Always Right

It was a beautiful day for a baseball game—right up to the moment Kyle Norton heard the crunch of titanium and plastic under his right cleat.

Batting practice was in full swing, with the Rockets’ power hitters behind the plate. Kyle was shagging fly balls in right field, keeping an eye on the practice pitcher throwing strike after strike. Tyler Brock had just soared three in a row over the fence at center field, making it look easy.

Kyle never hit fly balls like that—he’d always hit for average, not for power. He was in a batting slump now, had been for almost a month. Not a single hit, no matter who was pitching—righty or lefty, men who came on with heat, or crafty bastards who knew just where to put the ball. It didn’t make any difference to Kyle—he just wasn’t seeing the pitches, wasn’t getting his bat through the zone in time.

Brock hit another high fly toward the fence, and Kyle broke into a dead run. He got to the warning track, got to the wall. He whirled and found the ball, soaring straight toward him, like a magnet drawn to an iron column. He tensed his legs and extended his arm for the catch. He snagged the ball in the web of his glove, automatically snapping his fingers closed to keep it safe in the leather pocket.

And he tumbled into the wall, hard enough to jar his neck forward, to send his sunglasses tumbling onto the warning track. He didn’t have a chance of finding them before he came crashing down, mangling the frames and shattering the lenses.

As the crowd above him applauded his effort, Kyle glanced at the scoreboard clock. Only fifteen minutes left in batting practice. Not enough time to head back to the locker room, to scare up another pair of glasses and get back to right field, rounding out the practice. But there was no way he could play without something to cut the glare.

He turned toward the fence and the fans who were cheering right above him. With a shrug and a grin, he tossed the ball up there, making sure it landed in the long fingers of the woman who was centered at the front of the crowd.

She looked astonished that she’d ended up with the ball. She was there with a group, if the bright green T-shirts meant anything, the ones that shouted Link, Oster, Vogel, and East PLLC in bold letters. Her friends toasted her with their beers, slapping her free hand for high fives. One of the guys looked down toward Kyle and hollered, “Thanks, buddy!”

Kyle made a show of tipping the brim of his cap. That was the good thing about BP; it was warm-up time, sure, and there was a lot of work to be done, both behind the plate and out in the field. But it was also a chance to reach out to fans, to build the team’s reputation. And Mr. Benson, the team’s owner, was always happy to hear that his fans were satisfied.

At the urging of her friends, the woman who’d caught the ball leaned forward. Her long black hair was done up in two braids, like she was a kid. But there wasn’t anything childish about her. Her T-shirt was knotted above her waist, tight enough to show off her chest. Her legs, emphasized by her neatly cuffed shorts, were long and tanned; she looked like some sort of beach volleyball queen. Or maybe he only thought that because of the way she leaned over the railing, sticking her ass in the air as she blew him a kiss.

Sunshine glinted off the glasses she was using as a hairband, the titanium frames, the high-end lenses. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called. “If you really want to thank me, let me wear your glasses!”

He watched her shake her head in disbelief, curving her hand to point at her chest like she couldn’t believe he was talking to her. He was
not
going to think about that chest. He was
not
going to speculate about what she had on under that knotted tee. Instead, he pointed toward the shattered remains of his own glasses.

“Go on,” one of the guys urged her, an older man who looked like he was in charge of the office outing.

The woman slipped off her glasses and looked down at Kyle doubtfully. “Go ahead,” he shouted, taking off his glove and tucking it under his right arm. “I’ll catch them.”

“Sure,” she called, and she glanced at the ruined frames beside him.

“It’s my
job
,” he said.

“Go on, Amanda,” one of the other guys urged her. “Don’t impugn his manhood.”

Kyle hadn’t meant to call attention to his manhood, one way or another. Maybe the jeering embarrassed Amanda, because she started to back away from the fence. At the last minute, though, she turned back and held her glasses over the railing. He reached high, cupping his hands to receive them. She let go, and he made the easy catch.

They were top-of-the-line glasses—polarized lenses, lightweight frames, a neutral design that could be worn by men or women. Hell, they were probably as good as the ones he’d just pulverized into the warning track. He shouldn’t take them—at least not without getting her phone number, so he could return them after the game.

But balls still cracked off bats behind him. The other outfielders and relief pitchers still scrambled to catch the shots that got past the infield. The grounds crew still lay in wait on the warning track, ready to roll away the cage that kept the pitcher safe, to groom the diamond and get the show on the road. It was time to get back to work. He’d worry about getting the glasses back to Amanda later.

So work he did—through the rest of batting practice. Through the familiar routine of settling into the dugout as the announcers went through the ceremonial first pitch, the congratulation of game sponsors, the recognition of military veterans. He took his place on the field for the singing of the national anthem, and then he trotted out to right for a few last-minute tosses, long balls to Green over in center.

The game started, and Hart sat down the Milwaukee batters, one, two, three, with eleven easy pitches. And then it was time for Kyle to trot in from right, to step over the chalk that marked the first base line, taking care not to smudge it with even the tip of his shoe.

Traditions—that’s what mattered in baseball.

He exchanged his regular red cap for his batting helmet. Pine tar nearly obscured the Rockets logo on the front, the accumulation of hundreds of at-bats. That was more tradition—never clean a batting helmet mid-season.

He stepped to the plate, taking his time to dig in. In the past, he’d loved batting lead-off. He knew all the statistics, all the numbers the coaches tossed around. Getting the first batter on base was the single most important thing his team needed if they were going to score in the inning. It didn’t matter if Kyle hit a single or walked on balls, he just had to get ninety feet away, to first base.

Those rules were etched in his bones. He knew them without thinking. That was why he needed to step out of the batter’s box, why he had to check the straps on his batting gloves, to tap the bat first on his right shoulder, then on his left. He touched the shoulder of his uniform the way he always did, a little tug on the jersey like when he’d played Little League, when he’d played college ball, when he’d come up through double-A down in Chester Beach.

Habit. Ritual. Superstition. It calmed him, let him concentrate on the game.

He swung the bat over his shoulder and looked out at the Milwaukee pitcher. He sensed the catcher shifting behind him, flashing signs out to the mound. He saw the pitcher nod once, twice. It would be a fastball, then. Kyle couldn’t be certain where the ball would be targeted, inside, outside, high, low. That shouldn’t matter. Knowing a fastball was coming, he should be able to catch up to the pitch.

He glared through Amanda’s sunglasses, willing himself to concentrate. The pitcher wound up. Kyle watched the ball emerge from the other man’s glove, saw it leave the guy’s fingers. He
knew
where it was going to be when it crossed the plate, and he swung his bat, connecting with the clear, sharp sound of trademarked maple on leather.

Kyle knew it was a home run before he completed his swing—the sound, the feel of the ball coming off the bat, the graceful line as it jetted toward the deepest part of the park, over the centerfield fence. His third home run of the season, and the crowd roared the entire time as Kyle trotted around the bases.

His long dry spell was over.

For the rest of the game, Amanda’s glasses worked like a charm—even better than the ones he’d ruined. As the team poured onto the field for its post-game celebration, he glanced toward the right-field fence. The cluster of green shirts was moving up the aisle, toward the exit and home. It was too late to thank Amanda. Too late to tell her the glasses had made all the difference.

~~~

Amanda Carter sat at her desk, rubbing the back of her neck and hoping the aspirin would kick in soon. She glanced at her computer screen, and the clock seemed to pulse in time with her throbbing headache. It was just past eight.

She should have skipped the game that afternoon. She didn’t have time for baseball, not with the trial of her life coming up in two and a half months. She should have stayed at the office all afternoon, writing her briefs, arguing the intricacies of patent law to the court.

But as the firm’s newest partner, there’d been no way to refuse going to the Rockets game. Harvey Link—whose name was first on the letterhead—was all about team spirit. And whatever Harvey wanted, Harvey got. That was the habit that had guaranteed Amanda made partner. Harvey liked hummingbird cake, so Amanda baked a hummingbird cake for Harvey’s birthday, every freaking year. Harvey liked Christmas carols, so Amanda organized the Christmas Chorale, every freaking year.

Harvey liked baseball, so Amanda had wasted five hours of her life when she could least afford to lose them, all with a headache pounding hard behind her eyes. Why the hell had she tossed her sunglasses to Kyle Norton? Her reaction had been completely illogical—she’d been egged on by Harvey, by everyone from the office hooting and hollering around her. That was her only excuse for leaning over the fence, for blowing a kiss to that ballplayer.

She wasn’t usually such a sucker. She didn’t roll over and do whatever a guy asked her to do—even if he
did
have an incredible smile. And rippling forearms that made her toes curl inside her shoes. And blue eyes that seemed to look past her silly group T-shirt, that seemed to see straight into her soul.

She shook her head. She’d given the guy her glasses because Harvey had told her to. And those had been her best sunglasses, too, a gift from a client after a hard-fought case down in Miami.

Her cell phone shrilled, setting off an echoing shriek behind her eyes. She almost decided not to answer, but habits were habits, and this was Sunday night. She forced herself to smile as she said, “Mom!”

“How has your week been?”

Amanda reached for a pad of paper and started writing out the Fibonacci numbers. Their cool, predictable logic always calmed her when she was itching to do something else, to be somewhere else. 0. 1. 1. “Fine,” she said to her mother. “And yours?”

“Busy. Barbara Anne came and sat with me today.”

“How nice,” Amanda said automatically. 2. 3. 5.

“She says she’ll drive me to the doctor’s office next week. I’m getting a second opinion on my back. On whether surgery is an option.”

8. 13. Amanda made sympathetic noises. Her mother was in constant agony from a variety of lower back problems. She’d had to give up work a few years ago, barely able to walk after decades of working two waitressing jobs, day in, day out.

“There may be tests,” her mother said. “Things that aren’t covered by Medicaid.”

Anxiety ignited in Amanda’s belly, coating her throat with a sour taste. She didn’t have extra money to cover tests. She didn’t have extra money for anything. As it was, she’d memorized her expense spreadsheets, all her careful charts of income and expenses. She knew exactly when her rent was due, when she had to pay for electricity, gas, and water. She knew her mother’s payment schedule as well, because that was Amanda’s duty, her obligation, to help out the woman who had raised her. It wasn’t like her brother Alex could. Warren, either.

21. 34. 55. 89. Amanda managed to sound calm as she said, “Don’t worry about it. Just have them send the bills to me.”

“Thank you, Mandy. You know, if there was any other way…”

Amanda took a deep breath. The Fibonacci numbers weren’t soothing the way they usually were. Of course, that was because she kept picturing another number—100,000. The number she had to write on a check by next Monday, if she was going to buy into the Link Oster partnership. She’d spent the past three months trying to figure out how she’d raise the money.

A normal person would take out a loan. But Amanda wasn’t a normal person. Warren had seen to that.

And just like clockwork, her mother said, “Your father was at church this morning.”

144. 233. 377.
Oh, who gives a damn!
She scribbled through the list of numbers, scratching them out like she was rooting out her past. She couldn’t bring herself to say a word to her mother.

“He has a lead on a new job,” her mother said, and the hope woven into her mother’s voice twisted the wires wrapped tight around Amanda’s heart. “He says things will be different this time. He’ll be able to pay restitution to all three of us.”

“Warren is an addict,” Amanda said, purposely keeping her voice even. She didn’t expect her mother to listen. Not this time. Not when she’d spent decades deluding herself. “He’s a gambler who bankrupted our entire family. He stole your identity, and mine, and Alex’s, and he ruined our credit history. That’s why you divorced him, Mother. That’s why I won’t speak to him.”

“He loves you, Mandy.”

Amanda bit her tongue. Maybe somewhere in the tangled neurons of Warren Carter’s brain, some chemical impulse fired every once in a while to delude him into believing he cared for his family. But a loving man would never have let his children go to bed hungry, night after night. A loving man wouldn’t have bet the money for the electric bill, wouldn’t have pawned half their possessions, sold the car out from under them, broken their hearts too many times to count.

The worst of it was, Amanda had been forbidden to tell anyone about the hell she lived in. Her mother had been terrified that Child Protective Services would get involved. CPS would have put Amanda and Alex into foster care if Amanda told anyone about wearing three pairs of pants to bed just to stop shivering, about doing her homework by the light of the streetlamp outside their home, about endless dinners of “tomato soup” made from ketchup and hot water.