The Change Up (6 page)

That wiped the smile off his face. Good. Lest he forget who was in charge around here.

She walked on toward the field.

“Me? Jesus, you're the worst driver I've ever seen,” he said, disintegrating into shades of the whiny kid he used to be. “How fast were you going?”

“Fast enough to beat you.”

“Oh, I see how it is.” He fell into step beside her.

She side-eyed him. “And how is it?”

“Same old Rachel. Always determined to win.”

She huffed. “Please. I don't think being a better driver is something I can really count as a—”

“Not that,” he sneered, cutting her off. “The trees. You want me to back off, so you can pave paradise and put up a parking lot, right? That's what giving us this contract was about.”

Ooh. Perceptive.
Maybe she'd underestimated little Sammy Sutter. Rachel stopped, giving them plenty of space before they were within earshot of the other men. Then she faced Sam and boldly lied. “This is not about the trees.”

He grinned, and despite the devilish bent to the expression, he looked beautiful. “You thought by hiring my father's company to take care of this field, I'd be so grateful for the lucrative contract that I'd just roll over and let you have your way.”

She exhaled, releasing a troubling sudden mental image of Sam in a compromising position. “You are here because my father's stadium needs a grounds crew, and I was given explicit directions to keep things local where applicable.”

“No ulterior motives?”

“People always have ulterior motives, Sam.”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and narrowed his eyes. “You would know all about that, wouldn't you?”

She had a feeling he was referring to her relationship with his brother, but she wasn't sure how much Luke would've shared with a middle schooler. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Sam dropped his arms and looked away from her for a second before he sighed. “Fine, the contract isn't a bribe. Whatever. Are you still going to cut down those trees?”

“Yes. Are you still going to try to stop me?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you tried to run me over the other day—to get me out of the way?”

He laughed, a deep and alarmingly sexy laugh. “Come on now, Rachel. You can't be serious. I wouldn't kill someone over a few acres of trees. We would have to be talking about several hectares.”

Whatever that meant. She rolled her eyes. “I'm not impressed.”

He stepped forward, crowding her space. “I'm sure the only thing that impresses you is a big, fat bank account.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and said, “Guilty,” even as she admired the sheer size of him. Tall. Wide. Solid. And he had the most beautiful eyes. A soft brown with flecks of gold that flashed in the sun and hypnotized her.
What the hell?

Sam Sutter wasn't even her type. For God's sake, she was forty. She didn't have a type. She had gentleman friends who took her to dinner, toasted her accomplishments with an expensive Bordeaux, and gave her utilitarian orgasms when she needed some stress relief. Sam Sutter was what? Mid-thirties now? In tired blue jeans with a good-ole-boy smile, driving a beat-up pickup truck.
Hell no.
She did not need to be impressed by him.

But that smile … Slow and low, it tipped the left corner of his mouth more than the right and supercharged the sparkle in his eyes.

“You've created a very interesting situation here.” He tipped his head down toward hers.

She nearly flinched, unsettled by the proximity
.
“I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do. It's a little blast from the past. You and me bickering over the only thing we have in common. Back then it was Luke. Now it's the trees.” He raised his brows. “I won the first battle. Remember?”

“Because I resigned.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was because you couldn't handle me.”

Her neck heated, and her face flushed. Why was she getting such a charged heat from such a ridiculous conversation? Probably because time had honed Sam's rudeness into some semblance of wit and had turned his gangly body into what looked like something carved from pure granite. “Just cut the damn grass!” she said, unable to hide her exasperation.

This was not at all how she'd expected their interaction to go.

“I need to do a hell of a lot more than cut your grass,” he said, a slight growl beneath his words as he leaned even closer for one long second that had her holding her breath. His smile turned wolfish then, and Rachel could tell he was fully aware that he'd rattled her cage. She almost growled herself, thinking that may have been his plan all along. But Sam backed off, sweeping the frayed ball cap off his head and running a hand through his hair as he surveyed the patchy infield. “I need to reseed it. From what I could tell, a couple million kernels of Kentucky blue. Do I have the budget for that?”

Rachel had no idea. She only hoped a couple million kernels was landscaper speak for a couple million seeds of grass, something that couldn't possibly cost too much. “Draft a proposal of everything the stadium needs to look impressive on opening day, and I'll let you know what can be done.”

“Inside and out?” he asked.

She'd been talking mainly about the field, but … “Yes, the landscaping around the entrance gates is a little shabby, too. Whatever you can do to spruce that up a bit and make a good first impression. But please, try to use some of what we already have.” Her budget was already straining.

“Excellent,” he said. And something in his tone made her straighten.

Sam was definitely sharper than she'd given him credit for, and he'd admitted to still wanting to block the tree cutting. She couldn't imagine him being selfish enough to do anything that would cost his father this contract, but then again, she didn't know him that well. She didn't know the adult version of him at all.

Boys!” he called behind her. “Get on over here and meet the woman in charge so we can get busy and cut some grass.” He glanced at her, and then he lowered his voice. “I'm going to win this battle, too, Rachel. Mark my words. The trees are going to stay.”

“Good luck with that,” she said dryly.

“It's nice to know I have your blessing.”

Then he smiled that knowing, wolfish grin again. Thank God she would be back in Philadelphia this time next week. She didn't need to be wasting time playing head games with Sam Sutter.

• • •

Wednesdays were normally Sam's light days in February and March. He spent those afternoons pruning Mrs. Deacon's extensive collection of wisteria, evergreens, and landscape trees. He took his time, because pruning was an art, something he'd learned in the depressing, confusing years following his exit from baseball. He also never topped off. Stub cuts and heading cuts shocked the hell out of a tree and made it vulnerable to everything from sunburn and insect invasion to death. Not on his watch. What had started out as a way to make a buck and fill his baseball-free time had turned into true passion. Sam took his trees seriously.

But on this last Wednesday in February, he was standing in the middle of center field with a clear blue sky overhead, trying to calm himself down. Sam Sutter was on a baseball field again. Something he'd sworn he would never do. Of course, it wasn't quite the same—not like he was picking up a bat or anything. Still, it was surreal.

Sensations bombarded him. The colliding smells of sun-dried grass and damp dirt in his nose. A warm, post-rain wind in his face. And the feeling of vast nothingness that somehow filled up every hollow space inside of him. The memories followed. A full count. Martinez, who'd been rehabbing in Double-A, on the mound. Sam could've sworn the imaginary crack of the bat had been audible. His muscles fired like he should be sprinting to first base, like he'd done that April day all those years ago, when he was so damn sure his big-league dreams were about to come true. Home run. Off Martinez. Sam was on his way. Only he wasn't. The changeup always seemed to get the best of him.

That's why you're standing in the middle of an old community-college outfield, idiot.

He took a deep breath, ignored the sensory overload, and pulled his hands out of his pockets so he could get to work.

“It's not in bad shape,” Ian called from his perch atop the visitors' dugout.

It looked like hell. Clumps and divots. A drainage problem at third. A lip from the clay to the grass. Sam shook his head. “You're only saying that because you play on a sandlot. This condition”—Sam squatted to pick up and toss away a clump of clay that had somehow found its way to the outfield—“will not cut it in professional baseball.” Even at a level lower than Single-A.

Ian met him at the pitcher's mound, which was scary looking.

“Okay, so this is dangerous,” Ian said.

Sam knelt again and scraped a handful of earth off the hill. It came away much too easily. “Wrong kind of clay.” He stood up and studied the area. “Wrong angle, too.”

“I don't know. There's something else.” Ian trotted backward toward home plate. “Let me get a good look.” He squatted behind the plate, elbows to knees, and pumped a fist into his palm as if he were wearing mitt. “That's better.”

Catchers. They were pieces of work. “And what does the expertise gained during four years of small college ball tell you?”

Ian popped back up in one fluid motion. “It tells me the distance is too damn short.”

Sam stood atop the mound to make his own assessment. “I don't think so.”

“You're not a pitcher, man. That's not your view. Take a look at it from here.”

“What's that going to prove? I'm not a catcher, either.”

“You're a batter. A damn good one, if I remember right.”

He
was
a batter. Sam swallowed a wave of discomfort and walked slowly toward home plate.

“I'm telling you, it's short,” Ian said.

Before Sam stepped on home and turned around to face the hill, he took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. When he looked, he couldn't tell if it was short or not. He was too busy tryout to fight off the ghosts of pitchers he'd faced.

“What do you think?” Ian asked.

That, ex-girlfriend or not, Luke should be heading up this project. He was the oldest. The oldest son should get the shiny new contract. The youngest son had walked away from baseball and should be allowed to maintain his distance. But Luke wasn't here. Sam was. For better or for worse, and after that weirdly charged conversation with Rachel, he figured things could go either way. So, he exhaled and focused on the worn grass between home and the hill. His eyes narrowed. His hands twitched. Even his feet responded as if they were on autopilot, widening his stance and shifting his weight. Sam Sutter was standing at home again.

Home.

“Do you think it's too short?” Ian asked.

“Maybe.” Sam's voice sounded rough in his ears, so he cleared his throat, stood a little straighter, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “But we shouldn't be worrying about it now. Let's make a list of the materials we need first. We can take official measurements later.”

Over the next hour, they developed a decent plan of attack and fairly accurate figures for rehabbing the field. The longer they lingered, the more comfortable Sam felt in his skin. Being here. Fielding the memories. It was all good, because now came the part where he would save those trees.

“I'm going to take a quick walk around the outside of the stadium and look at what can be salvaged.” Rachel had given him the perfect jumping-off point when she'd asked him to keep whatever he could. Why not keep those trees? That would save the Reeds a bundle.

Ian, who'd gone back to worrying about the distance between home plate and the pitcher's mound, nodded. “Text if you need me. I'm going to measure this once and for all.”

Outside the stadium, Sam strolled the sidewalk with his eyes on the thick patch of trees that shielded his backyard from the ball field. There had to be a good three acres between where he was standing and the tree line, with about an acre already covered in cement and lined for parking. How many people could they cram into this stadium? 4K? 5? How many cars did that mean? Off the top of his head, he had no clue. He needed a piece of paper, a pen, and some time to work it out. Some days his biggest regret was not having a college degree, but then he remembered all he really needed was a calculator.

He kept walking around the backside of the stadium, where undeveloped land stretched out for miles. Why couldn't the Reeds use this? Add a right-field entrance? Or hell, just make people use the legs God had given them to walk to the nearest gate. That sounded reasonable. Cutting down half an acre of trees so you could lay another two acres of parking lot, which may or may not be used on a regular basis, didn't.

Buoyed, Sam headed back into the stadium to tell Ian to pack it up. They could work on parking lot-focused word problems over a beer at Foley's. But when he reached the field, Ian wasn't there. Maybe he'd gone back to the truck.

Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and was about to text Ian when he was startled by a distinctive crack. He spun around in time to see a ground ball racing toward him in an erratic pattern over the shitty grass.

“Fielder's choice!” Ian yelled, and that's when Sam saw him down the third-base line almost in the dugout.

Sam locked eyes on the ball again, and despite his body's natural inclination to scoop it, he hesitated and wound up trapping it with his foot instead.

“What the hell was that?” Ian asked. “Garbage.” Then he looked behind him into the dugout and added, “I would give you another shot, but that's the only ball I could find.”

“Forget about it. We have things to do.”