Stephanie Evanovich - The Sweet Spot

“Can you two hold down the fort for a couple hours?” she asked, more out of courtesy than concern, while fishing out her keys.

“Sure,” they said in unison. Then Nicki added, “Where are you going?”

“I’m using a mulligan and starting the day over,” Amanda said over her shoulder as she headed for the door. She wasn’t sure it was going to help.

CHASE TOOK A moment to appreciate the clear blue sky just before putting on his batting helmet. He loved the first home-day games of the season, before the humidity kicked in and the sun was so high at game time the ball was difficult to spot. Not to mention, crowds were much more forgiving and optimistic in April and May. When they were being baked in ninety-degree sun for two and half hours, unless the division title was already all sewn up, fans expected a win, and even then, they could be cranky.

But even in the dog days of summer, Chase Walker rarely needed to be forgiven. He had done his part since the day he put on the uniform as a rookie four years ago, a regular on the all-star roster. One of those years he’d won the home-run derby. He was what sportscasters referred to as “one of those naturally gifted corn-fed boys out of Iowa,” all of which were true. He could always make it as a farmer, but he’d learned early on that as long as he kept hitting balls over outfield walls, he wouldn’t have to. Luckily, the balls and the walls cooperated. The same could be said of his speed and agility. Given his size, neither was expected of him, but he worked on both anyway. He’d earned two gold gloves for the effort.

He walked out onto the field and, picking up a weighted donut, slid it down the end of the bat before stepping into the on-deck circle. He started haphazardly swinging to get the feel, and thought about Julie Harrison’s five-year-old son, whom he’d signed a baseball for two hours earlier. Damn, that kid was cute.

Chase watched Baltimore’s pitcher a moment. Brandon Howard didn’t have a bad start; he had struck Chase out his first time up. But his curveball was coming in high and his slider had started breaking just short of the plate. His fastball had never been anything to write home about. If Troy Miller noticed it, too, he’d be working a walk and would load the bases. With the Miller’s count going to 2–0, chances were he did.

Chase went back to reflecting on Julie, playing with his batting gloves, oblivious to the twenty-five thousand people around him. It was such a nice surprise when she showed up at the stadium during warm-ups. Eight years had changed her from a rebellious teenager to a graceful woman. When she’d called out to him from the row above the dugout, he recognized her right away. Some women just said his name differently. He had security bring Julie and her family onto the edge of the field, where Chase met her son, Milo, and Greg, her Marine Corps sergeant husband. Greg was tall, clean-cut, and sturdy with a firm handshake and good posture. Chase thanked Greg for his service, immediately offered them seats in his luxury box, and then signed the ball for Milo, all the while musing he wasn’t the least bit surprised that Julie had ended up with a military man. Julie had a thing for discipline. But then again, so did he.

Troy Miller had swung on 2 and 0, and then took ball three. The catcher got up and ran out to the pitcher’s mound to give a small pep talk to Howard. Troy looked over to the first-base coach, then back to Chase, and they exchanged small nodding grins. Unless the next pitch was perfect, Troy would be strolling to first. Chase pounded the handle of the bat on the ground, releasing the weight, and then leaned on it. The catcher and pitcher spent a few seconds conversing from behind their mitts before the home plate umpire started making his way to the pitcher’s mound to break up the powwow.

Seeing Julie had made Chase nostalgic. After all, Julie had been his first girl. They had been seniors at Jefferson-Scranton High School in Iowa, long before he became a household name. They had been dating for several months when he dragged her kicking and screaming out of a party when the drugs appeared.

“I’m not about to blow my scholarship to Irvine over a buzz, Julie,” he had calmly told her from the driver’s seat of his father’s pickup truck. Wise beyond his years, he was already good at impulse control. “You shouldn’t want to get mixed up in that stuff, either.”

She accused him of sounding like her father and told him to drop her off at home; she would find another way back to the party. He remarked that with the way she was behaving, if she were his daughter, they’d be taking a trip out to the woodshed. She threw down the gauntlet and replied she’d like to see him try.

He pulled the truck over into the driveway of a deserted farm and showed her in no uncertain terms what he thought about dares. After scorching the seat of her jeans until she screeched a promise to stay put after he dropped her off, he drove her home and they made out in front of her house for an hour. Julie would go on to dare him countless times before they graduated. The night before he left for college she told him under a moonlit sky he was destined to be big and that she’d never forget him. He never promised he’d be back, and she had no means to follow.

Miller fouled off another two pitches before earning the walk. Chase heard his theme music start up and his name reverberating through the stadium’s address system, followed by the accompanying cheer. He strolled up to the batter’s box and went through his setup routine.

It was different in college. Girls were liberated and experimental; the dares became bolder, and antics to get his attention were brattier. He was more than happy to deliver, but it wasn’t the same. It was purely for sex, and he couldn’t get too invested in them. Baseball took up a lot of his time, and he took his education seriously, having never forgotten the words his father told him the day he left for California.

“Son, no matter where your talent takes you, you’re going to be a man a lot longer than you’re going to be a ballplayer. Knowledge is the only true power. Learn all you can.”

Chase got a degree in business and stayed at university for the duration. He hit eighteen home runs his freshman year and only got better. It took him until his junior year to convince scouts he wouldn’t be leaving Irvine until he finished what he’d gone there to do. After graduating magna cum laude, he signed with the team he always wanted to play for and began to call New York home. His father died of a massive heart attack two years later, proud of the man his son had become. Chase convinced his mother to sell the farm and moved her into a gated community in Florida, where she ran one of his foundations, dated a doctor from the local hospital, and played a mean game of canasta.

“Strike one,” Chase heard the umpire call. Shit, he had been so busy strolling down memory lane he had zoned out and completely missed the pitch, one that spent quality time over the plate. Not good. Not good at all. He’d better get his head back in the game and start getting down to business.

And that business was Brandon Howard. Chase Walker didn’t take kindly to striking out. It’d be over his dead body that it would happen again. With the bases loaded and his current count, odds were he could expect some junk thrown at him in the hope he’d panic and swing. Or a pitch was coming down the pipe that he was going to send screaming out of the stadium. The latter sounded like the better scenario, if he could just get Howard to cooperate.

Once he hit the majors, all the rules had changed. It became all about excess. Women sought him out, his dominance like a beacon. Some wanted to be hurt. It was no longer about the give-and-take of mutual caring, respect, or even fun. Without the emotional attachment, the act often left him feeling hollow and sometimes guilty. After an array of one-night stands, he’d had a nearly yearlong romance with a well-known actress who indulged him occasionally. But her requests were few and far between, and when it was rumored she was having an affair with a costar, he promptly cut the relationship off. He didn’t want to go back to arbitrary women who were vague memories the next day. He began to shy away from the scene altogether as his responsibilities and his stardom grew. But he missed the feel, the sound, the very company of women. He wanted it all, and he knew it was out there. He just had to be patient.

Patient. Like he had to be with Brandon Howard, who was busy shaking off his catcher, something Chase considered a very good indicator that Howard was losing his confidence, at least for the day. Chase set himself up, and Howard began to wind up.

“Strike two!” the umpire shouted, flamboyantly taking a step and pointing his finger to the side.

Chase backed up off the plate and out of the batter’s box. Okay, this was serious. It was time to think of nothing but baseball. He adjusted his gloves while glowering at the catcher.

“Bet he doesn’t have another one of those in him.”

“What’s the matter, Walker?” He heard the snicker from behind the catcher’s mask. “The thought of going 0-fer giving you the willies?”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, digging a small hole in the dirt with the toe of his left cleat before resetting himself. His sight zeroed in on the ball in Howard’s hand. And as if imagining it was all it took to make it happen, Brandon Howard threw a lackluster fastball that landed smack-dab in the middle of the plate. And Chase Walker did what he did best. He swung. The resulting sound of the bat making contact told the rest of the story.

Chase took a few slower steps in the direction of first base until he was sure the ball was making its way into the parking lot and then he picked up his pace. He ran the bases at a decent clip into the awaiting high fives of his three teammates who had already touched home. They ran as a group into the dugout, and Chase tossed his batting helmet back into its slot, followed by his gloves amid all his teammates congratulatory slapping him on the back. He grabbed a paper cup full of water, and after pouring it over his head, took another and sat down next to Troy.

“What time is it?” Chase asked before swallowing the water in one gulp.

Troy squinted at the opposite end of the dugout and the digital clock near the phone to the bullpen. “Two past two. Why?”

Chase crushed the paper cup in his hand and tossed it in the direction of a nearby trash can. He reached for a towel, then held out a fist for Troy to bump.

“I just wanted to know exactly when I’d found the sweet spot for this season.”

The Kings went on to beat the Orioles 8–3. And Chase had his first grand slam of the year.

He gave his interviews when the game was over and headed for the showers.

“Want to grab some dinner?” Troy asked him as Chase finished buttoning his shirt before tucking it into his trousers. Troy was new in town, having been traded in the off-season from Atlanta. His wife had stayed behind in Georgia until they decided what, if anything, to do with their house there. Troy’s and Chase’s lockers were side by side, which provided camaraderie, and Chase often asked Troy to join him after games for whatever he was up for. It was also a way for Chase to keep an eye on Troy, after it became apparent that Troy clearly had a drinking problem, which was only exacerbated by his wife’s reluctance to join him in New York. Chase would never stand in the way of another guy’s party, but he could make sure the man got home in one piece.

“Can’t.” Chase sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in anticipation of his impending headache. “I’m having dinner with my agent.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Troy replied, understanding everything Chase implied. They shared the unique negotiating style of Alan Shaw, not that Troy got nearly as much attention. Chase would be working 365 days a year if he didn’t keep Shaw reined in. “I hope at least you’re going someplace where the food is good.”

“So do I, but I doubt it, ” Chase said, running his fingers through his full head of still-damp sandy-blond hair before he finished getting dressed. “It’s someplace in Hoboken. One of those chic, trendy places that refuses to serve lunch. I’m totally expecting to need a pizza after they serve me four peas, half a potato, and a leg that belonged to the tiniest chicken on record.”

AMANDA RETURNED TO the Cold Creek just in time for opening. She had gone home, showered again, and redressed. She’d redone her makeup, but hadn’t taken the time to blow-dry her hair again, and the result was curly instead of straight, not the sophisticated look she usually went for, but it would have to do. While at home, she also rechecked the reservation list from her own computer and saw that one of the parties was friends of her parents. After a slightly awkward phone call on her end and the promise of their next meal being on the house, the couple politely gave up their reservation to accommodate the guests Amanda had begun to refer to as “the nuisances.” She didn’t bother telling anyone about the phone call that resulted in the order to roll out the red carpet; her being distracted by it was bad enough. It was probably an actor; they usually came with the general sense the world revolved around them. Maybe it was a politician, though that was unlikely. Her parents were well-connected, and the reservation call would have reflected that. Odds were it wasn’t a musician, which was something to be grateful for, since they tended to bring entourages.