Chapter 4
Scotty Donovan had invited himself over to Matt’s house for dinner. Matt admired the guy: he was a pitching phenomenon. Two years on the team, two years an All-Star. And he’d landed a wife who owned a Major League team. The outrageous story of Scotty’s courting of Sabers owner Chloe McNalley had reached near legendary status, but Matt had learned that most of the tales were true.
“Hope you don’t mind spaghetti sauce out of a jar,” Matt joked as Scotty lifted the lid on a pot of boiling pasta.
“Beats the takeout I’d be eating at home. Chloe has an owners meeting. No players allowed.”
“That must be strange.”
“I’m getting used to it, but we have a pretty hectic life during the season.” He accepted the beer Matt held out. “Where’s your daughter?”
“Homework hour. She’ll be down in”—he glanced at the clock on the microwave—“six minutes and seventeen seconds.”
Scotty laughed as he bent down to look at some of Sophie’s drawings stuck to the refrigerator with bright pink magnets.
“I see she likes butterflies.”
“This year’s obsession. Although this one may prevail. Last year it was frogs. I have nothing against frogs, but they were never intended as household pets.”
The phone rang.
“Hello, Mother. I can’t talk.”
“You never can, darling. Listen, we need to change our flight. Your dad found this absolutely perfect flight to Fiji and we—”
The squeal of the smoke alarm blasted in the kitchen. Gray smoke billowed out of the oven. Scotty opened it and flames flashed out.
“Gotta go. Really. Call you back.” Matt grabbed the garlic bread and threw it in the sink, then doused the smoldering mess with water from the faucet.
“You’re supposed to take the bag off before you cook it,” Scotty said with a grin. “It’s one of the few things I know about broilers.”
“One more than I know. My mother will use this incident to fuel her ongoing campaign to convince me to send Sophie to boarding school.” He grabbed the phone and flicked off the ringer. “Not going to happen.”
“Now I see why peanut butter and jelly is the choice of champions.”
“And every single parent in America.”
“Hunter has a PB and J before every game. Slips the clubhouse guy a twenty just to make sure.”
Matt laughed. He knew Scotty hadn’t come over for the meal. He was just the kind of guy who noticed when a teammate needed a boost; theirs was that kind of team. They hung together, pulled each other up. He was still getting used to it. More than that, he was grateful Scotty had insisted on coming. Who knew how long it would’ve taken him to take that first step.
Sophie was right—he needed to work on his people skills.
“Hunter’s hitting three thirty-six,” Matt said. “Maybe I’ll switch. Do you think it’s the peanut butter or the jelly?”
“I think the guy’s an animal at the plate. Have you ever watched his eyes when he’s in the box? Good thing he’s on our team—I wouldn’t want to face him from the mound.”
Not many hitters would faze Scotty Donovan. Even after being beaned by a line drive the previous season, he’d come back and won five out of seven at the end of the season. The kid was a wiz on the mound.
They aired out the kitchen and to Sophie’s delight ate in the living room and watched the Dodgers game. After dinner, Matt came down from tucking Sophie into bed to find Scotty lining up pieces on the chessboard.
“I’m black,” he said. “Guest privilege.”
Within three moves, Matt knew he was in trouble.
“What’s got you?” Scotty asked in an offhanded tone.
Matt nodded toward the stairway. “I thought it’d get easier.” He fingered a pawn, then made his move. “The parent thing. It hasn’t.”
He told Scotty about Liza’s death in the crash that had also killed her parents. Her dad had been flying the three of them to a game. The weather was bad—he shouldn’t have risked it. If Sophie hadn’t had a bad cold and stayed home with a sitter, she would’ve gone down with them. He was grateful that Scotty didn’t offer the usual long-faced condolences.
“Ever think about marrying again?”
“I can’t even hang on to a nanny.” He crossed to the sideboard and poured a Scotch. “And a guy with a half-grown kid isn’t exactly a prize. I’d never put Sophie in a situation where she was seen as baggage.” He waved the bottle of Oban. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
“The kid thing worked; I wouldn’t give Sophie up for anything. But the marriage thing—not so good. At first I thought it was the game, all the nights away, all the hours of practice, the road trips.” He sipped his Scotch. “Well, you married a woman in the game.”
“It’s still hard,” Scotty said. “Half the year there’s no fitting in to normal. I don’t know how some guys’ wives do it. They make it look easy.”
“I didn’t have one of those. Liza was happier when we lived in Boston; she had friends there, and her parents lived on Cape Cod. But when the Red Sox traded me to the Giants and we moved out here, she just drifted off. I look back and realize we never had much in common. Sophie was the link between us, and it just wasn’t enough.” He moved his knight to an open spot on the board. “I’ll never know, though.”
Scotty nodded toward the corner of the room. “You play guitar? I had you pegged for a keyboard sort of guy.”
“Guilty,” Matt said, relieved to change the subject. “I’m pretty mediocre at it.”
After Scotty left, the house seemed too quiet, as though the walls and floors and furniture were breathing in the night. Loneliness, if it had a sound, would sound just like that.
His marriage to Liza had been lonely, maybe worse than having no relationship. The whole thing had been wrong from the start—he just hadn’t been experienced enough to realize it. The gap that loomed between them had been a yawning, dark space. He was pretty sure that if a man fell into such an abyss, he’d never come out.
Some days he felt it was the place he’d rather be.
He studied the chess board; Scotty had beaten him soundly. He swept the chess pieces into the drawer of the game table.
He and Liza had married just out of college. She was a small-town girl on scholarship to the Ivy League school. She zeroed in on him, seeking connection. Playing sports and doing coursework left little time for dating. It was the path of least resistance to let their relationship unfold and to marry her. But he soon discovered they had little in common. No spark. No deep personal connection. He hadn’t recognized the importance of spark. Neither of them had. Not until it was too late.
But he’d always been faithful. He prided himself on that. Some nights it eased the guilt he felt for not missing her.
He picked up his guitar and strummed. Playing his guitar was the one thing that settled him after a home game. That and a six-pack. But maybe he should’ve tried going out on the town. Maybe he would.
Like that would solve anything.
Wrapping his hand around the neck of the guitar, he picked out a favorite ballad. His fingers easily found the chords, but his heart wasn’t in his playing. He set the guitar beside his chair, sat with his eyes closed, wondering at his disquiet, and then trudged up to his bedroom. He didn’t bother to flick on the light. The darkness made the cavernous room seem less empty and suited his somber thoughts. Suited them maybe too well.