The Man for Me
By GEMMA BRUCE
BRAVA BOOKS
Copyright © 2008
Gemma Bruce
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-1623-6
Chapter One
"But I had clothes on." J.T. Green jutted her chin out and
glared at the man glaring back at her across the littered
desktop.
Skinny Martin was editor of the nationally read weekly
Sports
Today-and J.T.'s boss. But the paper on the desk between them
wasn't
ST. It was
The Buzz, a national tabloid that was sold in
every grocery store across the country.
He shoved the paper toward her and jabbed his finger at the
picture at the center of the front page. "Does this look like
clothes to you?"
J.T. glanced down. Her back was to the camera, but the
camisole T-shirt she'd been wearing was gone. The two AL
players were full frontal and wet. The photo was cropped at
their waists, but the implications were clear. Especially since
one of them appeared to be lunging at her. A full page headline
read SPORTS TODAY REPORTER CAUGHT IN LOCKER ROOM ORGY.
"You told me to get an interview. I caught them when they
came out of the shower."
"I didn't tell you to single-handedly make a laughing stock
of
Sports Today." Skinny raised his eyebrows, which made little
half-moons on his moon face. "Did I?"
J.T. opened her mouth to explain, then closed it. The top of
his bald head was turning red. Not a good sign. Skinny hadn't
been skinny in thirty years. He was pushing the parameters of
big fat slob and she was afraid he was going to have a coronary.
He might be a bully, but he was the savviest editor around and
she needed this job.
"Did I?"
She pulled herself together. "They were wearing towels. I
was wearing a camisole, like the one I'm wearing now, only
blue. They airbrushed the straps out."
"I have irate e-mails coming out of my ears, the phone has
been ringing off the hook, the real press is having a field day."
Three clichés in one breath. She was in deep doo-doo. "Skinny.
There was nothing prurient going on. I've known both of those
guys since I was ten. They were doing me a favor so I could get
the story
you wanted."
"That's why this guy is fondling you for the camera?"
"Jesus, Skinny. He recognized the
Buzz reporter and tried to
push me out of the way. The cameraman sneaked in. They
don't allow those kind of journalists in the clubhouse. And just
for this reason."
J.T. thought she sounded reasonable, but Skinny's color
grew redder. "Maybe we should discuss this later."
"Forget it. You're outta here."
J.T.'s stomach flipped over. He was firing her? She'd only gotten
the job because Skinny and the Coach were old pals, but
she'd been busting her butt to get good stories, cutting-edge news,
so people would finally stop thinking of her as Abe Green's little
girl. She swallowed back the panic that rose to her throat.
"You're firing me?"
"I'm sending you on location."
J.T. nearly slumped with relief. The Coach would kill her if
she blew this job. Another blot on the Green family baseball
dynasty. "You are? Where?"
Tommy Bainbridge waved cigar smoke out of his face as he
listened to his uncle Bernie's side of the phone conversation.
Bernie sat back in his desk chair, his stomach making a little
mound beneath his gray sweatshirt. His right leg, encased in a
hard cast to the thigh, was propped on a pillow on the desktop.
He jabbed the stale air with his cigar. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Whatever."
Tommy stepped back until he was almost against the closed
door. He wished he could open the window, but it was filled with
an ancient air conditioner that rattled more than it pumped out
air.
Bernie banged the phone down. "Aw hell. Damn reporter
left Atlanta three days ago. I'd like to ring Skinny Martin's fat
neck. In-depth story, my ass. They're following you. Wondering
why you aren't with the Galaxies where you belong. Which
brings us back to the same question I've been asking. Why the
hell aren't you with the team?"
"Because you said you were in trouble. And if the reporter
left three days ago he isn't following me. I've only been here
since yesterday and I didn't tell anyone where I was going."
"You told him we're in trouble?" Larry Chrysler, the Beavers
general manager, was sitting in the only other chair in the room.
He was as tall as Bernie was short, streamlined where Bernie
was thick. Balding while Bernie's wiry salt-and-pepper hair was
still thick.
Bernie narrowed bushy eyebrows until they met in the center
of his forehead. "I told him we were going through a rough
patch. I just wanted some advice. I didn't mean for you to
come hauling back home to bail me out."
He rolled the cigar tip around in the ashtray, jabbed it out,
and took a roll of Tums out of his shirt pocket. He downed
two before frowning at Tommy. "I don't want you jeopardizing
your season 'cause a me."
"You're family. Family first. Over the majors, over the money,
over baseball."
"Over the babes?"
"That, too."
Larry shook his head. "Hell, you're getting old, boy."
"You're right. I am," said Tommy. He was thirty-six. He'd
been playing in pain for years, had surgery during the off-season,
and spent most of last year on the disabled list. His rotor cuff
was shot; no surgery in the world was going to make him the
pitcher he used to be.
"So if you're not injured and you're not being traded-"
"Jesus, Larry. The Galaxies would be crazy to trade Tommy."
Bernie's barrel chest expanded to fighting size. It had intimidated
more than a few umpires in his day. It didn't faze Larry.
"Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm just saying that it's
pretty damn clear that Skinny Martin smells a story and I'll eat
my Roger Clemens rookie card if it's about the damn Beavers."
He looked over his shoulder at Tommy. "So if you're not leveling
with us on why you're hanging around like a guy without
a job, you'd better let us in on the joke."
Tommy looked at the space between the two men. He owed
both men the truth. They were old-time ballplayers, all rough,
scruff, and hard knocks. They'd played together on the Mariners
in the late seventies.
These guys understood sacrifice. Had lived with the curves
life had dealt them. They'd understand his decision. But Tommy
was sworn to secrecy until the Galaxies signed his replacement.
And he felt like a cad.
"I took a few days off. It happens. Hell, I was back for most
of last season. Had a winning record. Worked my butt off during
spring training. Pitched on Saturday. I have five days before
I'm scheduled to pitch again. I asked for a few days off for
family reasons. They were fine with it. I'm here because I can
be. And you're in deep shit."
Larry barked out a laugh. "You just noticed? We've been in
deep shit for years. We keep on muddling by."
"That was before somebody decided to help finish you off."
Bernie reached into his shirt pocket for more Tums.
"Damn it, Bernie," said Larry. "Why don't you get yourself
a prescription for your stomach? Only pregnant women pop
Tums."
Bernie finished chewing and swallowed with a gulp. "Can't
afford the co-pay." He stuck the unlit butt of his cigar between
his teeth and clamped them tight.
Tommy finally moved from the door and leaned over the
desk. "This team is being sabotaged. You know it and I know
it."
"Aw hell." Larry straightened up and met Tommy's eyes.
"This team doesn't have to be sabotaged. It can sabotage itself.
Have you looked at last year's win-loss record? We're monkey
meat. No wonder we don't collect shit at the gate. There's
more excitement at the little league field."
"
They had a winning record," mumbled Bernie, and spit
out a piece of tobacco. "Not to mention state-of-the-art ball
fields, concession stands, plumbing that works, and a grounds
crew that any major league team would be proud of."
Larry let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair. "We're
about to be history. There's nothing you or I or Bernie or anyone
else can do to stop it." In a quieter voice he said, "Tommy,
times are changing. The population is changing. They want a
new ballpark, a triple-A team. They'll pass the referendum. They
have the clout to get it done."
"By tearing down Gilbey Field," Bernie groused.
"They want progress."
"On the backs of the rest of us poor tax-paying schmucks."
"The commuters have support among the locals."
Bernie spit out another piece of tobacco. "Thanks to our
sell-out, hypocrite mayor. If you had told me Charlie Wiggins
would grow up to be the swine that he is, I wouldn't have believed
it. And his mother one of our oldest fans. Poor woman
deserves more than that polecat for a son."
"That might be," said Larry, "but that's life. Tommy, I know
what the team means to you. But if you want it to survive,
you'd better buy it. I haven't seen one of our downy absentee
owners in years. Just get nasty directives 'From the desk of.' As
if they give a shit. We're a great tax write-off.
"And if the town takes back the ballpark, they'll unload the
Beavers faster than you can say strike three. But we don't need
it broadcast all over the country.
"If you really want to help, you can babysit this reporter.
But don't mention any of this shit. We look bad enough as it is.
Just flash your million-dollar smile at him, tell him you're here
for your mother's birthday-"
"Her birthday's in March."
"Whatever. Give him some razzle-dazzle and send him on
his way. Whatever he's looking for, I don't want him poking
around in our business."
Neither did Tommy. This was just what he and the Galaxies
were trying to avoid. Leaks to the press would damage the
Galaxies clout in the negotiations with Isotori. If the new deal
went south, Tommy would be playing in pain for another year.
"So what do you know about this reporter?"
"Never heard of him," said Bernie. "Must be a rookie or a
deadbeat. Why else send him to cover a bush league team. So I
guess you're right. If they were after you, they'd've sent a veteran."
Larry snorted. "Maybe, but Skinny Martin is a conniving
son of a bitch. No way is he interested in the Beavers. The
Beavers are old news. Hell, the Beavers are no news."
The Beavers might be old news, but they'd survived for
twenty years, and Tommy wasn't about to let them go down
without a fight. "Okay. Nanny nine-one-one at your service."
"Good." Larry stood up. He was a good three inches taller
than Tommy. And though a paunch fell over his belt, he was
still pretty formidable. "Knew you wouldn't let us down. Now
I gotta go figure out a way to make a payroll from peanuts, so
let me get outta here and do it."
When Larry was gone, Tommy turned back to Bernie. "You
coming to Ma's for dinner tonight?"
"No, me and Nonie promised the kids we'd take 'em for
pizza."
"Then see you tomorrow."
"Hey, Tommy?"
"Yeah?"
"You think you could drop by the Night n Day and give the
guys a heads up about this reporter? Tell 'em not to gossip."
"Yeah, no problem. And Bern. Don't worry about the reporter.
Nobody reads print."
"Yeah. I hope you're right. Now get outta here. And watch
out for that damn reporter. And tell the boys to keep their
mouths shut."
"Exit right in one point three miles." Obeying the pleasant
voice of her GPS, J.T. crossed two lanes of highway and downshifted
her red Mustang convertible.
A piece of hair that had escaped from her ponytail lodged in
her mouth. She spit it out. She should have stopped to put up
the top miles ago; she was covered in goose bumps. But she was
anxious to get on with her assignment and get it over with.
Gilbeytown was supposed to be in a valley. She imagined
warm, sunny, and mild....
It was a stretch. Things were not looking sunny at all, in the
sky, in her career, in her life, certainly not in her love life. She
didn't even have a love life. You needed time for love. Though
if she blew this assignment she might have all the time in the
world. She shuddered-and not from the cool air.
J.T. knew Skinny didn't give a shit about the Beavers, an independent
team at the bottom of the independent league. He
just wanted her out of the way. That's why she was going to be
roughing it with a bunch of bush league bozos for the next
three weeks.
Maybe she'd meet her soul mate in Gilbeytown, Pennsylvania.
Like that was going to happen. At least one of the players
might be cute enough for a little flirting. Probably not. Which
would be too bad, because at least there, she could be sure there
were no cameras except for her own digital. She had to watch
her back of course, keep her nose clean, and all those other
clichés Skinny had heaped on her before she left. But he didn't
say she couldn't have a little fun. And J.T. deserved it.
Three weeks. It seemed like an eternity. But at least she was
still employed. She was a good reporter and if she ever got a
chance to do something big, she'd prove it.
Her cell chimed "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Corny,
but she liked it. She checked caller ID and groaned.
The Coach. He'd already called her three times. She hadn't
returned any of them. She was sure Skinny had been on the horn
to him before she'd packed up her laptop and taken the elevator
downstairs. Too bad you couldn't trade fathers the way teams
traded players.
J.T. didn't really want a different father. She just wanted the
one she had to approve of her. But he never did.
It had always been like that. Standing before him as an eight-year-old,
blinking back tears because she'd just struck out at
T-ball.
You don't even have to have an eye. Just knock the damn
ball off the pole. Telling her to get tough when she skinned her
knee sliding home instead of kissing it better. Now that she
was older, he wanted only one thing from her. "Get married. I
need grandchildren. Boys."
"Exit right in point two miles."
Oh, what the hell. She pressed the CALL button.
"Hi, Coach."
"What the hell were you doing in that locker room? Haven't
you learned anything? How could you let yourself get in that
kind of situation? You're the laughingstock of the sports
world."
Okay. That hurt.
"I've been avoiding calls for days."
Gee, Coach, thanks for asking my side of the story, for sticking
up for me. For having faith in me. For knowing me so well.
"Exit right. Exit right."
J.T. braked and swerved off the highway.
"Well, don't you have something to say for yourself?"
She had plenty to say, but like always it stuck in her throat.
"Why don't you just get married and give me some grandchildren."
Boys, she thought as he boomed, "Boys," at the top of his
lungs.
She hung up before he did.
"Turn left at the end of the ramp and proceed point one
mile."
J.T. stopped at the bottom of the ramp and sat there gripping
the steering wheel. Breathed in, out, in, out, until she stopped
shaking. Looked across the road. Saw green trees everywhere.
It's a jungle out there.
Well, she'd show them. The Coach. Skinny. Everybody. She'd
do the most kick-ass, in-depth, human-interest story of the
Gilbeytown Beavers that the world had ever seen. She'd raspberry
the whole crowd when she received her Pulitzer. And no
one would ever question her credentials again.
She turned left and crossed over the highway. The first thing
she saw was a Holiday Inn Express. Followed by a steak house
chain, a Wendy's, a Pizza Hut. And suddenly not a tree in sight.
Just acres of asphalt parking lot in front of a giant, newly constructed
mall.
There was probably some metaphor for that, but metaphors
didn't sell. She'd learned that the hard way.
J.T. had done her research. Gilbeytown was one of the
many small Pennsylvania towns that had gone belly-up after
the collapse of the steel industry in the 1950s.
The town had managed to hold on to its baseball team for
twenty years. That alone was newsworthy. Independent league
teams had a short life span. They were either being put out of
business by lack of operating funds or by a bigger team moving
in and forcing them out.
But not in Gilbeytown.
She turned right at the mall and proceeded down a county
road. The trees returned and she wound her way beneath them,
passing an occasional house or boarded-over gas station.
Two point five miles later, she came to a billboard in green
script that advertised Applewood Acres. Behind the sign, a
web of newly paved streets wound through a neatly organized
community of perfectly landscaped McMansions.
On the opposite side of the road was an identical neighborhood
called The Pines.
Green plastic men lined the street warning motorists to Use
Caution. Children at Play. She didn't see any children, just big
houses, three-car garages, two-story atriums with huge chandeliers.
And tiny, little striplings to replace the mature trees
someone had bulldozed away.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Man for Me
by GEMMA BRUCE
Copyright © 2008 by Gemma Bruce.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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