Covering Home (16 page)

“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.” Britt tossed her headphones onto the counter in the broadcast booth and pushed her chair back. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Anytime, darlin’.” Bill Vickers smiled. The leathery skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as his gaze trailed down her body. “No need to rush off now.”

Britt cringed and ignored his suggestive tone. “Actually, I do. I’ve got a post-game press conference to nail.”

“Great job today, Britt.” Jamie Tomlin removed his headset, running a hand over his salt and pepper buzz cut. He was the picture of professionalism and respect, a sharp contrast to his slimy colleague.

“Thanks, Jamie.” Britt grabbed her briefcase and left the booth, breathing a sigh of relief.
Glad that’s over
. Calling nine innings with those two was awesome but she was exhausted from trying to keep up with their constant chatter. Obscure facts about the game, players’ previous performances and speculation about managers’ strategies flowed like water between Jamie and Bill. If she was going to make it in professional baseball, they set an incredibly high standard to live up to.

Taking the stairs as quickly as her high heels allowed, Britt plotted her strategy for getting a microphone in front of Caleb. He’d made his feelings about the traditional post-game interviews quite clear, but this time he’d be hard-pressed to avoid the media. Even a reluctant hero couldn’t resist the spotlight forever, right? Especially when thousands of adoring fans were still in the dome, savoring every minute of the Rays’ win over the Senators.

By the time she was on the field, Caleb’s teammates had deposited him on the podium in front of the dugout. Her knees felt weak.

His white uniform emphasized the wide expanse of his chest and powerful shoulders.

He took off his hat and that same stubborn lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he surveyed the dozens of reporters and cameras closing in on him.

He hates this
.

“Here’s your mic, Britt.” Gretchen pressed a microphone into her hand. “Paul’s staked out a place right up front. Good luck.”

“Up front? Right. Can you take this, please?” She passed her briefcase to Gretchen. Gathering her thoughts, she circled around the boom operator angling his microphone above Caleb’s head. The chants ceased and the drums were silent. The spectators leaned forward in their seats, all eyes on the American pitcher who had claimed an unexpected win for their beloved team.

Paul’s bald head was easy to spot and Britt shouldered her way to the front, only an arm’s length away from the podium and Caleb. Paul looked away from his camera’s viewfinder for a split second and acknowledged her presence with a quick nod.

She edged closer, jamming her microphone into the cluster near Caleb’s chest and tried to focus on what he was saying.

“I had the support of a great team today. The guys made some incredible catches out there. That double-play in the fourth inning was instrumental for us …” Caleb continued talking but Britt struggled to pay attention.

His eyes were riveted on hers while those amazing lips of his kept moving. Her cheeks flushed.
Get a grip.

“Britt?”

She flinched. Was he talking to her? “Excuse me?”

Caleb arched an eyebrow. “Did you have a question?”

“Oh—um, yes. Tell me how you felt when—when Wes Harper came to the plate in the ninth inning? With the, um, the bases loaded?” Good grief. She sounded like a complete idiot.

“I hoped he’d strike out,” Caleb quipped with an easy smile.

The press laughed, but Britt wanted to melt into the turf. Marne would clobber her if she didn’t come up with something better than that. “But instead he took you to a full count, with a runner on third. Were you surprised?”

“Surprised? No. Wes is a friend of mine and a tremendous athlete. He played well today—this whole series, really. Taka called for a particular pitch and I threw it. Game over. Any other questions?”

“So—” She needed to work in one more question about why he pitched again on limited rest—but another reporter cut her off.

“One question, please,” the petite Asian woman thrust her microphone in Caleb’s face and cut her gaze at Britt. “Tell us more about your relationship with the American reporter?”

Britt’s heart pounded and she stood, frozen, pleading silently for Caleb to ignore the question and move on. He was the hero, right? He didn’t
have
to answer her question. Did he?

“I don’t talk about my personal life with the press.” Caleb’s expression hardened.

Nice.
Thank you.
Britt held her chin high. Next question, please.

The reporter wasn’t easily dissuaded. “Because there’s nothing to say or—”

“I think I’ve said enough. Why don’t—”

Shin hopped up onto the platform and waved both hands in front of the press. “Thank you, thank you. Enough questions. Let’s give our Seibu Rays one more round of applause.”

Britt released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding while the crowd rose to their feet, cheering once more. She turned to hand her microphone back to Gretchen and bumped into Marne.

“What just happened here?” Marne’s eyes glittered like two icy orbs.

Britt stepped back, her pulse quickening. “We got the interview. Just like you wanted.”

Marne’s brows knitted together. “I’m not talking about the interview. That last question was in reference to you. I thought we talked about this.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re lucky that manager intervened.” Marne swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “I’m getting you out of here as soon as possible.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll wrap things up with a tour of the players’ facilities and their home field. Then you’re on the first flight to San Francisco Friday morning.”

“I’ll be home for Easter?” Britt wanted to hug her. She couldn’t wait to tell Kristi.

“You’ll be home for Easter but I need you in LA all next week. I don’t know when Joe will be back, so you might be on your own for a while. We’ll shoot
Covering Home
remotely for Opening Day, starting at Dodger Stadium.”

“Thank you, Marne. I’ll be there, ready to go.”

“Yes, you will. Gretchen already made the arrangements.” Marne checked her phone. “I’ve got to call Joe’s wife and get her on a plane. Excuse me.”

“See you later.” Britt looked toward the dugout. Caleb stood at the top of the steps, glove in hand, talking to Aaron. Her stomach plummeted. How would she break the news that she’d be gone in less than thirty-six hours?

Chapter Seventeen

Late the next morning, Caleb helicoptered his golf club across the green, swearing under his breath.
This sucks
.

“Having a good time, bro?” Ben replaced a divot with the toe of his shoe.

“No. I hate this game.”

“Let’s call it a day and grab some lunch. After you find your club.”

Caleb propped his hands on his hips. “But this is your last day here. I thought you wanted to play eighteen holes?”

“Not if it’s going to be eighteen holes of temper tantrums.” Ben returned the 5-iron to the golf bag.

“That wasn’t a tantrum.”

“Whatever. Your foul mood wouldn’t have anything to do with Britt Bowen’s imminent arrival, would it?”

Caleb yanked off his visor and wiped his brow with his forearm. “No.”

“I thought you said they were wrapping things up this afternoon?”

“They are. Two o’clock.”

“What are you going to talk about?” Ben rubbed his hand across his jaw.

Caleb shrugged, spinning his visor around on one finger. “Americans who play baseball in Japan, I guess.”

“Whatever. You could make this a whole lot easier by telling her the truth.”

Despite the warmth of the late-morning sunshine, an icy ball settled in Caleb’s gut.
No.
That wasn’t part of the deal. He retrieved his driver from the rough and they trudged toward the clubhouse in silence.

“Are you going to tell her goodbye or what?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Aren’t you sick and tired of living like this?”

Caleb stopped walking. “Living like what?”

Ben waved his arm at their surroundings. “Like this. Look at you, man. Alone in a foreign country. Sure, you’ve got baseball but what about when that goes away?”

Caleb chewed on his lip, staring at the nondescript concrete buildings that flanked the golf course. Tokorozawa wasn’t so bad. The crowds and frantic pace of Tokyo were forty minutes away. Living in the players’ dormitory with the rest of his single teammates was a big adjustment, but he wasn’t there that much, anyway. Everything he needed was within a short walk.

“It’s not home, but I’m getting used to it.”

“Dude, you’re hiding.”

The familiar flare of anger began its slow burn. He started walking again. “I’m not hiding.”

“They’ve bullied you into silence. And you’re letting them,” Ben called after him.

Caleb froze. This was not happening. He turned slowly and glared at Ben. “Do you have any idea what it’s like for me?”

“No, I don’t.” Ben flung his hands heavenward, then dropped them to his sides. “Because you never want to talk about it.”

Caleb marched toward his twin. “It’s easier this way, okay? I don’t have to see her face in the tabloids every time I go to the store. There’s nobody hiding in the bushes outside my condo or following me to my car, hoping that one time—just one time—I’ll give them the juicy story they’re demanding.” His voice got louder and louder, but he didn’t care. “But more importantly, somewhere in Colorado, there’s a whole bunch of kids getting a shot at a better life, a chance to be happy.”

“But what about you?” Ben asked.

“What about me?”

“Your second chance at happiness.”

“I told you, I’ve got everything I need right here.”

Ben linked his arms across his chest. His expression hardened. “You just keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday you’ll believe it.”

Hiding behind her Aviator sunglasses, Britt leaned against the window and let the train’s movement lull her to sleep. Forty minutes was perfect for a nap. Wendy sat next to her, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

“Marne must be really worried about Joe if she won’t even leave his bedside,” Wendy said.

“Umm hmm,” Britt murmured. She didn’t want to think about Marne right now.

“Is she going to stay with him while we all go back to Newark?” Wendy asked.

Paul inserted his opinion from across the aisle. “No.”

“His wife flies in tonight,” Gretchen said.

“I think Marne will feel better once she knows Joe has someone else to advocate for him. Meningitis is no joke,” Paul said.

Britt sat up in her seat. Maybe this nap wasn’t going to happen after all.

“Does that mean you’re in charge, Gretch?” Wendy flipped her magazine shut and dropped it into her tote bag.

“You know it,” Gretchen said. “That’s why I’m passing the baton to Britt.”

Britt shook her head to clear the fog of exhaustion. “I think I’m hearing things. Did you just say you’re deferring to me?”

“Marne said you’d know what we needed to wrap things up.”

“Did she, now?” Wasn’t that interesting?

Wendy nudged her with her elbow. “And you thought you were going to take a nap?”

Britt lifted a notepad from her briefcase. “Silly me. Let’s get this party started then, shall we?”

They spent the rest of the ride to Tokorozawa formulating a plan for the afternoon.

As the train arrived at the station, they were afforded a great view of the Seibu Dome.

“Wow, that’s what I call conveniently located,” Paul said.

“No kidding. I wish I could ride the train to the front door of our office.”

Britt stared out the window at the white oval gleaming in the sunshine, like an overturned saucer suspended above the emerald green trees surrounding the field.

Phil and Weston—the sound guys—waited near the train, cameras and equipment stacked neatly at their feet. Britt recognized Shin and a few of the Rays players talking to them. She studied their faces but Caleb wasn’t there. Good. That meant she had a few minutes to quell the butterflies taking flight in her stomach. She hated goodbyes.