A Season of Daring Greatly

  When he didn’t elaborate, she knew that was all she was going to get—and, probably, all she wanted to know right now.

  “I was going to tell you, but then, everything happened with your father, and you and Theo were like zombies, and—I guess the right time never came up,” he said.

  Until she needed to hear about it. “Do you think I should make a big deal about this, or shut up and play the game?” she asked.

  Greg sighed. “Jill, if you told me you wanted to rob a bank, I’d say, ‘You go, girl!’ and—I don’t know—drive the getaway car. So, anything you decide to do will be cool, as far as I’m concerned.”

  It was comforting to know that he meant every word of that. “Including moping, and complaining, and obsessing about it for a while?” she asked.

  “Yup,” he said.

  She sighed. “Sometimes, don’t you just really hate jocks?”

  Greg laughed, quite bitterly. “Lots of times,” he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Even though she knew she was supposed to go out there for the signing, she called home next, because if her mother—or, far more likely, Theo—heard about it on the Internet before she told them herself, they would be even more upset. They had just gotten back to Narragansett, and she only gave them the bare outlines of the story, and assured them that she was fine, and the guy was gone, and that she had to go sign autographs. They were, unsurprisingly, upset—but, she promised that she would call them after the game, to let them know she was okay.

  After hanging up, she wanted to call Lauren, too, but the autographing was scheduled to start, so she buttoned her jersey and tucked it in. She looked sloppy without a belt, but under these specific circumstances, she assumed no one was going to give her grief about it.

  She and Scott ended up at a folding table on the concourse, up behind home plate, where they signed autographs for about twenty minutes. The line of fans was really long, but Jill concentrated on smiling, signing, and thanking each person one at a time. Jeremiah, his intern, and several security people were stationed nearby, but the fans just seemed overjoyed to have arrived at the ballpark, and unexpectedly have two high draft picks right there to greet them.

  Promptly at six-fifteen, Jeremiah shut the signing down, explaining that she and Scott needed to go and get ready for the game. There were still at least a hundred people in line—all of whom were noisily disappointed, but she and Scott were guided so quickly off the concourse and into the front office area that there wasn’t much they could do, other than wave as they left.

  Mr. Brayton intercepted them as they came into the main reception room, but Jill spoke up before he could say anything.

  “We need to go downstairs and suit up, sir,” she said. “It’s almost game time.”

  He hesitated, but then nodded and stepped back.

  She was dreading having to walk into the clubhouse—but, at least, she didn’t have to do it by herself. As they entered the room, all of the chaotic pre-game activity seemed to freeze into instant suspended animation—and Jill had a moment of wanting to spin around and walk right back out again.

  The silence felt so painful that she knew someone had to break it.

  “What, no slow clap?” she asked.

  A few people smiled, but the tension was still pretty damn excruciating.

  “You all right?” Dimitri asked.

  “Well, I think he’s off the family holiday card list,” she said.

  That hung in the air, too—but, much more lightly.

  “I’m fine,” she said, in Spanish, to make sure everyone in the room got the message. “Let’s play some baseball.” Then, she headed for her locker, while almost everyone else went back to whatever they had been doing.

  Marcus and Javy—who was tonight’s starting pitcher—were having a last-minute huddle before going out to the field to warm up, but Marcus took just enough time to give her a quick, intense look, which she returned with a “What can you do?” shrug.

  Shosuke was sitting on his stool at the locker next to hers, and he turned, clasped both hands over his heart, and shook his head sadly.

  She nodded. “Dōmo arigatō,” she said, and he smiled—sadly.

  It was a tremendous relief to see that most of her personal stuff was here in her clubhouse locker—and, therefore, unharmed. Thank God for getaway day. But, she should probably get her nerve up and go back to the changing room and find out what the situation really was in there.

  When she went down the hallway, she saw a security guard posted near the open door. She nodded self-consciously at him, and he nodded back. Inside the room, poor Terence was scrubbing away with big wads of paper towels and some bleach spray.

  “God, Terence, you don’t have to do that,” she said.

  He looked up. “Actually, I do. It’s my job.”

  Well, yeah, come to think of it, since he was a clubbie, that was true. But, still.

  “I’m not going nuts with it,” he said, “because Mr. Brayton is going to have everything repainted, and a new locker brought in, while the team’s out of town. I think he wants to put a lock on the door, too. With keys for you, and me and Nicky, and no one else.”

  Which, at the moment, was fine with her. “What actually happened?” she said.

  “I was coming in with another box of fan mail for you, and he was, you know, just starting to take a leak,” Terence said.

  “Where?” she asked.

  He tilted his head in confusion. “Well—in your locker. I mean, you knew that, right?”

  “Where in the locker,” she said.

  “Oh.” He pointed. “Down here, on the right side.”

  “So, anything on the shelf should be okay?” she asked. Her phones, her hairbrush, and so forth.

  Terence nodded. “Nicky and me already did an inventory, and during the game, we’ll put new shirts and shower shoes and stuff in the clubhouse for you. And Mr. Brayton said for us to buy you some new turf shoes, too.”

  “Probably not much you can do about the brownies and all my host family made me for the trip,” she said.

  He looked embarrassed. “No. Sorry.”

  She’d been joking, but she understood why Greg said he’d felt ashamed, because she did, too—even though she knew perfectly well that none of this was her fault. “What did he do when he saw you?” she asked.

  “He was like, oh, shit, and then, he asked me how much I wanted not to tell anyone,” Terence said.

  Well, yeah, after getting caught doing something wrong, a player’s first thought would be to pay off the clubbie. “I should give you money,” she said, “right? I mean, for having to do something so awful?”

  “Are you kidding?” he asked. “No way. I have sisters. I’m not taking money for, you know, not being a dick.”

  She would still be sure to overtip him with her regular dues. Nicky, too. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  And, she very much did.

  When she went back to the clubhouse to put on a belt and her cleats, most of the team was already out on the field. Sofia saw her coming in, and headed right over.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Filled with joy, and goodwill towards all men,” Jill said. Emphasis on men.

  Sofia’s brief smile was mostly a grimace. “You need anything?” she asked.

  Plane fare to Palo Alto, maybe? “Do you have any alcohol wipes?” Jill asked. “Terence says my phones are okay, but I’d rather be sure.”

  Sofia nodded. “Let me get you a full dispenser.”

  Even two dispensers might not be enough.

  Once she was out in the dugout, she really didn’t feel like interacting with anyone, so she sat by herself on the bench and kept her sunglasses on. Shosuke sat about two feet away, and they nodded at each other, but then, he had the sense to face forward and watch the game. Which she did, too.

  Javy had a good outing—two runs on three hits, in five innings of work—but, unfortunately, the second guy out of the bull
pen, whose name was Burney or Barney or something, got lit up, and seven runs scored in only two-thirds of an inning, and they lost.

  Jeremiah fell into step with her, in the dugout tunnel—which came in handy, since a national magazine reporter intercepted them before she could escape to the clubhouse.

  “Do you have time to talk, Jill?” he asked. “We’ve had some reports that—”

  Oh, she was so not in the mood. “I’m sorry, not tonight,” she said—before Jeremiah could do it for her. “We have a bus to catch, and I can’t be late.”

  “Yes,” the reporter said, “but I heard there was an incident—”

  “I’m really sorry, I need to get ready to go, so that I don’t hold them up,” she said, cutting him off a second time. “Maybe we can sit down when the team’s back in town.”

  The guy frowned, but raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, thanks,” he said. “Jeremiah, can we set something up?”

  “You bet, Mark,” Jeremiah said. “Give me a call tomorrow.”

  It was gratifying to see a “Closed to Media” sign on the clubhouse doors, but before she could go inside, Jeremiah put his hand on her arm.

  “How come you know how to do that?” he asked. “Dismiss them so easily?”

  Because—her family had a television, and she occasionally watched it? “Nadine Cameron had me do some media training when I was in Pittsburgh,” she said.

  “I know, but you actually learned how,” Jeremiah said.

  It wasn’t his fault that she was feeling testy, so she didn’t say, “It’s called ‘paying attention.’” Instead, she just shrugged.

  “We have a pretty good lid on it, but it will get out,” he said. “I’ll be working with Nadine’s people to keep it minimized to whatever degree possible. Tell anyone who asks to call me, instead.”

  That would unquestionably be easier. Jill nodded. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  Inside the clubhouse, people were quiet and grumpy, as they filled paper plates with the post-game spread, which was ziti in two big foil pans, cooked with tomato sauce and hamburger, along with a few loaves of Italian bread, and some wilted salad. Jill wasn’t sure whether the clubbies had cooked the meal, or had it sent in—but, it was clear that the unknown chef was not a big fan of seasonings.

  She wasn’t at all hungry, but forced down a few bites before going to the female employees’ restroom to change into chinos, her Top-Siders, and a royal blue cotton V-neck T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves. She would rather have showered, but there was something skin-crawling about the idea of using the one in her dressing room, even with a guard still standing outside, so she decided to wait until they got to the motel in State College.

  The bus ride was supposed to be about five hours, if everything went on schedule, and they would probably arrive around dawn. She assumed they would check right in, and get to sleep a little, before reporting to the ballpark. Or, anyway, she hoped so.

  After calling her mother and Theo and Lauren and Greg, for brief “I’m fine, no problem, it’s all good” chats, she went through her knapsack more than once, to make sure her iPad, iPod, Kindle, and phones were all charged and safely packed, along with her streaming stick for the motel televisions. Her gear bag was gone, which made her nervous, but Jonesy must have seen how alarmed she looked, because he told her that the clubbies had already packed all of their luggage under the bus.

  Nicky came over with a small zipped-up cooler bag. “From, um, Mrs. Wilkins?” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said, and looked inside to see a fresh care package—which almost made her cry. Someone—her mother? Mrs. Doshi, maybe?—must have called her and told her what had happened.

  She was one of the last players to emerge outside—and was delayed further by a cluster of waiting fans who wanted autographs. Some of the other players were signing, too, which made her feel less conspicuous.

  “Ooh-la-la,” Scott said, when she finally made her way over to the bus. “Look at your hair!”

  Yes. Her hair was down. No ponytail, no chignon, no anything—because she bloody well didn’t feel like it—and she had thrown away the damn hairbrush, just in case it was contaminated. “I’m a fashion plate,” she said—and resisted the urge to peek inside her knapsack one more time, to make sure everything was there.

  Most of the team seemed to be exchanging glances, and she stopped walking.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. Were they that freaked out about her hair? She reached up to touch it, but everything felt normal. So, she gripped the knapsack with both hands, not sure what to do.

  “I’m very sorry, Cafferty,” Adler said, “but I’m not going to be able to let you on the bus like that.”

  Okay, it must be a damn joke, but she had no idea what it was. She looked down at herself. “I don’t understand, sir.” As far as she could tell, she looked fine. “Is it the Top-Siders?” Because people from New England liked to wear Top-Siders. They might not be dressy, but they were certainly presentable.

  Except, most of the rest of them were wearing sneakers, other than Marcus, who had on a pair of loafers, and a couple of guys who had gone with cowboy boots.

  Adler indicated her shirt. “I’m sorry, but that’s against the dress code.”

  Seriously? But, it was one of the brand-new shirts she had bought with her mother, and she was wearing a nice silver necklace—with, okay, a black-and-gold Phiten necklace, plus her father’s dog tag—and she had even put on the blue beaded earrings her friend Cathy had made for her birthday in May. “I’m confused, sir,” she said, not sure whether to panic, or get mad as hell. “This is a very nice blouse. I mean, it’s as close as I come to being cute.”

  “You really didn’t play much travel ball, did you?” Schwartzman asked.

  No, but—she was still missing the point. Adler was standing with his arms folded, blocking the bus door, and she stayed uncertainly on the sidewalk.

  “Jill, we’re going on the road,” Marcus said. “We wear collared shirts on the road.”

  Her V-neck did not, in fact, have a collar. She looked around and saw that almost everyone else was wearing a polo shirt—with a collar. Marcus, unsurprisingly, had on a button-down oxford shirt.

  Damn. She had only brought one polo shirt to Pomeroy—and it was back in the dresser at her host family’s house. Was she going to have to stay behind? Or call Mrs. Wilkins—who had already gone above and beyond today—and reluctantly ask her to bring the shirt over to the stadium?

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.” She glanced at Adler. “Is there a team handbook I didn’t get issued? Maybe you could give me a copy, to review?”

  Marcus had already gone over to the baggage compartment, where he poked around briefly, and then unzipped what must be his travel bag, and handed her a black polo shirt with a Vanderbilt Commodores logo.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  “Hurry up, Ladybug,” Dimitri said—in his red designer polo shirt. “We have a pretty long ride tonight.”

  She went back to the restroom and changed, trying to stay calm, but feeling her temper rising with every passing second. The shirt was at least two sizes too big—but, it had a collar.

  Like it really mattered, one way or the other? Adler was clearly just a son of a bitch who was on a power trip—and an ill-timed one, at that.

  Instead of heading back outside, she yanked out her phone and called Lauren again.

  “Are you on the bus?” Lauren asked, when she picked up.

  “Adler wouldn’t let me get on,” Jill said. “I mean, he’s out there bullying me, right in front of everyone, and I think they all think it’s funny, and—I so totally don’t need this garbage.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Lauren said.

  Maybe, maybe not. And it might not have hurt for her to say hello, first—but, too late now. “They all hate me,” Jill said. “Why am I wasting my time? This is just stupid. I think I should call Mom, and my aunt,
and have them get me out of this.”

  Lauren paused, before answering. “What actually happened?”

  Hadn’t she just told her? Jill took a deep breath, trying not to let her temper completely explode. “I started to get on the damn bus, and he said no, and stood in front of the door, and—I can’t believe how much I hate it here.”

  “What are you leaving out?” Lauren asked.

  Nothing. “I came outside, he said there was something wrong with my shirt, and everyone laughed like hell,” Jill said. Or, anyway, they all looked at each other. “What’s confusing about that?”

  There was another pause.

  “Don’t yell at me, because you’re having a bad day, how about?” Lauren said stiffly.

  “Right,” Jill said, and took another deep breath, in an attempt to ramp down. Also, not to burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I just—things really suck, and I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “What are you wearing?” Lauren asked.

  “One of the shirts Mom and I got up in Warwick,” Jill said. “The blue one.”

  “Yeah, that’s a nice shirt,” Lauren said.

  It was nice. Both feminine and professional.

  “It doesn’t have a collar,” Lauren said.

  Jesus, why was everyone so hyped up about the god-damn collars? “So?” Jill said, struggling not to sound as pugnacious as she was feeling.

  “Come on, even I know that professional athletes have to wear shirts with collars when they travel,” Lauren said. “And when you’re not tired and upset, you do, too.”

  Jill frowned, not saying anything.

  “He was doing you a favor,” Lauren said.

  “Oh, the hell he is,” Jill said. “He’s just piling on.”

  “No, he’s treating you like a regular baseball player, Jill,” Lauren said. “And he’s giving them permission to do that, too. You’re not the only person on the team who doesn’t like what happened today. So, he’s reminding all of you that you can still act like baseball players.”

  Jill thought about that, but still wasn’t convinced. It seemed too—devious.