The Change Up (23 page)

Holy shit!

“Good to see you, son,” the man said as he gave Sam's ungloved hand a hearty shake. “I heard you put in a good word for me, and I wanted to thank you.”

“Coach! I'm speechless.” Partly because he'd never seen the guy dressed in a suit, which was indicative of his position in the front office rather than the dugout. “I can't believe you're here. I don't know what else to say.”

“Just play hard today. Nothing you've done before this moment matters. Only what you prove on this field.”

It was a warning. There would be no favors. And that was fine with Sam. He'd never been the kind of guy who skirted by on who he knew.

He glanced up at the glass high above home plate and thought about Rachel. Something akin to pride swelled in his chest. First the trees, now Benny Bryant. And how about the fact that Sam was even here, getting a second shot at this? Rachel had given him more than he deserved. But why? Unless … she felt more for him than he realized.

“Dude, let's go!” Ian said. “Time to meet the coaches.”

Sam rolled through the next four hours of tryouts with his feet never touching the ground. He made every play. He hit every ball.

“You've got this wrapped up,” said Matt Fry, who, at twenty-seven, was one of the only guys even close to Sam's advanced age.

“I don't know about that,” Sam said.

Matt laughed. “Hell, I knew that when you tattooed my slider—and just about everything else in my arsenal—two weekends ago. My students still rag me about that.”

Sam smiled. “You're looking good today, man.”

“It's hard to tell. And to think if we're lucky, we have two more days of this.”

Sam couldn't wait. He was surer of his future with baseball now than he'd ever been. And he was considering something else, too. Once he had a spot on this roster, he was going to march into Rachel's office and claim a future with her, too.

“Arlington is a baseball market. A full 80 percent of residents will attend at least one Pirates game or Phillies game every season.”

Sure, Danny Reed had been relying on the notes in front of him since the meeting with the Midwest conglomerate began, but he was confident and coherent. More like the man Rachel had admired and patterned her entire life after. Seeing him like this after the turmoil of the last two months gave her a huge swell of hope. She prayed it wasn't some fluke but rather something longer lasting brought on by Dr. Rictor's latest medication adjustments. If that was the case, she could head to Philadelphia tomorrow morning with some semblance of peace.

“If Arlington is such a baseball market, then why are season ticket sales so poor?” asked Mike Schumer, who looked like Ichabod Crane with a goatee: lanky and awkward, the sleeves of his suit coat too short. And that nose, as long as the nostrils were wide. Rachel got a bad vibe from the man, who hadn't let his clients get a word in edgewise.

She looked at the men sitting on either side of Mike. Farris Keller was bald and pale. William Adair was short and fat. They'd made a big deal about being “sports guys” during an earlier round of small talk, but Rachel doubted either one had ever played a single organized game. They were investors. Plain and simple. And she knew how to handle them.

“Season ticket sales will come,” she said, alternating eye contact between the two. “What you see as lackluster ticket sales, I see as meeting our goal for the inaugural season. The expectation should be to double that number next year, and again the year after, and so on and so forth. All it will take is one season for people to understand the unique, cost-effective, family-entertainment opportunity presented by the Aces. After that, they will buy in droves.”

The arch of one brow belied Keller's interest in her statements, while Adair nodded with understanding. Unfortunately, Mike sighed. “That's an opinion, Ms. Reed, and you'll have to forgive me for questioning its accuracy. Our walk around the grounds made us suspicious that, by the looks of the limited parking, you've undersold on purpose. That's a bit disheartening, and I have to take that into consideration when advising my clients. I certainly wouldn't advise them to base a major financial decision on speculation.”

Well then, why are you here looking at an unproven baseball team?
Speculation was all she and her father had.
And heart
, which was irrelevant when it came to business. She had no idea why she'd even thought that. But when she looked at her father, who was already trying to get them to see things his way, she knew it was painfully true. Maybe the idea that this could ever be a profitable venture was an illusion. Maybe passion wasn't enough.

“You would be buying a piece of Americana,” her father said, fervidly, as if that ideal alone would thaw Ichabod's opinion and excuse the speculation the Reeds were peddling.

Of course, it wouldn't. In fact, the longer this meeting went on, the clearer it became they were short on hard facts and lacked the upper hand. An advantageous sale at this point in time was a long shot. Rachel's gut told her if these guys offered, they were going to lowball, which was frustrating, to say the least. This had been the riskiest, most uncharacteristic investment her father had ever made, and if they couldn't sell the team, they'd be screwed. His latest medications might provide a reprieve from the more troubling symptoms and rapid decline but not a cure. Danny couldn't be depended on to ultimately oversee this team, which left Rachel, the sole special power of attorney, handling everything. She didn't want to do it all anymore. But what choice did she have?

“The potential for money-making is definitely here,” her father insisted, and then he read word for word from the paper in front of him. “No expense was spared updating the stadium, making it a unique architectural offering in the tri-county area. Leasing inquiries are fielded daily. We are close to an agreement with the PIAA to host high school play-offs. The county fair committee is interested in the venue, and the community college has expressed interest should they reestablish their baseball team. This stadium could be a hub for community entertainment and, as such, a very lucrative asset.”

None of the men on the other side of the table looked impressed.

“My clients are only interested in the baseball side of things,” Mike said.

“Then why don't we take a closer look at that?” Rachel stood. She'd had enough. All she wanted now was to pull her father aside and tell him these weren't the buyers they were looking for. They needed to sit on the team awhile longer. Let the season start and fill the seats. They could leverage those numbers when the right buyer came along.

Adele knocked on the doorjamb. “Lunch has been set up in Box A.”

“Thank you,” Danny said, smoothing a hand down the buttons of his blazer.

Again, Rachel thought about how good he'd looked and sounded when he had the script in front of him, but as he stepped away from the desk, she noticed the slight wobble in his gait. He was tired. A lunch break would be good. Maybe then she could convince him to head home and leave the rest to her.

While the out-of-towners converged on the luxury box's buffet table, which had been set up with the complete stadium snack-bar offerings, Rachel joined her father in the open-air rows of seats beyond the glass. She'd tried not to dwell on Sam these past three days. What good would it do? After all, she couldn't wish him onto the team. Making the roster was up to him—and the coaches, of course. But she couldn't lie to herself, either; she'd been praying for a solid tryout. She'd been watching him, too. Off and on, all three days. By now, she could easily pick him out of the dwindling crowd, which had suffered cuts at the close of every day.

In a matter of seconds, she zeroed in on his broad shoulders and powerful legs as he stood on first base. Someone lobbed a ball from third, and Sam stretched beyond the limits of what she'd thought was humanly possible, especially for a man, to snag the ball. He flipped it to the woman on the pitcher's mound. The whole exchange made her smile. Sam on first. A woman on the mound. The warm breeze. Her father by her side. But then she remembered the freaks in the room behind her.

“Dad, this doesn't feel right,” she said.

“Where's Olean? Why hasn't he come to talk to me today?”

Rachel sighed. She'd already explained on several occasions why Mark had to decline the job offer. “His daughter is sick.”

Her father nodded, and she felt relief only to have it ripped away from her a moment later. “When will Olean be here?”

“He's not coming. We hired Benny Bryant as his replacement.”

“Who the hell is Benny Bryant?”

Rachel shot a worried glance in the direction of the men behind the glass. They were stuffing their faces and watching tryouts through the far window bank.

“He used to coach in the minors. I talked to you about this.” Multiple times in the past week. But they were obviously conversations he didn't remember. “Dad, I was in a bind. I had to move quickly. I thought—”

“You thought I wouldn't notice if you pulled a fast one.” His voice was tight and high, angry but also petulant.

“That's not what happened. I would never do something like that. I've followed your orders explicitly.” Except for this one.

He got quiet. Sullen. And she wondered how long it would take him to forget this conversation, too.

“I'm tired,” he said finally.

“I know.” She had the urge to lay her head on his shoulder, but she didn't dare. Not now. Not here. “Helen Anne is going to come get you.”

When he didn't argue, Rachel sent the text Helen Anne had been waiting for, and then she texted Adele, who'd been alerted to the possibility of having to sit with Danny at some point today while Rachel continued this meeting alone.

“Perhaps there's a little promise out there,” Mike said from somewhere above her.

She didn't turn, but she noted the interest in his voice, and she hated it … hated the position it put her in. She had explicit instructions to sell the team and all the assets as high and as fast as possible. If her father was upset over Benny Bryant, she couldn't imagine his anger if she made the executive decision to ignore an interested buyer. She couldn't imagine her guilt.

Her stomach heaved, but she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Dad, Adele's coming out to watch tryouts with you while I finish up this meeting.”

“What meeting?” he asked.

“I'm here, Mr. Reed,” Adele said, sliding into the open seat beside him.

Rachel stole one last glance at Sam, who was trotting away from first base toward home plate. All things considered, she didn't regret hiring Benny Bryant. She liked the guy. Sam loved the guy. It was the least she could do after Sam had saved her father's life. But they were even now, weren't they? She wasn't going to veer from her father's written instructions again.
What would Rachel do?
was irrelevant. It always had been when it came to Reed Commercial Real Estate. She'd spent the last twenty years of her life smothering her own instincts because she'd been convinced success meant emulating her father. Now was definitely not the time to try and revive them. She would have time to do things her way—someday.

At the moment, she didn't know whether to be happy or sad about that.

• • •

And then there were thirty-five.

Sam glanced around at the ashen faces gathered outside the dugout. Some he knew better than others. Ian. Matt Fry. Hank Carlyle, another guy from The Sandlot League. The rest, he'd come to know over the past three days. He'd talked to most of them. Learned he'd played in the minors with Andy Pullman's brother, a guy who was now career military. Enjoyed the perspective of Paulina “Pauly” Byrne, the rare woman in professional baseball, who was keenly aware that most guys didn't want her there. Calmed Roy Willet, who was stressed out about making the team and the impact road trips and abysmal pay would have on his wife and two young kids. And shared a couple beers with Reece Yourdon and Giovanni Caceres, two guys who'd driven all the way from California for a shot at a spot on this team.

None of them had six-figure contracts and major-league accommodations to look forward to, but every one of them was committed. This game … it didn't let go once it had you.

“Gentlemen!” Coach Slater said, but when the pitching coach, Louis Howland, cleared his throat and inclined his head in Pauly's direction, Coach Slater corrected himself to something more accurate. “Players!”

Pauly grinned, while Ian said, “That's stupid,” under his breath.

“If I call your name, have a seat in the dugout. If I don't call your name, you can leave. I won't bore you with the speech about how well everyone did and how hard it was to fill the roster. We had one goal, and that was to put together the best team possible. If you didn't make it this year, we hope you'll try again next year.” He cleared his throat and looked back down at the list in his hands. “Pauly Byrne, nice tryout. Now, sit your ass in that dugout.”

She whooped. A couple guys rolled their eyes. Sam smiled broadly. He had a feeling Rachel and Pauly would get along.

“Matt Fry.”

Sam heard an audible exhale beside him, and then Matt jogged across the third-base line to shake Coach's hand.

Two pitchers. Coach was calling names in order of position. Eight more pitchers took their place on the dugout bench before Coach moved on to catchers, naming Reece Yourdon first.

Ian fidgeted on the other side of Sam, chewing his dirt-riddled fingernails. They wouldn't need nearly as many catchers as they did pitchers. Two, three at the most.

“Ian Pratt.”

Sam slapped his buddy's back before he could get away.

Five outfielders were named next, including Giovanni Caceres. The guy immediately high-fived his traveling buddy, Yourdon.