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The person standing there was both welcome and unexpected and, Maggie suspected, definitive proof that the news had gotten out.
“Maggie, open the damn door. I can hear you breathing in there.”
Maggie grinned. Hana probably could at that. She had skills.
She opened the door. “Hi,” she said brightly. “I thought we were getting together tonight.” A “welcome back from Europe” blowout dinner with the gals. All planned. Though no longer what she was in the mood for. Especially as she now suspected she knew precisely why her father had surprised her with a month-long vacation to France and Italy as a “graduation” present instead of letting her come straight home to start work at the Saints.
Hana’s immaculately groomed black eyebrows drew together. “You know why I’m here.”
Crap. “You missed me unbearably?”
That earned her an eye roll as Hana stalked into the apartment, dropped her perfectly plain but extremely expensive black purse onto the nearest flat surface, and turned back to Maggie. “I saw you a month ago at your graduation. Where, I seem to recall, you said nothing about the Saints being sold. I had to hear it from Brett last night. God, Maggie, what’s going on?”
Hana’s voice turned a little scared at the end, which made all of Maggie’s anxiety return.
“I swear, I didn’t know, Han,” she said. “I would have told you, you know that.”
Hana bit her lip, her hazel eyes unhappy. “Brett was aaaannnngry last night. There was ranting. How could you not know about this? Has your dad lost his mind?”
“I don’t know” was the answer to both those questions but telling Hana that wasn’t going to be helpful. “Brett will be okay. They didn’t say anything about trading or cutting.” Even Alex Winters wasn’t fool enough to get rid of Brett Tuckerson, Hana’s husband and the Saints’ star pitcher. Cuts. Her stomach curled uneasily at the thought. The trading of players like chess pieces was the one thing she hated about baseball. Tom had been softhearted, often giving players several chances too many. Alex Winters wouldn’t share that weakness.
“What did he say? When did this happen?”
Maggie shrugged helplessly. “I really can’t tell you. Two months ago Dad and I were talking about what I was going to be doing when I finished school, and now this.”
“Shit.” Hana flopped down on the sofa. “Alex bloody Winters. And the other two. I can’t believe it. I mean, last season went pretty well.”
It was true. The Saints had finished seventh in the American League. They hadn’t made the play-offs. They hadn’t made the play-offs for nearly three decades. But they’d had a far better year than the previous two when they’d been last and eleventh. The younger players had settled in, Dan Ellis—the manager who’d taken over when the Saints’ veteran head coach had retired a few years ago—had seemed to hit his stride and things had been gelling nicely.
“It did. But apparently Alex Winters made an offer too good to refuse.”
“Alex Winters. What does he even know about baseball?”
“Seems he’s a big fan. Been a Saints season ticket holder since he was in college. They all have.” Tom had included that little tidbit when he’d introduced Alex at yesterday’s meeting.
“I’ve never seen him at a function.” Hana was frowning, her brain obviously cycling through her mental file of “people in baseball.” There was a reason why Brett called her Hanapedia. She remembered baseball statistics and people with computerlike accuracy. Though wisely, Brett tended to stay out of reach when he did so. Hana was a few inches shorter than Maggie’s five foot eight and her slender frame was the gift of her Korean mom, but she was also a former Olympic tae kwon do medalist.
No one messed with Hana or anyone in her circle. Even the baseball groupies that swarmed around the players like gnats gave Brett a wide berth. The ones with any sort of brain, that was. There’d been a few dumb enough to give it a try when Brett and Hana had just started dating, but apparently the experience of being flipped across the room and then frog-marched out of the building was a salutary one. Maggie couldn’t remember when she’d last seen anyone do anything more than mildly flirt with Brett. Even when Hana wasn’t there.
“I don’t think I have either.” Alex Winters stuck to New York society as far as she could tell. She would have remembered him if they’d crossed paths before. He was, unfortunately, the sort of guy you remembered. Both for his face and his aggravating personality. Maggie had been in school for the last eight years, so she hadn’t had much time for any sort of socializing outside of her Saints duties, catching up with the girls now and then, and hanging out with her study groups bitching about the latest assignments over late-night coffee and takeout.
“Definitely not,” Hana decided, apparently coming to the end of her mental review of faces. “Damn. We need the dirt.” She wandered over to one of Maggie’s big cushy sofas and flopped down, looking exasperated.
Maggie flopped next to her. “I did a case study on him last year. There wasn’t much dirt to be found.” A succession of pretty women on his arm, but there’d never been much else thrown at Winters in the press. If there was dirt to be found, his business rivals would have used it before now.
“Doesn’t have to be bad dirt,” Hana said. “But we need to know what makes him—and the other two—tick. I’ll call Shelly.” Shelly Finch was engaged to the Saints’ catcher, Hector Moreno. She worked for the New York Times as an entertainment reporter and possibly knew even more people than Hana did. If that was humanly possible. She was another one of Maggie’s posse. Women who understood the baseball life and bonded over crazed travel schedules, athletes’ foibles, and the general nuttiness of life in MLB.
And apparently the posse was now mobilizing. Maggie felt vaguely cheerful at the thought. Alex Winters and his two buddies might own the Saints now but they had no idea what they were stepping into. No understanding of the complex webs of relationships that made up the team and the league. Or what could happen if those relationships turned sour. Even the devil wouldn’t be able to save himself from the potential world of hurt if the team took against the new owners.
“Margaret, what are you doing here?”
Maggie ignored the question. Veronica, her father’s … well, she was a bit too old for “girlfriend” to be the right term … wasn’t her favorite person in the world. Veronica preferred hockey to baseball for a start. Then there was the “Margaret” thing. The last person who’d called her Margaret on a regular basis had been Sister Maria Henry in junior high. “Is Dad here?”
“He’s in his den. You almost missed him. We’re about to leave for the press conference.”
“Press conference?” Maggie moved past Veronica, not waiting for her response, heading toward Tom’s den. It was a hike. The house wasn’t a mansion but it was sizable. Two levels designed around a central living area and two long wings, one of which held guest quarters, Tom’s den and office, and the games room, while the other contained the family bedrooms. Maggie moved quickly, her feet knowing the path by heart. She hadn’t been home to the house in a few months, between her final exams and Tom being away for the last stretch of games for the season and then her trip. It had been easier to meet on the road, at Maggie’s apartment, or Tom’s Manhattan loft than here on Staten Island.
Usually being home relaxed her here but today she felt her shoulders creeping toward her ears. For as long as she could remember this house had been her home. And the home of the owner of the Saints. But no longer.
