CRUSH TOLD PAIGE to start her “internship” in the marketing and promotions department, since his battle against the Wades required extra ammunition.
“We need to get the town on our side. Part one will be to win the championship,” he told her as they headed through the management wing to Marcia Burke’s office. “But we need more than that. We need to recreate ourselves. Perception is everything.”
“Are you saying we need to put the Catfish on the map?”
“I wish it was that simple. The Catfish are already on the map, but not in the way we want. They have a reputation. A bunch of wild and rowdy partiers who like to have a little too much fun.”
“Hm. I wonder who that reminds me of?” Paige scrunched up her face, squinting into the distance as if searching her memory. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me, along with every time I got sent off the ranch for All-Star weekend.”
“Funny.” He chucked her under the chin, a gesture left over from her childhood. “You know those parties were no place for a child.”
“I wouldn’t know. I never got to attend one. Maybe now that I’m grown up I’ll finally get a chance.”
Crush snarled like some sort of bossy lion. “Absolutely not. I don’t want you hanging out with the players.”
“Dad, that’s ridiculous. How am I supposed to help market the team without hanging out with the players?”
He scratched at his chin. “Good point. Okay, maybe a few ground rules, then. Don’t smile at them. Don’t bring them food. Feed them and they’ll be like puppies following you everywhere you go. Never, ever, buy them a beer.”
“No food, beer, or smiles. You drive a hard bargain. Any wiggle room on the smiles? Because I didn’t smile for the last three months I was with Hudson.”
Sympathy flashed in her father’s hazel eyes as he held the door to the marketing department open for her. “Smiles, but no laughs. Don’t get a big head, but your laugh is irresistible.”
“Aw, Daddy. That’s such a nice thing to say.” She beamed at him, and he groaned.
“Damn it, I might have to change my mind about the smiling.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Crush. Have you seen the girls who hang around the ballplayers? I think they can withstand an ancient, jaded old divorcée.”
Marcia Burke, who headed the Catfish marketing and promotions department, had retired from a high-powered New York advertising job but still wore nothing but black. She wore square black eyeglasses and kept her silver hair in a bob that bisected her ears.
She rose to her feet and put her hands on her hips, scanning Paige from head to toe. Literally, she was about half Paige’s height. “So. You ready to work hard?” Her raspy voice reminded Paige that she’d come back to Kilby to battle throat cancer.
“Yes ma’am.”
“I need ideas, brilliant ones, and I need them yesterday. We need to make Catfish synonymous with . . .” She cocked her head at the baseball field. “. . . impact. Glamour.”
Crush muttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like “bullshit.” He told them, “I’ll leave you to it, then,” and hauled ass out of the room.
As soon as he was gone, Marcia plopped back down at her laptop and started jabbing at the keys. “Impact,” she muttered. “Glamour. Social media, we need something on social media, something that’ll really make a national splash. Viral, we want viral. Grab a chair, brainstorm with me.”
Paige scanned the office for an extra chair but didn’t see one. There were plenty of Catfish posters and piles of T-shirts and little key chains and pens, all in bright Catfish blue. The infamous poster of Trevor Stark hung next to the window that looked out on the field.
She stared at it. Trevor Stark, man of mystery. The last person she’d expected to see when she’d stopped by the Boys and Girls Club to see if they needed any volunteer assistance from a well-intentioned student who had yet to finish her degree. They’d assigned her to a summer tutoring program, but the real revelation had been the sight of the enigmatic Catfish slugger putting on some kind of presentation for a group of at-risk youth. They’d been completely enraptured by whatever he was saying, but she was too far away to make out any of his words.
But the impact he made still reverberated through her. He’d worn gray trousers and a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The size and power of him was amplified in comparison to the kids surrounding him. Every so often he turned his head so she saw his profile. The fluorescent lights made caves under his cheekbones and turned his hair platinum. He was just so good-looking it was almost scary.
But then there was that scar on his cheek, that thin white line that took him from angel to badass.
In the poster, he had no scar. Pulling her gaze away from it, she looked out at the field, where the game was in full swing.
“Just wondering,” she said to Marcia, “if watching the game wouldn’t help us get ideas.”
“The game? Why?”
“Well, I’ve never been a fan of the game myself, so maybe we could talk to the real fans, see what they love about the Catfish and baseball. It might help to get some inspiration, that’s all.”
“You want inspiration? Two words: baseball pants.”
Though it was strange to hear that from a seventy-year-old, Paige had to admit that the players on the field wore the uniform well. Particularly Trevor Stark, who stood like a colossus in left field. For the first time, she actually got to see him in baseball pants, since he hadn’t worn them in Crush’s office. The memory of his long, bulging thigh muscles and light covering of golden hair would stay with her for a long time.
Then again, the addition of baseball pants worked too.
“Um, is that appropriate, really, talking about baseball pants like that? We’re supposed to be marketing, not pimping.”
“It’s a thin line sometimes,” Marcia said. “Sex sells, girlie. Always has, always will. Keep that in mind. There’s a reason they changed the design of the pants back in 1972. Got me and my girlfriends to the games.”
“I see your point.” She wrenched her gaze away from left field to the pitcher going into his windup. He delivered a fastball, a little outside. The batter fought it off, sending a high fly ball to right field. The runner on first dashed toward second, the infielders scurried to cover their bases, and the right fielder leisurely tracked the ball. She’d never seen him before, but from her quickie research she knew his name was Shizuko and that he was half Japanese, half Brazilian, and had a worldwide following on his Tumblr page. He caught the ball easily.
With a graceful motion, Shizuko gunned it into first base; the runner had to dive to make it back in time. The center fielder yelled some encouragement and punched his glove. As she focused on the captain of the outfield, Paige’s eyes widened. The center fielder was pretty amazing looking as well. African-American, with absolutely chiseled forearms exposed by the warm weather uniform. Radiating charisma, he grinned at the crowd, making the “two out” sign, then prowled back to his position.
From the center fielder—Dwight Conner, she suddenly remembered—her gaze traveled to left field, where Trevor Stark, a blond Viking god, staked out his territory. He said something to Dwight, and they both laughed. Jesus Christ, the amount of sheer good looks in that outfield would make a modeling agency faint. “That’s got to be the sexiest outfield in baseball,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh nothing. Just appreciating the view from up here.”
“No, you said something. Something that caught my radar, but I wasn’t listening. Say it again.”
Paige tried to reconstruct it. “I think I said that’s got to be the sexiest outfield in baseball. But don’t listen to me. I just got divorced and I’m not completely myself yet. I’ve been doing and saying some strange things lately.”
Marcia jumped to her feet, sending her rolling desk chair spinning across the room. “That’s it. Baseball’s Sexiest—no . . . something with Texas—Outfields are Hotter in Texas . . . no . . . Outfields are Hotter than Your Fields.”
Paige sidestepped away from the runaway chair. “What the heck are you talking about?”
“The campaign that’s going to get everyone talking about the Catfish.”
“Baseball’s Sexiest Outfield? That’s how you want to market the team? I don’t think the players would like that.”
“You’re right. Baseball’s Hottest Outfield. First, it’s Texas and it’s always hot. Second, I’d have to check the stats, but off the top of my head, those three combined have a pretty remarkable OBP. Third, look at them.”
By now Marcia was next to her, pressing her face against the glass. “Those three are hot, and that’s with my seventy-year-old hormones. Not only that, they’re multiracial. This is goddamn genius. Your father is going to love me. I gotta write this up, girlie. Take a bathroom break. Cry your little heart out. Sorry about the divorce. Go on now.” Marcia gave her a friendly shove toward the door.
Paige resisted the tiny whirlwind. “But I don’t need to cry right now. And it was my idea.”
“No it wasn’t. You didn’t even know what I was talking about. All you did was lust after some ballplayers. We’ll present this to Crush tomorrow, so I have a lot of work to do. Don’t say a word to him before then. Top secret. We have to present it just right. Think visuals. Get inspired. Bye-bye.”
The door closed behind her. Paige shrugged. She couldn’t bring herself to care very much. Would Baseball’s Hottest Outfield really inspire the right kind of media attention? Hudson would have hated a campaign like that. He was actually a shy person, which was something she’d found endearing. He didn’t like to promote himself or trash-talk or anything like that. The problem, he’d once told her, was that he’d shot up to his full height so early in life that people were scared of him. A tall black dude, no matter how nice a guy, made people nervous. He’d learned to hide behind a smile and minimize his height.
Paige wasn’t even close to shy. She was insatiably curious about people and loved nothing more than to coax their stories out of them. At parties, Hudson used to hang next to her as much as she’d let him, relaxing in her flow of conversation and only speaking when necessary or when he spotted a basketball buddy. Off the court, he always kept a set of large, very obvious headphones handy in case he needed to ward off strangers who might want to converse with him. His roommates at college used to call Hudson and Paige “Big Black and the Chatterbox.”
Oh, snap out of it, she commanded herself. It was a screwed-up relationship anyway, as she’d discovered in her counseling sessions. She was Hudson’s crutch in so many ways. In return, he’d given her a temporary purpose in life. As Hudson’s wife, she was no longer torn between two homes, two entirely different families. She’d acquired a firm place in the universe, even if it was a little strange, since the people around her spoke Italian and pounded up and down a basketball court. She’d latched onto Hudson just as much as he’d latched onto her.
The really pathetic thing was that when he fell in love with Nessa, Paige had wanted to stay friends. Splitting up with Hudson had felt like losing a brother, someone very familiar and safe. But Nessa hadn’t been interested in anything like that. No friends, no checking in with the occasional text message, even a passing encounter in the Via del Corso made her hackles rise.
Enough. Hudson was history. Time to live in the here and now. Baseball pants and a hot summer day. Things could be worse.
She texted her father. Up for some Cracker Jack and cotton candy?
Is that code for Daddy time or are you starting to enjoy America’s pastime?
Actually, I’m just hungry.
We’ll hook you. Just wait.
That night, the Catfish made one of their legendary appearances at the Kilby Roadhouse. An eager crowd swelled the club well past its fire-safe capacity. The bass line blasting from the sound system vibrated the sawdust-scattered floor. Bursts of laughter rose like bright balloons toward the raftered ceiling. Trevor watched the action from the safety of a bar stool, his elbow throbbing from his first game since the BB gun incident.
Dwight Conner slid onto the stool next to him and squinted at the dance floor. “What the fuck is Bieberman doing out there?”
Trevor glanced over his shoulder. The shortstop was twitching his way across the dance floor at the head of a chain of girls. Every once in a while he kicked up a leg like a dog taking a leak.
“Having a lot more fun than we are.” Trevor snorted. “You should get to it, man. Show ’em how it’s done.”
“What are you saying, I’m black so I can dance?”
Trevor blinked at him. “You’re black? Dude, you’re supposed to be my friend. You gotta tell me these things. You can’t be keeping secrets like that.”
They both laughed. Somehow, mysteriously, he and Dwight had achieved the kind of friendship in which they could say any old shit and neither one minded. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a little off.”
Trevor took a swallow of his Lone Star by way of answer. The call from Nina had really rattled him. No matter how well he got along with Dwight, he couldn’t talk about that.
“Playing it strong and silent,” Dwight said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good call. I’m going in. If you need any help with the hottie on your left, just give me a sign.”
Trevor glanced to the side. A gorgeous brunette was sliding him a flirtatious look, elbows propped behind her on the bar, legs crossed, one black stiletto dangling from her toe. She smiled as he caught her eye, and that smile told him everything he needed to know. If he wanted to forget his troubles by burying his cock in a warm, willing body, done and done.
He gave her an apologetic smile and turned back to his beer. Not interested. Her eyes weren’t sapphire blue, and she probably didn’t say things like “pact of denial.” She wasn’t the adorable and off-limits Paige Taylor. Apparently he wasn’t interested in any girl unless she had a fluffy one-eyed cat and an attitude.
He finished his beer and pushed away from the bar. The smart move right now would be to go home and think about how to distract Nina from her determination to come to Kilby. He signaled the bartender, Todd, for his tab.
Instead, Todd brought him a shot of Grey Goose. “Courtesy of Dean Wade with best wishes for speedy healing.”
Across the bar, a towering man in a snap-up shirt and cowboy hat gave him a salute. He had the jawline of an ox and looked just as stubborn. Trevor had heard a lot about the Wade family, all bad. He knew Crush was feuding with them.
Just to prove Crush didn’t own him, despite being the team owner, he nodded back to Dean Wade and downed the vodka. The man looked pleased.
The vodka settled into his system, making things warm and blurry. He swiveled around to scan the dance floor, and blinked twice. Was that Paige Taylor, in a slinky black top and purple leggings clinging to those long, long legs?
“Who is that?” The soft, awed voice of Shizuko Ruiz interrupted his lustful thoughts. The right fielder leaned on the bar next to him, watching Paige walk their way.
“That is foul ball territory. Owner’s daughter.”
“Crush is a big fan of mine,” Shizuko said smugly. “He wants to party with me in Rio for Carneval.”
“Well, stay away from Paige. She’s having a hard time. Just got divorced.”
“Paige . . .” He mused over the name. “Like Satchel Paige?”
Trevor blanked for a moment, since Paige had reached them and her light scent had gone to his head. Her pretty lips were upturned in a wry, sexy curve.
“Yes, I’m named after Satchel Paige,” she answered. “My father’s favorite player.”
Trevor cocked his head. “He always says Don Mattingly was his favorite.”
Laughter flashed in her eyes. “Don Mattingly was his favorite hitter. Satchel was his favorite pitcher.”
Shizuko said, “So your name is . . .”
“Paige Mattingly Austin Taylor.”
“Why Austin?” Shizuko leaned in to hear her answer. A little too close, in Trevor’s opinion.
“It’s where Crush pitched his perfect game, asshole,” he explained, irritated.
Paige’s gaze swept to meet his, and he caught surprise and a satisfying amount of respect.
“Exactly. Whenever I complain, he tells me to be glad he didn’t pitch his perfect game in Pittsburgh. Hi, Trevor. And you must be Shizuko.”
The right fielder lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Murder filled Trevor’s heart. “Drop it,” he muttered so fiercely that Shizuko instantly obeyed. Paige shot an annoyed glance at Trevor. She’d added smoky eyeliner or something. Her eyes sparkled and glowed, sexy as hell, and her hair flowed loose over her shoulders. A long purple feather earring dangled from one ear. She shouldn’t be in this bar, with that slinky top baring her skin and that name that would make any baseball fan salivate.
“Is Dwight Conner here too?” she asked.
“Sure. Out there somewhere.” He beckoned to the dance floor, where Sonny Barnes, the first baseman, was now doing the “worm” across the entire floor.
“Conner,” Trevor called into the mob on the dance floor. “Outfield meeting at the bar.”
It took a few minutes, but finally Dwight fought his way out of the laughing mob. “What’s up?” He spotted Paige and plastered on his “lady boner” grin, as he called it. “Paige Taylor . . . I heard Crush’s cute daughter was in town, but I didn’t believe it until I saw for myself.”
She shook his hand, then pulled out her iPhone. “I was hoping I would find you all here. There’s something the Catfish management would like to discuss with you. Would you mind if I took a quick photo of the three of you? Sort of a selfie-style, casual shot?”
Trevor snorted. “Don’t trust her, guys. Next thing you know you’ll be duct-taping your sideview mirror back on your car.”
She made a face at him. “I told you I’d take care of that. This is perfectly harmless, it’ll just be easier to explain things this way.”
“Why so mysterious?” He leaned close to her ear, delivering his question through the fragrant waves of her hair. She shivered, almost imperceptibly.
“You’re calling me mysterious? This is perfectly innocent. Just pretend I’m a groupie asking for your autograph. If you want to take your shirt off, be my guest.” Her saucy smile was nearly too much for him. He wanted to scoop her into his lap and lose himself in her adorableness.
Maybe that vodka had been a bad idea.
As the three outfielders posed together, arms around each other’s shoulders, a wide smile spread across Paige’s face. “There’s a lot of testosterone in this picture. And some really great DNA. I think Marcia might be on to something after all.”
She finished snapping pictures and stuck her phone back in the little leather backpack that hung from one shoulder.
“Don’t mean to be rude to the owner’s daughter, but what are you talking about?” Dwight asked.
“Are you guys up for saving the Catfish?”
Trevor exchanged confused looks with Dwight and Shizuko. “Again, what are you talking about?”
“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning, marketing department. I’ll bring donuts.” Throwing up one hand, she added, “But don’t fall in love with me just because I’m going to feed you.”
She put some cash on the bar and signaled to Todd. “Please bring these guys a round of Lone Stars on me.” With a grimace, she turned back to the three of them. “And don’t fall in love with me just because I’m buying you beer. I’ve been warned about both of those things, but this is strictly business.”
With that, she disappeared into the crowd, nearly getting mowed down by Bieberman’s conga line. They all watched her go, and Shizuko let out a long sigh. “Pretty girl.”
“Donuts,” said Dwight, with his own sigh. “And beer.”
Trevor ground his teeth, wondering if he could get rid of the other two guys and cover the entire outfield by himself. Where that possessiveness came from, he didn’t even want to know.