Curveball (16 page)

“Um …” Paige reached for her wine glass again. After a drawn-out drink, she took a
deep breath. “The truth?”

He nodded.

Paige met Cat’s challenging eyes, but behind hers were only hurt flecks. “The truth
is, Junior, I’ve pretty much been a jackass for the last eight years. I’ve been too
busy letting varsity mouthbreathers take body shots off me to realize I couldn’t even
get a job selling socks at the Niagara Mall.”

Cat’s smile dissolved.

“And Cat’s only down here because my dad is strong-arming her into being my keeper
for an internship I’m not even qualified for.” She grabbed her wine glass and took
another swig, finishing it off.

Junior opened his mouth to say something but before he could, the waiter returned
with their appetizers. He plopped the lavish plate of oysters on the half shell in
the middle of the table.

“Anything else, sir?”

Junior shook his head, still staring at Paige.

Paige painted a fake smile on her face, erasing the earlier shades of shame. “These
look great.” She reached for the wine bottle across the table.

He followed her lead, more than happy to pretend the awkward exchange had never happened.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, they’re the best in town.”

Paige filled her glass to the three-quarter mark.

Cat lifted her fork, hesitated, and set it down. “Paige, maybe you should slow—”

“Hey.” Paige pointed across the crowded restaurant. “Isn’t that the player you were
interested in? I thought he was supposed to be all
Bienvenido a Miami
?”

Cat squinted across the room. “Cristian?

She pushed her chair out and stood up, ignoring Junior’s curious expression. She maneuvered
around the tables to the one Cristian was bussing.

“Hey you.”

“Oh.” He fumbled with a glass before dropping it safely in his bin. “Hello.”

“I thought you only bussed tables for fun now?”

He didn’t answer her and reached for another glass.

“Aren’t you supposed to be whatever the Dutch word is for pitcher?” She gave him a
teasing grin. “I believe it’s Bert Blyleven?”

“Yes, I did go. I am back now.”

“So I see.” She picked up some dinner plates and put them in his bus tray for him.
“What happened?”

He shook his head. “I really must work. You should go back to your table, the owner
will be very angry with me if he sees you over here.”

Cat looked around the restaurant. Busy staff buzzed around, clad in the same button-up
white dress shirt and black slacks as Cristian. “He’s not out here. What happened
in Florida?”

“Nothing.” He pulled a rag out of his apron and wiped down the table. “Not one time
did I miss my mark. My cutter cut and my slider slid. But still they sent me on my
way. Told me they might want to evaluate me again but sorry, no contract now.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“I was not good enough, I guess.” He threw the rag in the tray and picked it up, balancing
the mound of dishes on his hip. “Mr. Hayward says it has been a busy year for pitchers.
There are a lot of good ones out there and teams have had their pick.”

Cat raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. Cristian’s restless eyes told her she didn’t
have much time to pry. “How’d you find Chance anyway?”

“I did not find him. He approached me here.” He surveyed the restaurant again and
nodded to the bus tray. “I am sorry. I have to take these back to the kitchen now.”

Cat watched him go. She’d considered bringing up a tryout with the Soldiers again
but didn’t want to get the poor kid’s hopes up without confirmation that Joe would
agree.

A Game in Santo Domingo

Take one stadium of fans, sprinkle with thunder sticks, bring to a boil with a mariachi
band, douse with liberal amounts of rum and what do you get? The obvious answer is
a good time, but in Santo Domingo this is the merely the recipe for an old-fashioned
baseball game.

Now that I've tasted it firsthand, I must warn my fellow Americans: we have serious
competition for our pastime. The game itself has the same ingredients: three strikes,
four balls, three outs and nine innings. The field is the same, too: four bases placed
ninety feet apart and sixty-point-five feet between the pitching mound and homeplate.
Where the Dominican variation really outdoes itself is the atmosphere …

The threesome walked through the crowded mezzanine, wiggling past the flood of hungry
fans and eager vendors. The night air was thick and laced with smells of sizzling
meat and spilt beer. Light salsa music jingled through the speakers. A group of young
boys broke through the middle of their group, blowing whistles and clapping noisemakers
on their way into the stands. As they approached the luxury boxes, Paige stumbled
to a stop.

“Hey, it’s Chance!”

Cat followed her eyes through the propped-open door of a luxury box. Sure enough,
Chance Hayward stood around a pub table, surrounded by a group of suits, proving he
could schmooze after-hours too. “So it is.”

Paige turned to Junior. “I’m just gonna say hi for two seconds.” She bounced off to
the doorway. The security guard took one look at the Band-Aid of a dress and moved
aside to let her flutter into the room.

Junior frowned. “Should we wait?”

Cat shook her head. “Uh, no. We’ll be lucky if she’s back by the seventh inning stretch.
Pavlov could train his dogs to fetch slippers in one of Paige Aiken’s so-called two
seconds.” The inadvertent reference to science made her miss Benji’s own obscure quips.

The walkway flooded with even more fans and within seconds, they were surrounded by
a sea of turquoise, the home team’s color.

Junior grabbed her hand. “Follow me, the team’s box is a couple of doors down.”

The music amplified and in response, the sea began to rock up and down.

“Now this is atmosphere!”

“What?” Junior cupped his ear in front of her mouth.

“This is atmosphere!”

Their door was blocked by a security guard. Junior shouted their names and he checked
them on his clipboard before opening the door to allow entrance to the suite.

They stepped in and shut the door behind them. It was a plain room, painted white
with a sheet of windows facing out to balcony seats, but the simple walls provided
much-needed muffling from the chaos. “There’s nothing else like it, huh?”

Cat grinned. “Well, there’s a couple of places on the Las Vegas Strip that could compete
but as far as ballpark experiences go—”

“You like?”

She sat her purse on the pub table. “I
love
. Why don’t we do this in the States?”

Junior answered her with a smile. “Come on out to the seats.” She followed him through
a glass door and out to the balcony.

As Cat surveyed the packed stadium, her gaze was arrested by a sight three balconies
over: Paige had also made her way out to the luxury seats, or rather,
Chance’s
luxury seat. The daredevil diva was planted on his lap, her arms thrown around him
and her shrill giggling penetrating the dull roar of the crowd.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cat saw that Junior had also noticed the couple. His
eyes narrowed a little more over each giggle that flittered their way. She rolled
her eyes and began to tuck her dress under her thighs to settle into the folding chair.

A pulsating beat came over the speakers, whooshing through the stadium like the wave
during every sports event in the late-eighties. The floor beneath them began to vibrate
with the hum of the music. Dancers in blue hot pants and white halter tops jumped
up on the dugout and began shimmying. The stadium lights reflected off the shaking
sequins.

Cat stopped herself from sitting down and tapped him on the shoulder, snapping him
away from the Jealousy Channel, where it was All Paige, All the Time. “What’s going
on here?” She pointed around as everyone began to shimmy out of their seats.

The tension melted off of his face and his dark, enticing eyes focused on her. “The
Merengue.”

Before she could protest, he snatched her wrist and pulled her to the aisle.

“Uh ...”

Her pulse stuttered as her feet staggered behind him. She looked around at the filled
stands with a cold panic. It was pointless, the entire stadium was joining in and
there was nowhere to run.

She tried to pull her arm back. “Junior, I don’t know how to—”

Junior kept a clamp on her wrist, holding it up in the air as he demonstrated a couple
of fast steps. “It’s easy. If you can walk, you can merengue.” He twirled her into
his arms. “And I already know you can walk.”

He began swinging his hips from side to side to the thumping of the Latin drums. Cat
followed his lead, shifting her hips from left to right in line with his. Junior spun
her in a tight circle and pulled her in, sliding his hand down to her waist. Her heart
lurched at the touch. Their hips began to rock left and right in the dance’s locked
position.

His breathy voice tickled her ear. “Easy as walking?”

“Oh ... it’s as easy as something-ing.”

He threw his head back and laughed. As he brought it back, his eyes trailed behind
her.

Cat stiffened. She already knew what was back there ; no need to confirm. She pulled
away from Junior’s embrace.

“I’m here to watch a game, not play one.” She unhooked her arms from his and took
a seat in the folded chair.

Junior stopped shaking his hips and sat next to her. “What?”

The music wound down and the rest of the fans in the stadium began to take their seats.
The team ran out onto the field to an abundant roar of cheers.

“You wanna make Paige jealous?” Cat leaned in to make sure he could hear her over
the crowd. “Find a new accomplice.”

“I wasn’t—”

Cat raised an eyebrow. “Save your breath for more important things, like stats.” She
pointed onto the field. “What’s the story with this pitcher?”

Four innings later, Paige staggered into their box. She tumbled into the empty seat
next to Cat’s. Her once coiffed curls were now a frizzy mess against her forehead.

“McDee, it is so freaking hot in this joint.” She attempted to push the strands out
of her face. “You’re lucky your hair just lies there all flat and lifeless.”

When she reached for a piece of her hair, Cat recoiled.

“I’d offer you a drink but judging from your breath, I’d say you’ve kept hydrated.”
She waved her hand in front of Paige’s face. “Jeez, how much did you have?”

Paige frowned. “What? You don’t have a beer at baseball games?”

Junior hadn’t been the only one watching the girl. Cat had been keeping a running
total of how many red Solo cups passed her lips. It was currently at eight.

“One or two.”

Thankfully, the one person who knew this was a lie was probably enjoying eight of
her own three thousand miles away in Porterville, California. Her long-distance BFF
had stayed working with the minor league team, despite the fact that it had been orphaned,
thanks to the dismemberment of the Las Vegas franchise. It was now an affiliate of
Los Angeles, a decision that seemed to appease everyone involved, especially Cat with
her guilty conscience. It had been hard enough finding a job for herself. If she’d
had to make it a two-fer with Tams, they’d both be living in a cardboard box.

“Sorry General, I needed some R&R.” Paige was slurring like a Bourbon Street floozy.
“I just came over to tell you that I’m gonna head out to some club owned by one of
Chance’s friends.”

This piqued Junior’s interest. He leaned over Cat’s lap. “What club?”

“Um, like Port of Delfino or something.”

“La Puerta del Infierno. I know it.”

He shared a cautious look with Cat. She gave him a perceptive nod. “Sounds like a
classy place. You know it means ‘The Gates of Hell,’ right?”

“Well, Chance’s team is tanking here so we’re gonna go ahead and take off.”

“By yourself?”

“Noooo, with Chance. I just said that.” She zoomed her face into Cat’s. “Hello in
there?”

Cat backed away and turned to Junior. “That clanking sound you just heard? My timecard
being punched.” She turned back to Paige. “I’m coming, too.”

Paige shook her head. “Sorry, no room in the car.”

Cat stood up and crossed her arms.

Junior followed her lead.

Ignoring Cat’s look of surprise, he dared Paige with a saccharin smile and cold eyes.
“Then I’ll take Cat with me in my car.”

Even though Cat and Junior had scurried through the crowd on their way out the stadium,
floored his GranTurismo through the Santo Domingo streets and schmoozed the opportunistic
bouncer for an easy-in, they’d still lost an hour getting to the club.

Under any other circumstances, that would’ve been okay with Cat. The interior decorator
of
La Puerta del Infierno
, or The Gates of Hell, had taken the moniker to heart.

“Whoa.”

Junior rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

Pitchforks lined the black walls. Centered in the middle of a dance floor was a giant
pit with artificial silk flames whipping up. The DJ booth was nothing morbid, but
the disc jockey behind it wore a black hooded robe, while two women in black satin
corsets, matching lacy skirts and ruby devil horns ground against each other in front.

“This place is a sadist’s dream.” She cocked her head at him. “Or would it be nightmare?
I mean, if you get off on torment, then wouldn’t nightmares be like, wet dreams?”

Junior smiled and pointed up to the ceiling.

She followed his gaze up to the flames on the ceiling, where mock skeletons hung from
hooks. Painted across the tiles in gothic font were the words, “
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate
.”

His brow furrowed under the glow of the pseudo-flames. “That’s not Spanish.”

She looked up. “It’s Italian. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

“Wow, look at you.”