Authors: Honey
He
blamed his lapse in judgment on the measly three hours' sleep he'd had last
night. Cap had had a bad episode that left him shaken and paranoid, unable to
go back to sleep until his headache medicine relaxed him enough to let his mind
rest.
Alex
took a drink of cool water from a beer stein. The Orioles had presented him
with the colorful enamel-and-silver mug for pitching a perfect game in 1897.
July the seventh. Nobody in the league had ever accomplished that—before or
since. They'd celebrated until sunrise at Patty O'Rourke's Fine Irish Tavern on
Spring Street. Patty had pledged he could have the stein filled with
anything—anytime—on the house. For life. Beer, whiskey, schnapps.
At
the latter thought, Alex vaguely smiled.
When
he'd joked about the schnapps with the team, he'd wanted that old baseball
camaraderie again. And for a moment, on the bench that second day with the
Keystones, he'd fallen into it. But he knew it wasn't the same as before. These
men weren't the Orioles, the players he'd brought to the pennant two years
running. The Keystones had no ambition.
But
Camille Kennison did.
She'd
surprised him. Seven days. She hadn't quit, no matter the circumstances. And
the Keystones had given her reason to walk away without looking back. They were
lousy. Hell, he was just as lousy as the rest of them.
Alex
"the
Grizz"
Cordova had struck out more times at bat in one
week than he had in a month with the Orioles. He hadn't gotten a single hit.
But he hadn't chased a single ball, either, a fact that Camille, in her always
well-schooled voice, got after him about.
Just
once, he wanted to see her crack. Fall apart. Crumble. Buckle under the
pressure. Misplace her gloves. Lose the hat. Let her hair down. Maybe even
utter a ladylike "damn" once in a while.
"Mr.
Cordova."
Alex
looked up.
Christ.
Miss Honey herself. Standing on the lip of the
dugout. After smoothing back strands of straight black hair from his eyes, he
felt the stubble that roughened his cheeks and chin. He'd neglected to shave.
For a second, he regretted it. But only for a second.
"Miss
Kennison."
"You're
here early." She came down the few steps to meet him on his level.
"So're
you."
"I
have to do something in the clubhouse." She didn't enlighten him as to
what. And he didn't ask. She held on to a heavy, paper-wrapped parcel.
Alex
rested the base of the beer stein on his thigh.
She
wore her usual pale colors and appeared as angelic as ever. Did she ever raise
her voice? Ever get her skirt dirty? Ever lie in meadow grass with her hair in
a cloud around her and dream up at the sky? Her mouth was too damn full. Her
eyes too damn blue. Her nose too damn perfect.
He
wanted to dislike her.
He
wanted to run his hands over every inch of her body.
Her
eyes fell on the beer stein. Reproachfulness gleamed in them. "Mr.
Cordova, you know that I don't allow drinking on the day of a game. And you
have to play in four hours. What do you have to say for yourself?"
He
gave her a slow grin. Let her think what she wanted. Then he purposefully took
a long and leisurely drink. Going so far as to wipe his mouth with the back of
his hand. Her eyes never left his lips. Was she thinking the same thing as him?
"Give
me that stein," she demanded.
Apparently
not.
With
a bland smile, he handed it over. "You caught me, honey."
Shifting
her package in her arms, she lifted the mug to her nose. Then delicate sniffed.
Three times. A frown marred her smooth forehead. She knew something wasn't what
it seemed, so she went as far as tentatively bringing the rim of the stein to
her mouth. She took a short sip. Then with a gasp, said, "This isn't
beer."
"Never
said it was."
"But
you led me to believe..." As she shoved the stein back at him, he noted
her pulse thrumming at the base of her throat. Right at the lacy dip of her
collar. Right at the top of her shirtwaist where the buttons were tiny and
white. So tiny, he thought about trying to see if he could help one escape
through its tiny buttonhole. "Why did you do that?"
"Because
I like to watch you when you think you know something." He slowly gazed at
her. "Your breasts rise and fall. Really soft, but you're mad and you
won't show it. See—there."
She'd
been doing exactly what he'd been talking about when he'd been talking about
it. He grinned as she abruptly pulled a quick intake of air into her lungs.
"You're
going to have to breathe sometime." Alex took another drink of water, his
mouth exactly where hers had been. "And I'm still going to be sitting here
watching."
He'd
expected her to do all the shocked-woman things. Huffing a bit. Stamping her
foot. Acting outraged. She merely stood before him, tall and poised. And when
he was finished taking an unhurried drink, she asked, "Are you
satisfied?"
"I'd
be a lot more satisfied if my lips touched yours directly instead of where
they'd been on my mug."
She
hefted the package higher in her arms. "I'm not in the mood for this. I
don't make jockstrap innuendoes to my players, Mr. Cordova."
He
brought his head back, then tilted it to her. She'd taken his cue, but her
remark had not been anything like what he'd thought it'd be. "The weather
too hot for you?"
"I
think the pressure of pitching is too hot for you."
He
felt the bite on that one.
"We're
going to try something different today," she said. "I want you to
warm up away from Cub. Clear your head of everything else but baseball. Focus
on one thing only: getting the ball in the strike zone."
She
looked across the field. He looked with her.
Bordering
the park was a weathered and unused stockyard. It butted against the railroad
tracks, the corral broken in spots. A few timbers, crooked and knocked down,
fell about ten feet from the third-base foul line.
"See
that bullpen? That's your warm-up place from now on. I'll send Yank over with
you to catch."
She
took the few steps up to the top, then paused. Centerfield had begun to flood.
With a shake of her head, she walked to the network of hoses and twisted the
valves off; then headed for the clubhouse.
He
stared at the stockyard once more. What froze his abilities couldn't be fixed
by isolation.
A
bullpen would have as much influence on him as a steer had at a barbeque.
"What
's that
smell?" Noodles asked, sniffing loudly. "Good Gawd, it smells like a
dead rat."
Mox
snorted. "Jesus! Now that you mention it."
Deacon
blurted, "Who the hell didn't take a bath?"
Camille
had just explained the slates to the players and they'd broken up to read their
respective notes. But there had been that unpleasant odor in the clubhouse.
A
search for the offensive smell commenced. They sniffed the air, took long pulls
into their lungs. The only person not interested was Alex, who leaned against
his cubby, his slate above his head with one simple word written on it:
Try.
The
hunt narrowed in on Cupid Burns. He shrugged but gave no apology. Doc yanked
Cupid's cap off. "Damn, Cupid. What do you have on your head?"
No
hair. Cupid was going as bald as a Spalding baseball. He had the baby face of
one of those naked cupids that artists drew on Valentine cards, so the name
Cupid had stuck. For a man who was twenty-two, it was a terrible thing to be
losing hair. Camille hadn't given it any thought, but Cupid, obviously, was
quite sensitive about it.
"You
shaved your head!" Bones laughed.
"Give
me my hat back, Doc!" Cupid yelled, making a reach for his team cap.
"I don't go around snatching yours."
"Go
ahead. I've got nothing to hide." Doc had a bushy head of blond hair and a
whopper of a mustache to match.
Charlie
shook his head, his nose wrinkling. "Why did you shave your hair
off?"
Cupid
blushed a sweetheart red that crept across his face and colored his ears.
"A fellow told me that if I shaved it completely off and rubbed this
liniment on it's supposed to help grow hair."
"Who
told you that?" Cub asked.
"Eureka
Dan." Alex's deep voice quieted the room and caused heads to turn in Alex's
direction. Arms folded over his chest and one shoulder resting against the
wall, Alex half-smiled.
Cupid
grew wide-eyed. "How'd you know?"
"He
comes by and tries to sell me horse liniment." The other corner of Alex's
mouth lifted. "But I don't own a horse. So figure it out."
The
others guffawed.
"Cupid's
got horse liniment on his head!" Jimmy slapped his knee while laughing it
up.
Disorder
followed, the men roaring with laughter. Camille rose and called over their
shouts. "Gentlemen. We can't waste time with this issue. We've got a game
to play against the White Stockings, in case you've forgotten."
This
slowly sobered them. Expressions went from merry to somber. "I can't
forget," Cub said, "Zaza Harvey's pitching for them. He's good—"
"You're
good, Cub," Yank broke in. "When you concentrate, you're good."
Noodles
added caustically, "Trouble is, he hasn't concentrated all year. Why don't
you try throwing the ball at my glove instead of wild-pitching it?"
"I
try that, but you move around behind the plate like you've got a constant itch
you're after."
"I'd
like to win once in a while," Jimmy said, then took a swig of his cherry
pectoral.
"I
think you fellows keep forgetting"—Mox examined a cloudy spot on his oil
lamp, then shined it with the elbow of his sleeve—"Kennison bought our
ticket into the American League. This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal to play with
the best. We'd better get our heads together."
"Better
get
something
together," Duke said, then spit.
Cub
pressed a hot water bottle to his arm. "Fellows in Philly and the like are
good players because that's all they do—practice around the clock."
"Then
we have to make the most of our shorter practice times," Camille said, her
gaze passing over Alex. Though she answered Cub, she spoke as much to Alex—if not
more so—as to Cub and the others. "You don't have to live in Philadelphia
to be good at what you do. Deep down, if we believe we can, we will be good.
Contenders. Not pretenders." She smoothed the rosettes on her cuffs and
gave them a quick perusal. "May I suggest we go out there and tell
ourselves that we'll win?"
"You
can suggest it," Specs said, ever the pessimist, "but I don't think
it's going to happen."
"Specs,
I hope you're wrong," Cub replied. "I say let's get those White
Stockings."
A
rally of seconds sounded through the clubhouse.
* * * * *
The
horse liniment caused the riot.
In
the bottom of the third inning, Cupid got a single and went to third on a hit
by Deacon. Once Cupid occupied the bag, Frank Isbell, the Chicago third
baseman, gave the air a loud sniff. Then he kicked Cupid in the shin. Just like
that. Out of the blue.
Cupid
looked at him in surprise. From where Camille stood, she could hear Cupid
holler, "What'd you do that for?"
Frank
didn't say a word. He backed away. Cupid began to follow him, and Camille
hurried from the dugout and waved with both arms for Cupid to stay put. Zaza
Harvey threw the ball to third. Luckily Cupid got back to the bag before he was
tagged out.
Bones
got a walk and took first.
The
crowd stomped their feet on the bleachers, the grandstands thrumming with their
enthusiasm.
Alex
was next to hit, and as he practiced some warm-up swings, she went to him and
offered some sage advice. "Deacon is on second and Cupid is on third. The
score is zero to two. We could do something in this inning. You've got to
focus." She shouldn't have let her anxiousness come through, but this was
the first flicker of hope they'd had since she'd taken over. A cold knot formed
in her stomach. This was it. She could prove herself worthy of the job. But she
needed Alex's help.
His
cap rode low on his forehead, a portion of his dark hair having fallen over his
forehead. The Keystones lettering on his shirt stretched over his chest, the
crisscross laces down the front a contrast of white next to gold. A black belt
circled his lean waist. White pants, molded against his hips, ballooned
slightly at the knees where stockings came up his well-defined calves.
She
stared into the dark black depths of his eyes. The gaze was more of a caress
she didn't care to explain—not to herself, not to him. Perhaps she'd been
thinking too much about the words that they'd had before the game, talk of lips
together, because when she spoke, her voice came out low and throaty, thick
with unspoken meaning. "Tear the leather off the ball, Cordova."