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Over the box’s speakers, the park announcer called Chris’s name.
Maggie’s stomach turned over at the ripple of boos that broke through the few cheers from the fans. On the television, the cameras got a close shot of Chris’s face as he took to the mound. There was nothing, not a flicker of emotion, positive or negative, but Maggie knew that behind the cool, focused stare, he couldn’t feel good about being jeered on his home turf.
“And the crowd is not happy to see Thompson,” Luigi stated the obvious in his nasal drone.
On his heels, Ted chuckled. “You’re right, Luigi. They don’t not have long memories.”
“These guys are terrible,” Maggie whispered to herself.
Turning away from the television, she went to the sleek glass doors and, nodding and smiling at the guests assembled inside the owner’s box, stepped out onto the balcony. Ignoring the stares of the fans seated below, she focused her eyes and folded her arms as Chris threw his first pitch. It was an unspectacular slider that missed the strike zone by a country mile. The fans were not impressed, to say the least.
“That’s a shame,” a voice said at her elbow. She didn’t know who the woman standing beside her was, or why she’d been invited to opening day in the owner’s box, but Maggie had left the invites up to Molly. The woman was about 5’3”, with her highlighted brown hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Her sunglasses were huge, and her coral jacket perfectly complimented her deep beige skin. She stuck her hand out. “Eva Colchado.”
“Maggie Harper.”
“I know who you are.” Eva reached into her jacket and produced a press pass.
“Excuse me, but I’m not giving interviews—”
“I’m not, either. At least, not with you. Your assistant invited me.” Eva pointed through the glass doors at Molly, who hovered around the catering table, sneaking nibbles. “Cute girl.”
“I’m sorry, I grew up in the game. I see one of those badges and I think you’re trying to scoop something. Or catch me doing something I shouldn’t be doing,” Maggie laughed, her gaze falling back to the diamond. Chris threw a change-up strike, and the tightness around her ribs loosened a bit.
“Are you doing something you shouldn’t?” Eva asked, her tone so shockingly serious that it took Maggie a moment to realize she was joking. “No. I’m really just here for the food. I reached out to Molly earlier this week about sitting down with you in the near future, though. I’ve profiled some of the self-made millionaires who come from Grand Rapids. She thought readers might be interested in hearing about one who brought that success back.”
Score one for Molly. It would probably be a brilliant way to boost fan morale—and most importantly, attendance—after the depressing end to the last season. Maybe she’d be able to make people forget that horrible story in the paper.
“I’d be happy to sit for an interview. Set something up with Molly.”
It had gotten warmer since the last time she’d been outside, and Maggie took off her jacket, hoping the reporter wouldn’t write about pit stains in her next column. She shielded her eyes from the glare to watch as Chris struck out the batter, and the next up, too. As the teams changed sides and Chris disappeared into the dugout, Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.
Until she noticed that the players were in position, but there was still a heck of a lot of motion in the outfield.
“Are those…” Eva’s voice drifted off.
“Birds.” That sinking feeling that had started right after the national anthem and had disappeared during the fourth inning was back, but with a new and improved plummeting sensation. “A hell of a lot of birds.”
“It looks like some seagulls are dropping in on the game,” Luigi chuckled from the television inside, as a few guests came out to the seats to watch the spectacle.
“The grubs,” Maggie whispered in horror.
Of course. Hadn’t the groundskeeper, Sheff, warned her about grubs? From here, she couldn’t see anything on the field, but seagulls could. Soon, there were so many of them, both teams had no choice but to abandon the outfield.
The stands descended into chaos. The players retreated to the dugouts while the groundskeepers ran onto the grass in an attempt to shoo the birds away. Near home plate, the umpires stood in a tight circle, heads bent to avoid their lips being read on camera. Not that Maggie needed to read anyone’s lips to know what was coming.
“Maggie!” Molly burst through the cluster assembled around the doors. “I mean, Ms. Harper. You have Mr. Morgan on the line, and Mr. Thorgerson trying to get through.”
Forcing her very bravest smile for her guests—and the reporter standing far too close at a moment this catastrophic—Maggie nodded. “Put them on hold. I’ll take the calls in my office.”
