since Maisy left the game three years ago. Even Kevin is telling people she’s always brought him luck.”
“Kevin still believes in Santa Claus. And sports talk radio has twenty-four hours of commentary to fill. It’ll die down,” Sam said.
“Whatever you say,” Tristan said before digging his spoon into the parfait.
“Don’t you have some numbers to go count somewhere?” Sam left Tristan to his snack and nodded to the security guard stationed at the foot of a short stairway in front of the press box.
Dealing with the media was one of Sam’s least favorite parts of the job. It ranked up there with finding illegal drugs in the clubhouse or sending a thirty-five-year-old back to the minors. Seldom did he agree to be interviewed. It wasn’t him the fans were interested in anyway. Zoom’s exaggerated anecdotes and dizzying monologues were far more entertaining than he could ever be.
Mercer Fazio greeted Sam with a wave. His occasional partner on the air, Luther McLean, leaned backwards in his chair and covered his microphone while Mercer kept talking.
“Sam,” Luther McLean said. His blue eyes lit up as brightly as his red hair.
“Luther.”
Beside him sat Sam’s boss. Charlie Zumaeta. Zoom. At six foot six, Zoom towered over the broadcasters, even seated. With his dark, thin hair combed over the top of his elongated, egg-shaped head and a nose that looked like it had been broken several times, Charlie Zumaeta was imposing in an unconventional way.
Forty years ago, Zoom had taken five thousand dollars he had made as part owner in a popular Chicago pizza restaurant and invested it in a small Midwest donut chain. With a strong background in marketing and a large personality that won him friends and influential people, Charlie Zumaeta had grown the business into a nationwide phenomenon. When the health craze had threatened to end donuts, he’d introduced deluxe coffee, breakfast sandwiches, and drive-up windows to make Donut King a giant of the industry, up there with Dunkin’ Donuts and Tim Hortons. When Indianapolis was chosen by Major League Baseball to host an expansion team, Zoom had swung his weight (and his money) around and helped make it happen.
Zoom knew nothing about baseball and everything about success. Just being in his presence made Sam feel like a kid again. He reached in his pocket for a piece of gum.
Mercer adjusted his headset and made a call as the Red Sox second baseman caught an infield pop fly to end the second inning. He gave the teaser for tomorrow night’s game, promoted the online auction for the annual Indiana Summer Gala, and promised an interview with Zoom after the station break. Then he went to commercial.
Sam leaned against the back wall and watched as Zoom was miked.
“Sam, do you want to join us for the interview this evening?” Luther asked slyly.
“I am joining you. Just not on air.” Sam hadn’t spoken to Luther since the article he’d written about Maisy Gray. After he’d made his unsettling discovery, Sam had thrown the newspaper in the bottom drawer of his desk. Except for once or twice a day, when he opened that particular drawer, he barely thought about Maisy Gray.
Zoom checked himself out in the mirror at the side of the booth. “Sam is too ugly and boring to make the airwaves.”
“That’s not what some of the ladies at the station say.” Mercer winked at Sam.
“He’s not old enough to date yet. Right, son?” There were a lot of things about Charlie Zumaeta that Sam tolerated. Having to suffer through the constant reminder that Sam was young for his position was one of them.
At thirty-six years old, Sam was one of Major League Baseball’s youngest general managers. Zoom had given him a big break when he hired him. He never let Sam forget that. Sam didn’t return the favor by pointing out that he had given Zoom a break, too. Cheap labor. His salary was the lowest in the league…by far.
The three men in front of the camera were momentarily distracted as the lights came on and the producer did a final voice check on Zoom’s mike. The third inning was beginning. Mercer and Luther introduced Zoom and started the play-by-play.
On the field, Romeo Lopez began his windup. Sam watched it on the monitor and tried not to cringe when it went so wide that Blake Alokar, the catcher, almost lost it. A familiar surge of adrenaline coursed through his body when pitchers threw wild. The challenge for a catcher was to calm his man down and get his head back in the game. That’s how it had been for him once.
Charlie Zumaeta, always the savvy schmoozer with the press, ignored what was happening on the field and started the interview with a suck-up compliment. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoy being in the booth with two of the best again.”
“Thanks. You know we love having you, Zoom.”
Zoom adjusted his bright orange tie over the purple plaid shirt that somehow seemed to match. Sam was always amazed at how he seemed to make color work for him. Zoom was flashy and just this side of tacky. Sam’s clothing, in stark contrast, was muted. He’d spent the whole day in a dark gray suit and white shirt that felt like a straitjacket. In the seats below the press box, a group of men his age in T-shirts and baseball hats drank oversized beer and acted like total bozos. He couldn’t help but envy them.
“So, Zoom, we’ve talked at length about the Turbos’ prospects for making the play-offs in October. What do you, as the owner of this young franchise, realistically expect will happen?”
“I think we’re going to slide into the World Series like icing on a glazed donut. I’m so sure about it I’ve already got a new flavor for October. It’s gonna be called Championship Chocolate.”
Luther McLean cast his eyes toward Sam and exhaled a tiny puff of doubt that the camera didn’t pick up.
“It’s not exactly looking like that at the moment, Zoom. We aren’t even at the five hundred mark,” said Mercer.
Charlie’s smiling face filled the screen as he continued to spout the same optimism that had won him customers and investors. “April, May, and June are the months when we let our boys find their feet. They’re like our donuts. Everyone has a flavor they love, but they have to taste a dozen to know which one it is. I’m betting our boys are going to be in the running come September and there will be no looking back.”
Luther leaned in. “Speaking of finding the right flavor, we all thought Kevin Halderman had discovered his arm after that brilliant no-hitter. But after his last two outings, it seems like he’s ordering the wrong donut again. What do you think of that?”
Zoom’s smile wavered and then curled up and stayed. “A no-hitter is an amazing accomplishment. I couldn’t be prouder of that young man if he were my own son.”
Luther raised one eyebrow and zeroed in on Sam. Sam maintained an impassive face. They were both thinking the same thing. Zoom’s son, Stefan, was probably drinking his fourth rum and Coke in the owner’s box. He was as unpopular in the corporate offices of Donut King as he was in the clubhouse.
Luther commented on a very deep fly to center field that was thankfully caught. Then he spoke up as if Sam wasn’t standing three feet away. “Sam Hunter has made no bones about the fact that the success of the team pivots on the pitching staff. Are you thinking of making any trades any time soon?”
For the first time since the interview started, Zoom squirmed. Sam had discussed trading Kevin with him. Zoom had been opposed to the idea from the get-go, but especially now that Kevin had thrown a no-hitter. “Kevin’s our man. Born and raised in Indiana. Just a few short hours from this stadium, you know. We’ll get him back into shape in no time.”
The camera was on the ball game again and Mercer picked up the play-by-play. Lopez walked the player on four bad pitches. The next batter took his time at the plate.
Luther’s face twisted as he reeled Zoom in further. “Rumors have been flying that the only reason Kevin pitched the no-hitter was because his ex-girlfriend was in the stadium. She’s his lucky charm, it seems. I wrote a column myself about it.”
Shit. Sam ran a hand around his collar and tried not to flick Luther the finger.
Zoom didn’t listen to talk radio and he certainly never read the newspaper unless the article was about him. He had no idea what Luther was talking about.
Zoom shifted uncomfortably. “I must have missed that column, Luther.”
“The fans in the upper deck are holding up signs that say, ‘We want Maisy.’” On cue the camera showed the fans Luther was talking about. Tristan had mentioned it, but it was the first time Sam had actually seen one of them.
“Look at that…” Zoom put a hand on his tie and tugged it.
“Are you superstitious, Zoom?”
“Superstitious? Sure. Why do you think I wear these colorful ties? I’ve got a whole closet full of lucky ties, and if we win, I wear them again. If we lose, I put them in the giveaway bin. Drives the missus crazy.” True to form, Zoom had recovered from his surprise and was ready to talk about his favorite subject—himself.
Mercer slapped the table. “Now that we know your secret, we’ll be looking for the next tie.”
The batter sent a grounder to the third baseman, who set up a double play.
After commenting, Luther returned one more time to the topic of luck. The man was like a dog that would dig in the dirt all day if given a chance. “Maybe you need to bring more than a new tie to Kevin Halderman’s next game, Zoom.”
They cut to commercial.
Sam was five steps out the door when he heard Luther. “Hang on a sec, Hunter.” He stomped toward Sam, his green jacket waving behind him.
Sam kept walking. “Don’t you have a game to call?”
“I’m taking a break. Say, Lopez is looking a little wild out there, don’t you think?”
“It’s early in the game. He’ll settle down,” Sam remarked.
“The fans are getting restless. They think that little good luck charm is going to put them back in play.”
Sam said nothing as Luther fell in step with him. He was remarkably fast for an old, snaggle-toothed tiger. And in decent shape. Unlike Sam, Luther wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
The old-timer was fierce with his opinion and had no qualms about ripping the management of the Turbos into shreds. Sam could fill the whole stadium with Luther’s biting analysis of the Turbos and the poor trades they had made in the past few years. It wouldn’t have bothered Sam except for one thing. Luther was usually right.
“I guess Zoom was surprised back there, huh? He didn’t know who Maisy Gray is.”
“Here’s an idea, McLean. How about you focus on baseball. Not that gossip rag crap.”
“That’s my point. The fans want baseball. And the way your team is playing, they aren’t getting it right now. Why is that?”
“Gee, it never occurred to me to look into it,” Sam bit back sarcastically.
“Maybe it’s a looney owner and a budget the size of his dick.”
“Planning to let Zoom know how you feel, Luther?”
“Not yet. But you can sit down for an interview and we can discuss the real problem with the team.”
Sam stopped and glared at him. “No.”
“You haven’t given an interview in months. You and I both know your budget is sucking the life out of the team. Sports radio is too occupied with the Colts’ off-season draft picks to give it much airtime. But I’m not into football right now.”
“What’s your point?”
“That no-hitter screwed up any chance of getting Halderman off the payroll. You must have been sweating out your eyeballs when that game ended.”
The man was an evil genius.
Sam reached for a piece of gum and realized he already had three pieces in his mouth. “Did you come up with that one all by yourself, McLean?”
Luther grinned, the kind of grin that told Sam he was better at this game. “Maybe it’s more fun to write about this Maisy Gray for a while. What do you think, Hunter? It’s the kind of story the fans love. Crossed lovers. A famous baseball player who’s slumping farther than a hundred-year-old man. And a pretty girl we all wish lived next door.”
Funny. Sam didn’t think of Maisy Gray as the girl next door. He’d called her wholesome, but she belonged in a much sexier place than a house with a picket fence. More like a hotel room with red silk sheets.
He shrugged. “Print what you want. It’s your paper.”
“Not mine. I just work there. Kind of like you work here.” Luther leaned his head to the side. “Either one of us could be out with the wrong move.”
“I guess that’s a hazard of the job. Maybe you should get yourself your own good luck charm, McLean.” Sam walked away, stopping at a trash can to spit out his gum.
He was almost at the elevator that led to the front office when Luther called out, “Just let me know when you want to do an interview. Until then, maybe I’ll take out my lucky pen and write about our golden girl again. She’s the only interesting thing that’s happened to the Turbos in years.”
Sam was so irritated he made a sharp left and ran up the stairs, willing his Fitbit to mark his steps. When he reached his office, he checked his mileage. Shit. Nowhere near his goal. He slammed the door, shutting out the press and the fickle crowd that was booing over what was likely another Turbos strikeout. He turned on the game, opened a protein bar, and put his feet up on his cluttered desk. He tried to focus on the screen and resisted the urge to pick up the remote control and switch the station to Wheel of Fortune.
***
Maisy yanked the sucker by the head. It broke in half. Bracing her feet, she crouched and dug her fingers deep into the base of the plant. She tugged and twisted until the full root ball came loose in her hands.
“Gotcha!”
After throwing the monster weed over her shoulder, she reached for another.
“You used to hate doing that when you were little.”
Maisy tried not to grimace at the sight of her mother making the arduous journey across the grass toward her. She should be used to seeing her mother’s hands clutching the forearm crutches and the jerky motion of her shifting her weight as she walked.
She wiped her damp forehead with the back of her wrist. “Once a farm girl always a farm girl, right, Mom?”
Andrea Gray squinted in the sunlight. “I think there’s more to the way you’re tearing through the perennial garden than some kind of ingrained farm instinct. Since school has ended, you’ve mowed the lawn four times, pruned the lilac bushes all the way around the house, mucked out the barn, and laid a fresh layer of hay across the stable floor.”
“All that needed doing.”
“It’s barely been three weeks. Honey, we pay Henry to do all that. He’s starting to get worried about his job security.”
Maisy spotted a milkweed by the barn. She made her way toward her prey, securing her leather gloves between her fingers to avoid injury to her hand. “Henry’s getting old. I enjoy the physical labor. Sitting in the classroom made me too soft this year.”
“Funny. I’ve never heard a fourth-grade teacher say they sit too much.” Andrea leaned forward on her crutches and watched Maisy as she wrestled the milkweed from the earth.
When she finished, Maisy held the giant weed above her head. “Actually, that was far more satisfying than the last kickboxing class I took.”
Andrea grimaced. “I’m tired. Come sit down with me in the shade.”
Maisy threw off her gloves and adjusted her step to match her mom’s. She was famous for running before she could walk, and slow was a pace that took Maisy time to get used to. Now the measured stride was as much a part of their relationship as the plain talk about Mom’s diagnosis. Primary progressive multiple sclerosis.
When they reached the steps, Andrea grasped the rail and Maisy’s elbow as she climbed each tread. Maisy held the porch swing steady and her mother sank into it.
“Let me get you a lemonade or a glass of water, Mom.”
Andrea waved her away. “I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m thirsty and I have to wash my hands, so I’ll bring you back something—”
Her mother reached for her hand. “You had gloves on. Your hands look fine.”
“I can just—”
“Margaret Mary, stop!” Andrea didn’t use her daughter’s full name very often. Maisy knew she was tired of the hide-and-seek game she had been playing around the house to avoid the inevitable discussion. Her parents’ farm might be in the country, but they were well within reach of the outside world and the Turbos’ latest gossip. She bit her lip and sat down next to her mother.
Andrea put her hand on Maisy’s knee and squeezed. “Sometimes you can be so difficult to pin down. When you were little, I used to put you in a chair and tie you to the back with my sweater when I wanted to talk to you. Remember?”
“Yes. I told you that was considered child abuse and I was going to tell my teacher.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You told me to go ahead. My teacher would probably think it was a good idea and do the same.”
Andrea laughed. “And now you’re a teacher. Oh, Lord, irony is a beautiful thing.”
Maisy kicked the ground and the swing started to move slowly back and forth. “I still have trouble staying still…”
“Why do you think I made your dad build a porch swing? It was the only place you could sit and move at the same time.”
Maisy grunted. Maybe she should build one in her classroom. She kicked the porch floor a second time to keep the swing rocking at a steady pace.
“Since the summer started, you have worn yourself out more than usual. Not just the outside chores but inside, too. You’ve been working on that fundraiser for school supplies and that’s not for two months.”
“That’s our biggest fundraiser. Besides, I have trouble staying still—as you just pointed out.”
“Uh-huh.” The tone of Andrea’s voice made it clear she didn’t completely believe that. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I do read the paper. And your brother and father still love sports talk radio over the news.”
Maisy stiffened. “If you think that silly story about the Turbos and good luck is bothering me, you’re wrong. I doubt anyone out here in Comeback even cares.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Why would anyone even link me to Kevin’s pitching and some stupid superstition in the first place? I mean, who thinks of that stuff?”
“I don’t know, honey. People are weird when it comes to their sports teams. Your dad and I don’t like how you’ve been dragged into it.”
Kevin had practically grown up in their household. He had spent more dinners at Maisy’s house than his own mother ever knew. In fact, there was a time when he’d put on quite a bit of weight because he often ate a meal with his mom and then ran over to catch a second—and more substantial—dinner with the Grays. Maisy’s parents had been nice to Kevin. But when it came to their daughter’s relationship with him, both her parents were reserved. After Kevin had dumped her, they’d done an old-fashioned shunning. It was nice to know her family had her back. Always.
Maisy kicked the porch harder. “John Mackenzie stopped me at the grocery store the other day and asked if I was going to a game anytime soon. He offered to pay for my ticket. Even the mailman made a comment. He saw me saddling up Faygo in the barn and left his truck just to talk to me. He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t interested in going to another game.”
Andrea sighed. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but they were asking about it at the library board meeting, too.”
Maisy jumped off the swing. A breeze was picking up and the wind chimes were having an uprising. She matched their agitation and paced the porch, ignoring the way the wind whipped her hair across her face. “I’ve avoided him for over three years. I didn’t even know he was pitching. If our section hadn’t won the donut race, no one would have known I was there.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Seriously, I hardly even think about Kevin anymore.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“And when I do, it’s only when I think about all the time I wasted with him.”
“Then forget—”
“You think I’m overreacting?” Maisy stopped pacing and stared at her mother.
Her mother shook her head and the corner of her mouth quivered.
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you need to find a healthy way to move on from this. Wearing yourself out around the farm isn’t going to solve anything.”
Maisy whacked the chimes, adding to the cacophony on the porch. “That doesn’t help at all.”
Andrea blinked slowly. It sucked when her mom gave her that look. Mom was like the wise fairy godmother who knew how the story ended but refused to give her a clue.
Maisy stared out at the fields beyond the house. The corn wasn’t more than knee high. The sun was lower on the horizon. Her father would be home from his rounds at the hospital soon.
“I wasted half my life helping him.” Since the age of fourteen, when she had put down her own baseball mitt and focused on helping Kevin achieve his dream, her life had revolved around baseball. She had been equal parts coach, girlfriend, and mother to a man-child who had never appreciated her.
“You did love the sport. It wasn’t just about Kev—”
But Maisy wasn’t listening. “I was going to be a doctor, remember?”
“Well, you were only seven when you had that dream. And you make a great teacher. I’m so proud of your accompl—”
“I sacrificed everything for Kevin. I swear, the next man in my life better need absolutely nothing from me. No support, no cheering, no ego-stroking, nothing.”
Andrea raised her hands and unleashed a full smile. “Praise the Lord. Are you saying you will finally make time to date again?”
“No!”
A picture of her co-conspirator at Plato’s Pub the night of the no-hitter came to mind. If she were ready, which she wasn’t, he would be the kind of man she would date. Someone who didn’t like baseball, either. Someone who didn’t need anything at all from her but a channel controller.
“Dating doesn’t have to be about getting married. Just let yourself meet new people, honey.”
“I meet new people all the time.”
“Oh?” Skepticism laced Andrea’s voice.
“Yes. I met someone just a couple of weeks ago. At a bar.”
Her mother’s mouth opened and her eyes grew wide in exaggerated shock. “A bar! How did you end up there?”
“Heather took me.”
“I always loved that woman,” her mother said with a sigh. “So, are you going to see him again?”
Maisy half sat on the porch rail. “Mom, just stop. A woman doesn’t need a man to have a fulfilling life. We’re not just cheerleaders who stand on the sidelines looking pretty. We’re strong now. Times have changed.”
Andrea sent her a measured look and did the slow blink again. “I guess my generation had it wrong. We burned bras and let hair grow on our legs to celebrate our freedom, while yours uses push-up bras and body waxing for…Why again?”
Busted. Mom was the strongest woman Maisy knew. Despite her weakening body. She had been a high school athlete before Title Nine, a marathon runner before it was cool, and a physical therapist who worked tirelessly to get her patients moving again. Ironic.
Andrea brushed a blade of grass off the empty seat next to her. “I give up. If you’re going to be stubborn, then the least you can do is transfer your energy into the kitchen. You know how your father loves homemade bread.”
Maisy raised an eyebrow. “I get to blast my music then.”
Andrea sighed. “I don’t care as long as you keep the lyrics clean…like Led Zeppelin.”
Maisy helped her mother up and into the house, where she retreated to her room for a midafternoon rest, which she needed more and more these days. Instead of blasting her music, Maisy put on headphones and worried about the future as she measured flour.
The future was something Maisy had first learned to dread as a sophomore at IU. That was when her parents had sat Maisy and her brother down to explain Andrea’s disease. Because he was a doctor, her dad believed in full disclosure. He’d held nothing back in the discussion. The thought of her active, energetic mother suffering the slow loss of her motor and neurological skills broke Maisy’s heart.
When she returned to school, she’d struggled to hold in her emotions in front of Kevin. He had been having an exceptional year on the baseball field. Scouts were calling him almost every day. She’d tried to be supportive, but her mind was elsewhere. On one particularly bad afternoon, when she had made the mistake of looking up more information about PPMS online, she’d skipped one of his play-off games. He’d come to her dorm room afterward, to find her curled up in her bed, crying into her soggy pillow.
“You have to stop, Maisy. It will be years before anything really happens to your mom. But I need you now.”
She sat straight up in bed. “Are you complaining because I’m upset about my mom?”
“I just lost a big game. I know you’re sad, but seeing you cry like this brings me down even further, baby.”
Stunned, she’d lain back down facing the wall. The next day, she’d made a decision. “Maybe we should take a break, Kevin.”
It had lasted three weeks. During that time, she’d gone home and was told in no uncertain terms by both her parents that she was not allowed to quit school to take care of her mother. One day in early October, Kevin had caught her after class to tell her the Chicago White Sox had invited him to spring training. It was hard not to get caught up in his excitement. Before she’d known it, they were back together.
And there was the problem.
Maisy had always thought she took after her mother. Athletic. Educated. Strong. It turned out she was a complete pushover.
She punched the dough, admitting to herself that she was far madder at herself than she could ever be at Kevin Halderman.
***
Sam had five minutes to prepare for his next meeting with two television sponsors who were competing to be the seventh-inning stretch headliners. He could pit them against each other to get the highest bid. But the products were farm equipment and the maker of a sports drink called Whammo. Sam was going to convince them to share the seventh-inning slot and run a commercial on the jumbotron that would benefit them both. The pitch featured a farmer on a tractor taking a break in the field with a sports drink. It could double the income from the screen time and help keep the Turbos’ profit churning in the right direction.
Ever aware of product placement, Sam had set a bottle of Whammo on his desk. He couldn’t stand the stuff, but the sponsor would be impressed if he saw Sam drinking it. Opening the top, he poured half the drink in the plastic-lined trash can under his desk.
Someone cleared their throat. Sam jerked toward the door.
“Putting out fires in the trash can, son?” asked Charlie Zumaeta in a booming voice that had the ability to carry all the way to the locker room four floors below.
Instead of explaining why he was emptying a can of Whammo in the trash, Sam stood up and shook Charlie’s hand. The older man sawed Sam’s hand so hard Sam was tempted to peek at his Fitbit to see if it had extra mileage.
“I didn’t know you were stopping by the office, Mr. Zumaeta.”
From day one, Charlie had suggested that Sam call him Mr. Zumaeta instead of “Zoom” like everybody else did. Sam would have no problem with that if he respected Zoom more.
“Thought I would check around and see who was loafing off, so I could give them a piece of my mind,” Zoom only half joked.
Sam followed his gaze to his desk. Three newspapers and a protein bar lay across a pile of folders he’d brought back from his meeting earlier this morning. The one that had run on for an extra two hours. They had laid off the director of sales a month ago. To save money, Sam was taking on part of the man’s responsibilities. Sam thought about explaining his cluttered desk and the food but then decided to forget it. He was too old to be told to clean his room.
“Have a seat.” Sam offered Zoom a chair. He might stay for five minutes. He might stay for two hours. If he stuck around, at least the sponsors would feel a sense of honor at meeting the Donut King himself.
Zoom waved off the chair. “I’ve been thinking about the situation. Of course, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Sam searched his memory. On Monday Zoom had discussed creating mini baseball donut holes, making the ground staff uniforms purple, and changing the mustard vendor. Sam eyed the protein bar. This conversation would be so much easier if he had more food in his system.
“Son, who do you trust the most in this organization?”
Sam made a fist and cupped it in his palm, like he used to when he waited for his pitcher to wind up and deliver. It was a trick question for sure.
“I trust a lot of people in the organization. If I didn’t, I’d fire them,” Sam said.
“That’s how I feel,” Zoom said.
A red-hot fireball started to sink in his chest. So, this was it. He was about to get sacked. He had a contract, but Zoom could buy him out at the end of the season.
“Let me ask you then, if one of my stores was selling princess donuts with blue icing instead of pink icing, don’t you think I should know about it?”
Sam swallowed and wondered how icing had anything to do with being terminated. He sat down behind his desk and took a sip of Whammo and, too late, remembered why he hated the stuff. It tasted like melted gummy bears.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this gal who lit Halderman’s balls on fire?”
Sam coughed, spilling Whammo all over his tie. He grabbed an old scouting report and used it as a napkin to blot the mess.
“I thought I trusted you to tell me if someone was making St. Patrick’s Day donuts in June!”
It took Sam a moment to make the link between St. Patrick’s Day and Maisy Gray. “Sir, this stuff about luck is just superstitious gossip. I didn’t think you’d be interested—”
“My star pitcher pitches his best game in years and you don’t think I want to know why?”
“It’s just the media hyping it up. Halderman’s performance had nothing to do with her.” Sam tried not to think about Tristan’s statistics.
Zoom put both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I want that woman back.” The way he said it made Maisy Gray sound like his old lover.
Instead of pointing out that Maisy Gray was a free agent, Sam argued. “Surely you don’t mean to buy into this myth about Maisy Gray being good luck to Kevin.”
“Of course I do. And so do the fans. Did you see those signs last night? I thought you would have handled this by now.” Sam had been hoping things would die down. Last night’s upper deck proved he had been wrong.
Voices down the hallway reached his ears. His sponsors. Suddenly the complication of making two seemingly unrelated advertisers work together seemed as easy as greasing a fine-tuned engine.
“This situation needs to be handled by someone we can rely on one hundred percent,” Zoom said.
Sam rose from his chair. “This situation is a person. And from what I could tell—” He stopped himself. No need to explain the scene at Plato’s and the mutual aversion he and Maisy had to her ex-fiancé’s image on TV. “I mean, from her history, it is highly unlikely that she is going to feel good about coming back to watch Kevin Halderman play.”
“I’ll leave that problem to you, son.”
To him? What part of general manager duties involved coercing women to the ballpark? “Maybe we should let Kevin deal with this—”
“That kid has more important things on his mind. Like winning ball games.”
Sam bit back the snide comment on the tip of his tongue.
Zoom raised his finger. “We’ve got a corporate apartment—isn’t that in your building? She can come to the game and be my guest in the owner’s suite. Give her free donuts for a month. She’ll really like that.”
Free donuts would never sway a woman who would climb over a bar just to reach a remote control.
Sam’s secretary, Joanie, poked her head into his office. Her eyes darted back and forth, assessing the situation. Sam had hired her the week after he started with the Turbos. Not only was she trained in all the necessary computer programs, she had the wisdom that came with being a former stay-at-home mother of five kids. She ran the office with the multiplexing brilliance of every woman who understood a chaotic household. Quite simply, she was one of the best.
The unspoken rule between Sam and Joanie was that Charlie Zumaeta took precedence over all appointments. But when there were important customers, like the ones he was expecting now, the rules were fluid and they had to tiptoe around the dynamics.
“Hey, Zoom,” she said, apparently allowed to call the Donut King by his nickname. “Mr. Hunter, are you ready to see your two o’clock appointments?” Joanie’s question was well placed. The Donut King himself was fully aware that corporate America ran by the rules of promptness, no matter who was in the queue.
“I’ll let you get back to your work.” Zoom waved at Joanie, who stepped away. “Glad we had this little conversation, son.”
Sam sunk his hands in his pockets. “Even if she does come back to a ball game, Mr. Zumaeta, do you really think she would make the Turbos win more games?”
“Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”
“I’ll try to contact her first thing tomorrow.” Sam couldn’t imagine what he would say.
“In person is always best.”
The Whammo account executive appeared in the doorway. “Oh, my gosh, look who’s here!” He shook Zoom’s hand, overjoyed to meet the Donut King in person.
Zoom made the man’s day by telling him all about his latest donut. Then he fished in his pocket and gave the man a coupon for two dollars off.
“Excuse us just one moment,” Zoom said, pulling Sam into the hall with him.
Tristan Staub passed, not even hiding the crooked smile that said, I know what you are talking about.
“I’m counting on you, Hunter,” Zoom explained. “My wife says the ladies think you’re hot. Use some of that charisma on the gal if you need to.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary—”
“Come on, women are much nicer when you lure them with compliments and smooth talking.” Zoom straightened his tie. “Take her to dinner. Buy her some chocolates. Hell, sleep with her if you have to. Just get her here.”
If Zoom only knew what those words did to Sam’s gut.