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There’s no mistaking that low baritone. Slapping on a smile, I turn to him.
“You’re actually just the person I was looking for. Roger said you’d be my go-to for some pre-game sound bites. And my cameraman will be here in just a few minutes to catch some clips we’re going to edit together for a new intro.”
Mack’s gaze is blazing, a lot like the New Orleans summer sun, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused at my presence. Regardless, I don’t let it deter me.
After a few seconds, he nods, motioning over toward the dugout.
“Let’s sit in here. It’s out of the sun.”
When he takes a seat on the bench, I follow, but I can’t help noticing how freaking good he smells, even now—when he’s hot and a little sweaty. It’s like the heat amplifies his manly scent.
Not going there.
Nope.
Get your head in the game, Greer.
Clearing my throat, I dig around in my bag and pull out my recorder.
“Obviously, everything you say will be recorded,” I preface. “But if there’s anything you want removed, just tell me and I’ll delete it. I only want to use material you’re comfortable with.”
Mack gives me a nod and I swear I see his big shoulders relax a little.
“Ready?”
“Fire away,” he says, giving me that damn smirk that does not nice things to my body.
Ignoring my annoying womanly reaction to this specimen of a man, I put on my professional facade and start the interview. “Let’s start with something easy, and something I know a lot of our viewers would like to know: how do you stay in shape?” I could stop there, but I feel a slice of heat surge through my body when Mack quirks his eyebrow, so I continue, trying to spin the question into something that doesn’t say: I think you’re hot. Tell me how you do it. “You’ve been in the league for over ten years, and you were called up nine years ago. That’s quite a long career for a baseball player, especially a catcher. So, after all this time, how do you keep up and stay competitive?”
Mack’s expression is unreadable, but eventually he answers. “I’m not ancient,” he deadpans, and heat creeps up my ears.
When he laughs, the building tension eases a little.
“Fortunately, I love the sport and I actually enjoy working out. The guys on the team are great motivators and we typically meet up to lift weights and do cardio. That helps me stay committed and they keep me accountable. Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the amazing staff in our organization. They’re committed to keeping all of us as healthy as possible.”
I fight back a smile. A lot of players would use a question like what I just asked to boast, but Mack just used it to shine a light on not only his fellow players, but the Revelers organization as a whole, and I really like that.
Nodding, I continue. “As much as you don’t like to talk about it, you have to know the rest of the country is tossing around the Revelers when they mention playing into October. I know you don’t like to talk about the future, but could you tell me some about the games you’ve already played? Does the beginning of this season feel different from other seasons?”
Mack scrubs the light scruff on his jaw and turns his attention out to the field. “I like how you just skirted around the trigger words and still asked the question. That’s good work, Reporter.”
Swallowing, I press my lips together. Did Mack Granger just give me a compliment?
“To answer your question; yes. This season does feel different. It started back in Spring Training. You could feel it then, the way the team started coming together at an earlier stage. We were crushing balls and playing good defense. And then when we started the season, and that kind of behavior continued, I think we all realized we had a good opportunity here. We just have to keep our heads down and play good ball. The reason no one likes to talk about the future isn’t just because of baseball superstition, although that’s a real thing and should not be messed with.” He pauses, laughing as he shakes his head. “But it’s also because we can’t afford to get ahead of ourselves. That’s a good way to lose games and blow a season.”
After that heavy, honest answer, I switch to lighter topics—his favorite thing in the clubhouse, what he likes to do before a game, his favorite pre-game meal—and when I see him starting to get fidgety from being under the microscope too long, I call it good.
“That’s great,” I say, turning off my recorder. “I think I got everything I need, except…”
“What?” Mack asks, already standing.
“My boss thought it would be a good idea for me to… uh, participate?” It comes out as a question instead of a statement, because I think it’s a bad idea. But George was insistent.
Looking out onto the field, I notice my cameraman has arrived. “He wants me to catch a ball… or hit one… something like that.”
Mack throws back his head and laughs. I should probably be offended, but I’m not. Because I know it’s funny. His gaze flicks from my face down my body, stopping at my shoes. “You can’t hit or catch in those.”
“Oh, I have these,” I say, pulling my tennis shoes out of my bag.
