SKIP woke up to someone pounding on his door.
“Skip!” a voice shouted. It took him a moment to realize it was his roommate Mickey. “Skip, we have to leave soon to catch the train. Get up!”
“All right! I’m awake!”
Skip sat up. It took a moment for the pain to blossom, and then his head throbbed. Dear Lord, what had he done the night before?
He remembered in a flash: the speakeasy, all those rum cocktails, Carmela dancing across the stage.
Kissing Walter Selby.
That got Skip out of bed in a hurry. He hopped up and scrambled into whichever clothes were closest—some wool trousers and a white shirt that could probably stand to be laundered—and then poked around for his billfold and hat. He stumbled down the hall and managed to shave, at least. He seemed somewhat presentable by the time he met Joe and Mickey at the front door.
“Wild night?” Mickey asked with a little bit of a sneer.
“Too much rum, I guess,” Skip said.
“You’re not hiding a dame under your bed, are you?” asked Joe. “Because we’re gonna be gone for a few days. You might want to let her out.”
Mickey guffawed.
Skip couldn’t think of a witty reply, so he just shrugged and said, “No girls under the bed.”
On the train ride up to Boston, Skip’s mind was focused almost exclusively on Walt, reliving the night before, alternately thrilled by what had happened and horrified by his own behavior. He fretted that all of it was a scheme on Walt’s part to get Skip to admit to something he didn’t want to see in print, but that kiss had certainly felt genuine. Maybe it was foolish, but Skip trusted Walt. Maybe that trust was cemented with alcohol, but maybe Walt had earned it, too. Or maybe there was a printing press somewhere cranking out pages describing all of Skip’s secrets.
He was glad he’d be out of town when the story hit the paper. He wasn’t sure he could face it. Not that he’d even be able to read much of it, but he didn’t want to deal with people’s reactions. What if his teammates found out how broken Skip was? What if John McGraw found out? What if the team owners found out? They probably wouldn’t let him play baseball anymore, and then where would he be?
To help stop fretting, he switched to thinking about the upcoming game against the Braves. He tried to recall what he already knew about the team. He hadn’t played in that many games for the Giants, that was true, but he’d been watching games all season, so he knew each team’s weaknesses, knew its strengths, knew which batters to watch out for, knew where to hit the ball.
Unfortunately, strategizing his game against the Braves made him think of Walt, too, of the questions Walt had asked. Walt had called him a genius. But how could that be true? Skip couldn’t remember anyone ever calling him smart. His thoughts became confused and muddled the more he turned over the events of the previous night. He fretted about what Walt might print. He worried it would distract him from the game. He desperately wanted to see Walt again. Well, at the base of things, he wanted Walt fiercely, sexually, desired and craved him, got excited thinking about him. But he was terrified that getting involved with the man would only cause more problems. How would he explain absences to his roommates? What if they were seen together in public?
He managed to listen when his teammates started yammering on about the upcoming series and even managed to add something to the conversation. He listened when they talked about women. He felt anxious to at least get to their destination so he could think about Walt without it showing on his face. As conversation waned, he leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep.
WALT SELBY had lived in New York City all his life and sometimes felt like he’d seen everything during his thirty-four years on earth.
He’d been a boy when the subway opened, a university student when the Titanic sank, and a cub reporter for the Times when the US started shipping boys to the war in Europe. He’d survived his mother succumbing to influenza, he’d been an eyewitness to the bombing on Wall Street in 1920, and Times Square had become Times Square in his lifetime. He’d been getting his feet wet as a sports reporter the year Prohibition went into effect, though he still had a bottle of really good scotch that had been a gift from John McGraw after Walt had started covering the Giants. It sat unopened in his Greenwich Village apartment.
He’d been spending a lot of his downtime in the Times Square speakeasies for the past seven years, and he’d seen a hell of a lot there, too. He’d gotten caught up in raids, he’d seen a man poison himself with bad booze, he’d seen a couple of men get thrown out of a club for dancing together. He’d picked up sailors at the Hotel Astor; one had hit him hard enough to leave a bruise afterward. He’d once been picked up by a low-level mobster, and they had wild and imaginative sex in one of the most richly appointed houses Walt had ever seen. And after many years in the newspaper biz, he’d heard more secrets about New York’s swanky set than he was really comfortable with knowing.
As a boy, he’d seen Christy Mathewson pitch. He’d seen Ty Cobb perform feats of sportsmanship that seemed superhuman. He’d seen Babe Ruth hit more home runs than he could count. He’d watched careers begin and end and begin again.
After all that, he shouldn’t have been surprised by anything.
And yet Skip Littlefield surprised him.
Here was a quiet man who didn’t want any part of the spotlight and yet was doing something extraordinary. That didn’t astonish Walt any less now that he understood why Skip guarded his privacy so much. Walt couldn’t get the memory of that night out of his brain—talking over drinks, walking along Seventh Avenue, laughing at Carmela, all of it. And that kiss still burned on Walt’s lips. Had there ever been a kiss like that in the whole history of world? So sweet and yet so charged, spontaneous and open and just there on the street, and then it was over before Walt even got a chance to grasp onto it.
He strolled into the newsroom two days after their night out and saw the usual buzz of activity. Reinhold was hovering around Walt’s desk as Walt got to it.
“Fluke!” Reinhold said. “You’re such a fool, Selby. The new kid on the Giants you drooled all over in that article? Littlefield? He got totally balled up yesterday. Whiffed by every pitch thrown at him. Apparently McGraw is furious.”
Walt scoffed. “That’s not true.”
Reinhold grabbed a newspaper off a nearby desk and slapped it on Walt’s. It was open to the sports page. The headline said, “Giants Disappoint—Braves Win 5–2.”
Walt read the story with some measure of distress. Reinhold had exaggerated—Skip had gotten a hit in the seventh inning, though he hadn’t scored a run—but the game hadn’t gone well. Walt was inclined to believe this was the fluke, that Skip had just had a bad day, but he was hesitant to voice that opinion out loud. “He’ll be better today.”
Reinhold turned around. “Hey, Louis! Can we get the Giants game on the radio?”
Fifteen minutes later, Louis had turned on the radio in one of the meeting rooms. The crackly broadcast came through well enough for those assembled to discern it was the top of the fourth.
“Terry steps up to bat,” the announcer said. “First pitch. Terry swings and misses. Strike one. Second pitch. Oh, close one. Ump rules it a ball. Third pitch. Terry bunts! Oh, didn’t see that coming. Terry’s running. Welsh has the ball. He throws it to Bancroft. Bancroft throws to Fournier, but he’s too late. Terry is safe at first.”
“I like the New York announcers better,” Reinhold said.
“Hush,” said Walt.
The radio announcer said, “Littlefield is coming up to the plate. He’s the new kid from Ohio. Impressive stats so far, but he hasn’t done much here in Boston. He takes the stance. First pitch is… oh, strike one! Swing and a miss. Second pitch….”
Walt listened, his heart in his throat. He wished he could be at the game to see this. Not that he had any business interfering, but he couldn’t help but think if he were there, he could see what was really going on.”
“And that’s strike two!” said the announcer.
Walt cursed under his breath.
“Tut tut,” said Louis. “You’re letting your team allegiance show. What happened to objective reporting?”
“I cover baseball in New York City. I’m allowed to root for the home team.”
Louis grinned. “Aw, I’m just razzing you, Selby.”
“Swing and a miss again!” said the announcer. “Littlefield is out. This is just not his game.”
Walt wondered if something was wrong with Skip. It seemed strange for him to be hitting this badly.
“When’s the next home game?” he asked the assembled crowd.
“Tuesday,” said Reinhold.
Walt made a mental note to make sure he was the one covering that game. He needed to see what was happening with his own eyes.