Covering Home (27 page)

“No. Of course not.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

She gnawed on her lower lip. “I’m afraid you’ll always wonder what might have been.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. So what’s wrong with starting a new chapter?”

“I think you’re setting yourself up for a huge disappointment.”

He gritted his teeth. “Let me ask you this, since we’re all about honesty this morning. What’s really bothering you? Are you really concerned about my career or is this about you and the big story you promised your network?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It’s not. So if that’s your angle, I think you need to think twice before—”

“Before I what? Let you make the biggest mistake of your life?”

He flinched. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”

“I can’t do this.” Her voice broke. She grabbed her purse and jumped off the couch.

“Britt, wait.” He stood up to block her path.

“I have to go,” she whispered.

“Please don’t.” He tried to intercept her but she veered out of reach and jogged toward the door. He wanted to go after her, but the sharp sting of her words left him reeling. He sank onto the couch, a hollow ache expanding in his chest. She didn’t have space in her life for him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Three days later, Caleb sat in a packed conference room in Denver, Colorado. The local media filled the rows of chairs, eager to hear the General Manager, Garrett Kline, make the official announcement regarding Caleb’s new role. Caleb leaned forward in his chair and waited for the first question. Cameras clicked and whirred, the staccato flashes a nuisance he’d learned to tolerate. While Garrett finished his comments, Caleb scanned the room for any sign of a familiar blonde sportscaster. Nothing. Obviously this press conference didn’t warrant her attention.

“First question, please.” Rod sat next to him at the table, ready to ride herd on the more assertive journalists.

“Caleb, would you comment further on your role with the Rockies? Will you travel with the team? Make decisions about the pitching rotation?”

Caleb cleared his throat. “Garrett hired me for two reasons: player evaluation and mentoring the younger guys. I’ll travel with the team at some point, but I don’t anticipate calling the shots yet. That’s the manager’s job.”

“Have you seen anybody at the single A or double A level that stands a chance of being called up?” a woman in the second row asked.

“I’ve watched some tape. There’s potential within the Rockies system. I can’t comment on that any

further.”

“Have you spent much time in Colorado? Will it feel more like home than, say, Japan?” a guy in the front row with wire-rimmed glasses asked. Laughter rippled through the crowd. “I’m from Wyoming. Colorado definitely feels more like home. I can’t wait to wake up every day and see the Front Range.” He left it at that. No need to insult his former teammates by revealing just how miserable he was there. After all, if it weren’t for Japan, he might not have met Britt.

“Will you be putting down roots there? Buying a house?”

He smiled. They were on their best behavior today, but he should’ve known they’d start fishing for personal information. “I’m at a place in my life where I would love to feel more settled. For now, I’m taking things one week at a time and I’m grateful to be here.”

“What’s the status of your arm? Rumor has it you’ve scheduled surgery?” This from the back of the room. A woman’s voice but it sounded nothing like the one he was listening for. The hours had crawled since Britt ran out of the coffee shop and out of his life. His voicemails, texts, emails—all went unanswered. He tried to ignore the pain her memory evoked and formulate a response to the question.

“I haven’t scheduled surgery. I’ll consult with the team physicians here and see what’s best in terms of timing. The ligament definitely needs to be repaired.” That much was true.

Although they were really asking when and if he could pitch again, he refused to go there. Surgery was inevitable.

But he also needed to be with the team—get to know the guys, learn the routine. Dr. Weaver spoke well of a surgeon in Denver. It was all a matter of logistics now.

Caleb picked up the pen in front of him and moved it an inch or so toward Rod, their covert signal that it was time to wrap things up.

“We’ll take two more questions,” Rod said.

The photographers stepped up their game, moving in for their final shots. He tried to look normal, unfazed by the attention. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine.

“Have you had any contact with Greg or Lydia Forrester since you’ve been back in the States? Are they actively involved with your foundation?”

Caleb froze. Nothing good came about when those names were mentioned. He weighed his words carefully, knowing they’d be analyzed and spun every which way as soon as they left his lips. “Greg and Lydia Forrester are not actively involved with Mandy’s Kids. The foundation’s annual gala and silent auction is coming up and they’re always welcome to attend.”

There. Professional without being evasive. They could take that and blast it around the virtual world for all he cared. Greg and Lydia were in fact always welcome. But they’d expressed their opinion numerous times about a foundation bearing their daughter’s nickname. No matter how the foundation flourished, he would never earn their stamp of approval.
Fine.
He could live with that.

“Caleb, how do you address the rumors that you and Britt Bowen are romantically involved?”

The hum of conversation escalated and bodies shifted in chairs to see who’d done the asking. A cameraman scrambled to get a shot of Caleb’s face. Once again, the flash went off in front of him, shooting flecks of color into his line of sight. He winced.
Nice timing
. Rod kneed him under the table. Hardly discreet but a prompt reminder to answer the question.

“Britt Bowen is a wonderful person and talented sportscaster. Epic Sports is fortunate to have her.” He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Thanks for your time.”

“But—” A sportscaster from a local radio station sitting in the front row raised his hand.

“Mr. Scott, sir, you didn’t answer the question,” someone called out.

“Keep moving,” Rod murmured.

“Thanks, everybody.” Caleb flashed a smile and gave one last casual wave, like he held press conferences every day. Despite the hardened knot coiled in his gut, he had to play it cool until he was cocooned upstairs in his new office. He cleared the stage in three long strides and exited through the side door. Rod was right behind him.

“Great job in there,” Rod said. “Concise, professional—Perfect in light of recent events.”

“What recent events?” Life had moved at a record pace. First he’d signed the Rockies offer, then he’d met the movers at Amanda’s place so they could transport his stuff to Denver. There were conference calls with the Rockies’ pitching staff and somehow he’d tried to squeeze in meals, workouts—anything to keep his mind off of Britt.

“Do you pay any attention to media coverage? You and Britt Bowen are still trending after your appearance last week.”

Caleb turned to face his agent. “What are you talking about?”

“Someone snapped pictures of the two of you at dinner. Then another one outside a coffee shop. How did you miss it?” Rod plucked his phone from his pocket and started scrolling.

“It’s easier that way.” If he didn’t pay attention then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. There was no shortage of mental pictures of Britt to draw from, anyway. He didn’t need the Internet or the tabloids to remind him of what he was missing.

“I suppose so. Listen, the Realtor emailed the documents to you. A few quick signatures and you’ll be set. She’ll list the house tomorrow.”

Caleb nodded. The sooner the better. Once Amanda’s house sold, he could roll the proceeds straight into Mandy’s Kids. That meant more after-school programs for Denver’s underprivileged children, possibly even a new community center. A warm satisfaction broke through the hollow ache that resided in his chest these days. Perhaps that was a sign, a reason to hope for better things to come.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Britt sagged against the back of the booth, her cotton dress squeaking on the vinyl-covered cushion. “What a night,” she said, swiping her fingertips across the beads of moisture on her forehead. “That margarita can’t come soon enough.”

“You’re telling me.” Wendy dropped her phone inside her handbag. “This humidity is miserable.”

“The weather was the least of my worries.” Britt tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. “I stunk it up out there tonight.”

“It was your first show in the studio in ages. Cut yourself some slack.”

Britt rolled her neck, trying to defuse the tension that kept her muscles tied in angry knots. “You don’t have to pretend like it was okay. Really. I know it was bad.”

Wendy dismissed her concern with a casual shrug. “So you flubbed a few stats. Not a big deal.”

Their server returned to their table with a bowl of salsa and a basket full of tortilla chips. “Here you go,” she said with a shy smile. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

“It wasn’t just the stats. I made stupid mistakes—rookie stuff. Joe had to cover for me. It was embarrassing.”

“It’s not like he doesn’t owe you a few. By the way, he struggled tonight, too.

I think we’re all getting a little frayed around the edges.” Wendy dragged a chip through the salsa and popped it into her mouth.

She was right about that. Their intense pace had run them ragged. They’d flown all night from their last show in California, made it to Newark in time to catch a few hours of sleep, and then went straight to Epic and prepped for their next show. Joe had made a miraculous recovery but they struggled to find their groove on-camera. If she had any hope of replacing Kate later this year, things needed to improve.

“Hola.” A young Hispanic man sidled up to their table and flicked coasters down in front of them. “Two margaritas for you lovely senoritas.”

“Thanks,” Britt said, sliding the salt-rimmed glass closer. They rarely went out for drinks after the show, but tonight was such a disaster, she couldn’t bear to face her empty condo. Marne was probably going to come along any second now and read her the riot act.

“You’ve got to try this salsa. Amazing.” Wendy nudged the basket of chips toward Britt. “Since you brought it up, I’ve noticed you’ve been in kind of a funk since we left LA. What made tonight so much worse?”

Britt paused, a salsa-laden chip halfway to her mouth. She fixed Wendy with her most pointed stare. “What do you mean ‘a funk’?”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t try to deny it. You’re grouchy, forgetting important details, not sleeping—”

“I sleep. Some.” Britt crammed the chip into her mouth and reached for her margarita.

“Hon, who do you think spackles all that concealer on your face every night?”

Wendy pointed a finger at her own chest.

Britt took a sip, savoring the perfect combo of salt and the lemon-lime on her taste buds. She lowered her glass and weighed her words. “I can’t seem to move on. I’m afraid I made a huge mistake.” There. She’d said it.

Wendy’s penciled brows shot toward her hairline. “Regarding?”

“You know what it’s regarding.”

“But I want to hear you say it. I might even have to capture it on film.” She pretended to reach for her phone, a mischievous smile spreading across her face.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Britt squealed.

Wendy looked past Britt, her smile fading. “Hold that thought. Here comes Marne.”

Britt groaned inwardly. She wasn’t ready.

“Hey, Marn,” Wendy said, a little too chipper, and scooted over in the booth to make room.

Britt kicked her under the table.

“Ladies.” Marne sank into the space next to Wendy, a half-empty margarita glass in her hand. She must’ve had a rough night, too. Britt’s stomach hardened. This wasn’t good.

“How’s it going?” Wendy asked.

“Whew.” Marne tugged at the neckline of her black tunic, red splotches evident at the base of her throat. A sure sign the higher ups at the network were on her case. Maybe they should order a whole pitcher of margaritas. “Just finished a call with the VP of production—”

“I’m sorry,” Britt blurted. “I know it was a lousy night, you don’t have to say another word.”

“Oh, but I do.” Marne glared at her. “What happened?”

Britt fiddled with her utensils still bundled in a white paper napkin. “I—I don’t know. That’s never happened before. I understand the rules about the DH. My mind just went—other places.”

“Like Colorado?” Wendy grinned over the rim of her glass.

Britt shot her a look. This was no time for jokes. “Colorado? What?”

“Two words. Caleb Scott.”

Marne’s head bobbled back and forth between Britt and Wendy, like a fan watching a tennis match. Britt squirmed in her chair. Marne was going to blow a gasket at any second.

“Listen, I think you need a vacation,” Marne said.

Britt’s world tilted. All of the air left her lungs. “What?” Her voice sounded raspy, unnatural.

“Take a little time for you. This has been an intense stretch. Maybe we asked too much of you, coming off of Japan and covering for Joe. Come back in a couple of weeks—”

“A couple of weeks?” Britt shot forward, nearly upending her drink. “It was one bad night. Even the most seasoned veterans hit a rough patch, right?”

Marne pressed her lips into a thin line.

The server came back to the table, poised to take their order, but Marne waved her off. “We need a few minutes. Thanks.”

“Marne, I’ll pull it together. I promise.” Her mouth felt dry. But now the thought of alcohol and salsa swirling together made her stomach roil. She fisted her hands in her lap, the acrylic tips of her nails digging into her palms.

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

Britt’s heart pounded in her chest. “But—”

“This was a long shot, sending a woman to work with Joe. You did a fabulous job in Japan and our ratings soared. We couldn’t have survived Joe’s illness without you. But since we left LA, you’ve been more than a little … flat.”