Anna looked up from the papers she had spread across her kitchen table. It was almost two in the morning. She should pack up her work, stumble off to bed, get a few hours of sleep.
Gramps had asked her to make a full report on season-ticket holders at the next day’s management meeting. With the current season almost half over, it was already time to look to next year, to figure out new ways to lure the faithful to Rockets Field.
If it wasn’t the middle of the night, she’d phone Gregory Small. He was the one person who truly knew which of the farm-team prospects were likely to make the move to the majors next year. There were three local guys, all strong contenders for an advertising campaign—Hometown Boy Makes It Big.
But it was the middle of the night. And she didn’t want to talk to Gregory. She’d had enough of him that morning, when he’d lingered in her office like a bad smell, even after she’d explicitly told him she needed to get back to work. He’d demanded that she sign off on the “Ormond Strategy,” the series of steps he’d set up to convince Zach to cash in his no-trade clause.
Small was persistent as a terrier. And he was very, very good at his job. That was why Gramps had hired him in the first place, why Small was still considered the team’s most important front-office asset.
So, Anna had signed off on the memo. Even if she thought Gregory Small was a prick .
She just tried to ignore the shiver that plucked her spine when she thought of Zach reading this most recent volley in their escalating war. Thanks for playing those two games in Pittsburgh, Ormond. Here’s what we really think of you.
Her doorbell rang, jolting her out of her morose thoughts with a crash of adrenaline. Who would be stopping by in the middle of the night? She turned to the door, her heart hammering. Whoever it was leaned on the doorbell again, holding the button down, long and loud.
Anger replaced surprise. Anna crossed the living room at triple speed, flattening her hands against the door as she peered through the peephole.
Zach. Of course.
Even as he shifted tactics to a staccato rhythm, she shot the security chain. He bulled his way in before she’d fully opened the door.
“Are you trying to wake the dead?” she asked.
“No,” he said, dropping his duffle bag onto the floor. “Just you.”
“Too bad. I was already up.” She said the words glibly, but she couldn’t take her eyes from the suitcase. She knew what it meant—he’d come straight from the airport.
Fighting the dangerous flare of her emotions, she reached around him to close the door. The last thing she needed was her neighbors eavesdropping on the fight they were about to have.
He didn’t budge, didn’t ease a single inch to the side to make her action any easier. In fact, he was waiting for her when she turned away from working the lock. He planted his hands on the door behind her, creating a cage with his arms. She leaned her head back to look at him, to gauge his anger.
“I take it you got Small’s memo,” she said.
“Got it. Read it. Shoved it in the trash.” He flexed his arms, bringing his body closer to hers. “You think I’m going to walk away from a contract I spent seven months negotiating, because you tell a bunch of high-school dropouts not to pick up my bag from the luggage carousel? Please tell me that wasn’t your idea.”
“It’s team policy.”
“It’s bullshit.” He moved his hands closer to her head. His fingers were practically tangled in her hair. Her heart was pounding—leftover adrenaline from hearing the doorbell, she tried to tell herself, but she knew she was responding to more than that. A lot more than that.
She swallowed hard and was proud when she kept her voice perfectly even. “Luggage handlers are a perk, reserved for players who cooperate with management.”
“Do you actually believe that line?”
She sucked in her breath and avoided answering his actual question. “I’m doing what’s best for the team.”
“Is it, Anna? Is it ‘best for the team’ to keep a starting catcher at the airport for an extra hour, waiting for his goddamn suitcase?” He leaned in closer to her, shifting his weight so one of his legs settled between hers. She resisted the urge to arch against him as he growled. “Wouldn’t it be ‘best for the team’ for me to be out at the farm, tucked into my own bed, getting a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s game?”
“Well, now that we know that’s not going to happen…” Her hands found the cotton of his T-shirt, smoothed over the planes of his muscular back. She made short work of pulling the cloth free from his jeans, and he hissed when she set her palms against his flesh.
“You couldn’t possibly think this new rule would change anything,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth.
“It’s been one day,” she said. “One flight. You might cave in to the pressure if we keep this up. Give it time. ”
“You don’t have any time.” His lips teased hers, feather-soft with promise. “Texas might trade with St. Louis any day.”
She shifted her right hand from his back, cupping the bulge in his jeans that let her know he was every bit as excited as she was. “But look at how we’re already getting under your skin,” she purred.
For answer, he covered her hand with his own, leaning in close as he caught her lower lip between her teeth. She gasped, and then he was sucking on her lip, teasing, driving her to stretch against him for more, for pressure, for release. He laughed deep in his chest as he pinned her against the door, holding her with his legs and his body, even as his hands tore through the buttons on her shirt, as he ripped open the zipper of her shorts.
The rasp of his jeans against her thighs nearly made her explode, and her fingers curled in their own exploration.
“No,” he whispered, locking her hands against her sides. “Not this time. Tell me I can do this. Tell me I’m in charge.”
“Here. Now. I’ll do what you want, Zach, because I want it too. But once we walk out this door…”
“It’ll be hours before we walk out that door.” And he settled down to show her exactly what could be accomplished in the time before either one of them had to report to Rockets Field.
* * *
Less than eighteen hours later, Zach knew one thing for sure. He had played like shit. The team had played like shit. They’d been no-hit into the eighth, and Washington ultimately crushed them with eleven runs.
Standing under the needle-like shower in the clubhouse hadn’t begun to ease the ache in his knees, no matter how hot he made the water. A nasty bruise bled across his thigh—testament to one wicked foul ball in the third—and a knot was rising on his forearm from another in the fifth.
Three different guys had turned their backs to him when he’d limped into the locker room at the end of the goddamn game. He wasn’t surprised.
If they’d managed to win, he might have laughed at the debris they shoved into his locker while he was taking his shower—empty bottles of Gatorade, crumpled wrappers from protein bars, an empty box of bubble gum.
But the team hadn’t won. And he hadn’t laughed. Instead, he’d pulled on a collared shirt and run a comb through his hair, doing his best to look like a professional ball-player. A guy who wasn’t down on his luck.
Yeah, the team was pissed. And Anna was proving true to her word—she was going to do everything she could to push him to the limit, to deliver Tyler Brock for her team.
But for the first time since this goddamn circus had begun, he was shaken. He had never expected Coach to turn on him. He had never thought Jimmy Conway would send him in to face the lions alone.
Taking a deep breath, Zach opened the door to the press room. The reporters swarmed like iron filings drawn to a magnet; the hum in the room sharpened as if someone had turned up an amplifier. Zach made his way to the cloth-covered table at the front. He took his time pouring a glass of water from the plastic pitcher, and then he pointed at the beat writer from the News & Observer. “Bob,” he said, hoping for mercy because he was letting the guy take the first shot.
“We’ve been hearing all sorts of rumors about unrest in the clubhouse,” Bob said. “And your name is the one that keeps coming up. Is it true that Rockets management has eliminated all free food and drinks for players, and you’re the reason why?”
Zach made sure his voice was perfectly even as he answered. “There was a memo on the door when we got to the park today. From this point forward, we pay our own way.”
“Surely players aren’t bringing lunch money to the clubhouse?” That was the new girl, the one from the cable morning show.
Her chipper disbelief exasperated him. “They hired a moth—” He cut himself off. No reason to have his insults repeated on the late news, honed for the morning edition of the paper with his expletives neatly sliced away, replaced with polite words in square brackets. “They hired a clerk. He’s happy to make change, if any player doesn’t have exact payment.”
“But why the new policy?” came another voice, another woman. He craned his neck, saw that it was Cindy Macon, from Wake Up Wake County. “Is it true this is all based on a contract dispute between you and the team?”
What the hell. He’d known for days now that things were getting rough. No time like the present to advance the runner. “Yeah,” Zach said. “We disagree about a clause in my contract. They’re going by the letter on everything else until we get things worked out.”
Cindy homed in on the blood in the water. “What clause would that be, Zach?”
He found the camera, stared directly into its mechanical eye. “The team wants me to waive my no-trade clause. I want to play for the Rockets, the way I have for the past fifteen years. I want to leave this league the way I came in—wearing red and blue and number 33.”
The room exploded over that. Half a dozen questions competed to drown each other out. Where did the team want to send him? Was this a reaction to his recent suspension? What other steps had the team taken to make its position clear?
Zach wasn’t surprised when the press room door opened. Jimmy Conway rolled into the room on his barrel legs, already raising his hands to calm the raging journalistic storm. “Come on, y’all,” Coach said, in his best disarming drawl. “Don’t be gettin’ the wrong idea here.”
Coach glared at Zach across the table, sending a crystal clear message. Sit down. Shut up. And don’t feed the dogs another bite.
Zach shrugged and leaned back in his chair. His battle was with the Bensons. The Bensons and Gregory Small. Coach was just another game piece on the chess board.
Shit.
As the older man cleared his throat, obviously searching for a way to bring the press conference back to heel, Zach leaned forward and grabbed the mike. “Before Coach takes over, I just have one thing to say. First and foremost, baseball is a game. We play it because it’s fun to play. Sure, there’s money at stake, and we all have lawyers to argue over every last syllable, making sure our contracts are airtight.”
There. They were glued to him. Recording every word.
Zach forced himself to shrug his aching shoulders. He smiled like he was telling his favorite joke. “When rookies come up, we haze them. Make ’em wear tutus in the airport, carry Cinderella backpacks out to the bullpen. This thing in the locker room, this dispute over snack food. It’s another form of hazing.”
As a pack, the reporters nodded. Several even grinned. He was feeding them their stories, practically writing the human interest crap for them.
Zach leaned forward, bringing every last one of the writers into his conspiracy. “I’m here tonight to tell management that I can take whatever they dish out. Clubhouse snacks are on me for the rest of the season. Drinks too.” Zach reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, displaying the worn black leather for nearly a minute as the room lit with flash bulbs. “Why don’t y’all stop by before tomorrow’s game? I’ll tell ’em to put some extra soft drinks on ice. Your choice.”
That did it. The reporters started laughing. A few called out special orders, wanted to know if he’d serve up nachos and beer. Coach leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face, even if Zach could read another story in the man’s narrowed eyes.
The questions turned to what went wrong in the game, when Coach knew his pitcher didn’t have control over his curveball, why they’d tried to bunt in the bottom of the second. Zach kept his mouth shut. His work here was done.
It would cost him a bit, but it was done. The guys would be on his side before they got back out on the field. More than one article would come out tomorrow, letting Raleigh know that Zach Ormond wanted to be its catcher for the rest of his career.
His phone was ringing the instant he stepped out of the room. “Ep,” he said, after glancing at the screen.
“Well done,” the agent said. “Best ten thousand dollars you ever spent.”
“Ten if I’m lucky. I’m pretty sure the guys’ll find some very expensive food they can’t live without.”
“You’re refusing to play the Bensons’ game, though. That’s what matters.”
Zach paused beside his car. “Can you do something for me tonight, Ep?”
“I live to serve.”
“Track down the local Coca-Cola distributor. Have them deliver one hundred cases to Anna Benson’s home. Charge it all to me.”
“One hundred—Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” Zach said. And he gave his agent the address.
* * *
Anna sat on the edge of her couch, staring at her front door. She’d started the evening like every other one that week, reviewing notes for the next day’s management meeting. Gramps had rejected her plans for the season-ticket promotion, saying she was thinking like a business school student, not a baseball fan. The comment had stung—especially with everyone from Gregory Small to her office assistant looking on—but she’d promised to come up with something new.
But she couldn’t keep her mind on her work that night. Not after watching the team lose another game. Not when she had nodded at Small as she left the owner’s suite, giving him permission to deliver his next packet of papers to Zach in the locker room. Not when every rustle in the hallway made her think Zach was coming to protest her action.
The team’s action.
That’s what it was, she reminded herself. They were playing a game. A game with high stakes, one that she would hate to lose. But a game, nonetheless. At least that’s what she had to believe when she looked at the 2400 cans of Coke that filled her entire foyer, that spilled into her living room, crowding her space with neat red-and-white cardboard boxes.
He knocked, instead of ringing the bell.
The sound had her on her feet before she knew she was moving. She ran her hand through her hair, smoothed the front of her navy blue button-down shirt. The hardwood floor felt cold against her bare feet as she forced herself to take her time working the lock, sliding the chain, opening the door.
“Wow,” he said, stepping into the cramped foyer.
She followed his gaze to the boxes. “Wow, indeed.”
“I had no idea they’d take up so much room.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
“I think I’ll have more delivered tomorrow. You’re still able to move around in here. At least a little.”
Move around. Why did everything sound like a double entendre? She was ready to show him how they could move around. She curled her fingers into fists, thinking about how he’d pressed her against the door two nights before, thinking about the power and urgency their gamesmanship had brought to his lovemaking in the hallway. On the couch. Finally, in her bed.
Her breath came short.
She forced herself to look him in the eyes as she asked, “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got, um, Coke.”
He didn’t smile. Instead, he raised the pile of papers he’d been holding at his side. “Your idea, I presume?”
She shrugged. “It was a group project. Gregory complained you weren’t paying attention. Gramps called you an ingrate, after everything he did to get you into this building. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t think they needed to know you only come here when you can’t get out to the farm.”
“So you thought you were helping me out?”
“Wasn’t I?”
He pushed his way past her, past the mountain of soft drinks. After he threw the papers on the coffee table, he crossed to the window and stared into the darkness. “They’re evicting me, Anna. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” That surprised her. “How can they move that fast?”
“By paying me a one-month penalty and returning my goddamn security deposit.”
She swallowed hard. This wasn’t working out the way she’d planned. She’d thought she could play both ends against the middle—raise the heat on Zach without causing him any real distress while making sure Gramps and the rest of the Rockets’ personnel knew she was on board.
She did her best to sound flippant. “At least you make some money on the deal.”
“I told you before. This isn’t about money.”
Of course it wasn’t. The man was a major-league baseball player. He had money to keep the entire team fed in the clubhouse. He had money to spend on red-and-white practical jokes.
“I need to get my furniture out, my clothes, everything, or they’ll stack it at the curb. You can bet the press will love that one—‘Deadbeat Ormond Sacked.’”
“They sack quarterbacks,” she quipped. “Not catchers.”
“So everything’s a joke to you?” he asked, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“Not everything.” She caught her breath as he crossed the room, as she braced herself to stand her ground. He’d showered after the game; she caught the scents of shampoo and soap. He hadn’t shaved, though. The bristles of his beard cast his jaw in shadow, made him look dangerous, like a pirate or a thief.
His hands tangled in her hair before she’d truly seen him move. He backed her to the couch, half-carrying her, half-leading, and when she collapsed against the cushions, he covered her with his body. His legs splayed across hers, pinning her, making her arch in needy reflex. With one hand, he stroked her throat, murmuring her name before he found the hollow behind her ear. The teasing pressure of his tongue made her writhe.
He slid one hand over her belly. His mouth followed as he edged up her shirt; he left a trail of throbbing kisses as he worked his way to the edge of her bra. She watched his eyes darken as he studied the black lace. “You wore that for me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, answering his possessive smile with one of her own.
His lips were hot on the lace, searing, and her nipples pearled to attention so fast they ached. Her response seemed to kindle his imagination because his thumb flicked over her right breast, just hard enough to make her breath come short. He slipped his other hand behind her, deftly finding the double hooks of her clasp. He edged the bra over her left breast and took her swollen nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. The bristles of his beard scraped against her, echoing the graze of his teeth.
She shifted her back on the couch, eager to give him a better angle. He slid a hand down her side, dipping beneath the waistband of her shorts. Lace awaited him there as well, panties that matched her obviously inadequate bra. He slipped his fingers along the top, tracing the narrow triangle of damp cloth.
Her thighs trembled at his touch, tightening more as he shifted his attention to her other breast. She imagined how that beard would feel against even softer flesh, and the rush of sensation in her clit almost made her cry out. Instead, she moaned his name.
“Anna,” he answered, moving his lips to her ear. He caught the lobe between his teeth, pulling gently.
She tried to think of what she was supposed to say, tried to put any two words together in the beginning of some coherent sentence. He edged his thumb along the top of her panties, embossing the lace into her overheated flesh. She arched against his palm, desperate for close contact, needing him to touch her, to fill her, to take her over the edge.
He shook his head, just the slightest of motions. “Anna,” he said again. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Thinking?” she gasped. “Now?”
He eased back from her, taking more of his weight onto his left elbow. She shuddered, suddenly icy cold where his body had burned against hers. “I’ve been thinking I made a mistake,” he said.
“What?” she panted. “What mistake?”
He pulled her bra down, cupping the lace over her quivering breasts. His palm brushed across her nipples, enough to tantalize, enough to make her bite back a cry, but then he pulled her shirt down over her belly.
“Baseball is a game of negotiation,” he said, his voice calm and reasonable. “I call for a pitch. The pitcher tells me he can’t throw it. I choose another pitch. Give…” He curled his fingers under the edge of her shirt. “And take.” He smoothed the fabric flat again.
“I’ll give,” she said, trying her best seductive smile. “Right here. Right now.”
His laughter was soft, private. Just between the two of them. “But the pitcher and I are actually on the same side. We’re working toward the same goal.” His hand was spread across her panties. He had to feel her heat, to know she was ready for him. She was throbbing for him.
But he pulled away, slipping his hand free from the waistband of her shorts. Instead of fingering her lace, instead of ripping away her panties the way she wanted him to do, he traced the seam of her shorts, from her hip to the cuff across her thighs.
“You and I,” he said, catching her gaze like a hypnotist. “We’re not working toward the same goal. You and I are opposed to each other.” He pulled away from her, sitting straighter on the couch. “I can’t give in to you, Anna. It’s time for me to deny you what you want. That’s only sound negotiation strategy.”
“Screw your negotiation strategy,” she said. “In fact, screw…” She trailed off, trying to reach the zipper on his fly.
He laughed and caught her wrists easily. “I gave you what you wanted, what we wanted, the last time I was here. And now I’m thrown out of my apartment. So this time, I’m going to try Plan B.”
He held her then. Pinning her hands between them, he leaned down for one more kiss. His lips teased at hers, soft at first, gentle as a butterfly’s wing, then bruising with an intensity that made her heart pound, made her absolutely certain that he had changed his mind, that he was back for everything he had denied them just a moment before.
But then he released her hands. He clambered to his feet beside the couch. He took a step away and ran his fingers through his hair, and if he seemed a little unsteady on his feet, her heart could only go out to him.
“Good night, Anna.”
“You aren’t leaving.”
“I am.”
“You said you wouldn’t hate me.”
His smile was rueful. “I don’t hate you, Anna. This,” he gestured to himself, from head to toe, “is about the furthest thing from hate you’ll ever see. But I am leaving you tonight. Leaving you hot and bothered. Leaving you thinking about what it would take to keep me around for the rest of the night. For longer.” He scooped up the papers from the table, the eviction notice Gregory had served on him after the game. “Have a good night, sweetheart.”
Her heart leaped at the endearment, even as he crossed to the door. She thought he’d look back, might even kiss her again, to prove his point if nothing else. She imagined what she’d do then, how she’d grab him hard and never let him go.
But he flipped the dead bolt and slid the chain, opened the door and stepped out into the hall. All without another word. All without another glance.
She sank back on the couch and counted to ten. With every number, she cursed him for his devilish strategy. Even as she admired the man for finding such a perfect way to get her undivided attention in what she suspected was now an all-out war.
* * *
A week went by, and the closest Anna got to Zach was watching him on television. The team was on the road again—Atlanta, then Philadelphia. She watched him play, analyzed his pitch calls, studied his batting, absorbed his professional acumen.
Every day, tension ratcheted higher in the office. St. Louis formalized its offer to Texas—a solid trade, with three key players in the balance for Tyler Brock.
Gramps called a meeting. His office. Friday morning. Eight o’clock. Gregory Small and Anna, no one else.
“Texas has given us till Monday,” he said, his voice thin and peevish. “A personal favor, or so the co— cocky bastards say. Personal favor, my a— left foot. They want Ormond. They’ve wanted him all along. Why is that so fu— fundamentally difficult for you two to understand?”
“We understand,” Small said. “We’ve understood since this whole thing began. But the man has a contract, Marty. Our lawyers have gone over every word of it. We can’t force him to accept the trade if he’s determined not to.”
Gramps muttered something he didn’t quite keep under his breath, a speculation about the parentage of the team’s lawyers, their likely destination in the afterlife, and the sexual acts they’d be doing down there. He turned his glare on Anna. “I give you one go— glorified thing to accomplish, one simple, go— godforsaken thing.”
“Gramps—” Anna began, even though she knew it was better to let him go on when he was in one of these moods. Once he got all the anger out of his system, he might listen to reason.
“Don’t pretend you’re working for the mo— mother-loving team on this.” He cut her off. “I’ve watched you this past month. You and that boy are carrying on.”
Anna had to bite back a scorching reply. Carrying on? Thank God Gramps would never know the half of it. Of course, the notion of Zach being that boy was almost enough to make her laugh out loud. The catcher would be touched to know how youthful his team owner considered him to be.
She made herself frame a temperate reply. “Gramps, I’m on your side. I’ve always been on your side. I’ve tried to get Zach to change his mind about the no-trade clause from the first second it was raised.”
“Not tried very hard,” the old man grumbled. “You watch games with fu— full-force blinders on.” He shrank his voice into a parody of a little girl’s. “‘Look at the pitch Zach called. Look, Zach is swinging for the fences. Look, Zach got a double.’ Well, I’ve got news for you, Anna-cakes. We need a man who can get more than a fu—, more than a double. We need a man who can get the mo— moth-eaten ball out of the moth-eaten park. And if you can’t see that because he’s getting one over on you—”
“Gramps!” Anna’s cheeks were flaming. She was all the more distressed because she never blushed. Blushing was for girls who didn’t know what they wanted and were astonished when it fell right into their laps.
But this dressing down was more than she could take, especially with Gregory Small watching. Oh, he was pretending to be fascinated by his phone, by his pen, by anything but her, but she could see the smile toying with the corners of his lips, and she resented the general manager with all her heart. The general manager, and her grandfather too, for putting her in this position.
“Gramps, my private life is just that—mine and private. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“When your private life tears up my team, you can be goddamn sure I’ll tell you what to do!” He emphasized his oath by pounding on his desk, hard enough to make his coffee cup jump. He shouldn’t be drinking coffee. His doctor had told him it wasn’t good for him. But he claimed that decaf tasted like sh—Shinola, and he’d drink whatever he wanted to drink, so help him God. “You’re my granddaughter, Anna Elizabeth Benson. You might not always remember that. You might not think it’s convenient. But I’ve spent the best years of my life trying to build this team for you. Trying to leave something for you when I’m gone. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to give you something I was never able to give your father! But if you’re going to stand there and lie to me and tell me that you and Zach Ormond, you and that—”
Gramps stopped mid-rant.
His lips twisted as he searched for a word. Anna assumed he was fumbling for yet another substitute for the profanity that was his true first language. But she quickly realized she wasn’t watching the sputter of a man reaching for a euphemism. His mouth contorted into a hideous lopsided grin. The entire left side of his face seemed to melt.
“Gramps!” Anna cried, leaping out of her chair.
“Don’t Gramps me,” he said. Or rather, that’s what he tried to say. The words slurred, as if he were speaking in slow motion.
Gregory Small snapped out a command. “Raise your arms, Marty.”
“Why—” That hideous, drooping voice continued, and he didn’t make even a tiny effort to comply.
“Do it!” Small shouted. Gramps muttered something, a slurry of sounds that only faintly resembled words. He shoved his hands forward, like Frankenstein’s monster, but his right arm failed to rise from his desk.
Small swore and dived for the office phone. “He’s having a stroke,” Small snapped when the emergency operator answered. He fired off the address. “Come quick.”
Anna moved around the desk, her fingers automatically loosening her grandfather’s tie and freeing the top button on his starched white shirt. She took his withered hand between her own, smoothing the back as she tried to calm him. “You’re going to be fine,” she said. “The ambulance is on its way. Just calm down. You’ll be fine.”
With every word, her spiky outrage evaporated, all of her frustration with Gramps’ impossible demands. Zach Ormond’s power games were nothing, compared to the health and well-being of the man in front of her.
It seemed like hours, but a glance at the clock told her the ambulance arrived in less than five minutes. Gregory guided her out of the way while the technicians worked, while they called out a series of questions, testing Gramps’ orientation, his general well-being. They strapped him onto a gurney and glided down the hall with perfect efficiency. One said Anna could ride in the back of the ambulance, and she hoisted herself up the metal stairs, pretending a confidence she didn’t feel, for her grandfather’s benefit, for all the team personnel who were gawking.
“I’ll follow along in my car,” Gregory said, just before the doors slammed closed.
At the hospital, they cut through the chaos of the emergency room—octogenarian stroke patients had high priority. Anna recognized the doctor who had treated Cody Tucker; he lost no time ordering up tests, confirming what Anna and Gregory had observed, administering drugs.
Through it all, Anna felt herself harden. She crystallized like a lump of coal caught in the earth’s vise, turning into a diamond under unbearable heat and pressure. When Cody had been treated, she had functioned like an automaton, solving everyone else’s problems, settling every issue with cool dispassion even as panic rose inside her. She had seemed one hundred percent calm to anyone watching from the outside, until that horrible moment when she had melted down in Zach’s arms.
There would be no meltdown now. Gramps needed her. He needed her to be strong. He needed her to be the woman who could take over ownership of the Raleigh Rockets, who could show him that his lifetime of belief in the team, in her was not some terrible mistake.
It was early afternoon before they settled Gramps on the neurology floor. The doctors had consulted with each other, tossing around medical jargon they ultimately translated into horrifying phrases. Unknown extent of damage. Medically-induced coma. Give his brain a chance to recover, if it was going to recover.
They kept her out of the room while they administered their drugs. She could only imagine the activity as nurses traipsed in and out, as a doctor called for an additional IV drip, as machines began to beep their constant measurement of respiration, heartbeat, life.
At last, they allowed her to see him. He looked like he was asleep, hooked up to half a dozen monitors, pale and somehow shrunken against the crisp white sheets. Anna smoothed wisps of grey hair from his forehead, wishing she could see inside his skull and somehow make everything right.
After an hour, the monotony drove her down to the waiting room. Gregory Small had set up shop, surrounded by a handful of staff members for the team. “How’s he doing?” Small asked, the moment she approached.
“As well as can be expected. They don’t know how long they’ll have to keep him sedated.” She saw Gregory’s grim frown and offered the best reassurance she could. “The doctors say it could have been even worse, if we hadn’t gotten him here so quickly. Thank you.”
But Small apologized. “I’m sorry. I know we were supposed to avoid stress. To keep him calm whenever possible.”
She shrugged. “Calm isn’t part of Marty Benson’s life. He doesn’t like to lose. It will kill him if Tyler Brock goes to St. Louis.”
Even as she said the words, she winced at the figure of speech. It couldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t let it.
“I don’t know what else we can do,” Gregory said. “This nickel and dime stuff isn’t making a difference to Ormond’s bottom line.”
“It’s easy,” Anna said. And as soon as she said those words, it was. “Bench him.”
“What?”
“Sit him down. Tell Conway not to put him in.”
Gregory looked at her like she’d grown two heads. “We’re playing New York. We can’t win without Zach behind the plate. We learned that during his suspension.”
“Gramps wants this trade done. And after we get Tyler Brock, we’ll be playing every game without Zach behind the plate. If you want to get Ormond’s attention, tell him he’s out of the game. For good.”
Anna turned on her heel and walked back to her grandfather’s room, not able to watch Small make the call that would break Zach Ormond forever.