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“This is bullshit.”
Maggie took a deep breath. She’d anticipated that the Bengal manager, Ken Holmes, might show a flash of his famous temper over the seagull incident, but she’d had no idea he’d take it out on her. After all, hadn’t it been Thorgerson’s cut-throat groundskeeping tactics that had gotten them into this mess?
From his seat across the desk, Thorgerson flipped through documents on his iPad. “I have assurances that by the time the team returns from New Orleans, the field will be grub-free and ready to play.”
“They’re going to let us make up the other games in the series,” Maggie tried, knowing her good intentions were falling on anger-deafened ears.
Not one to mince words, Ken pointed an accusing finger and snapped back, “It’s an embarrassment, and that guy right there is the cause.”
“I resent the implication that this somehow falls on my shoulders.” Thorgerson didn’t sound particularly resentful. Just bored. “I’m trying to run a ballpark that will raise money for the team, not suck it all away. If I can’t get thirty dollars a head out of these customers at the concessions stands, I can’t justify the grounds staff we have now.”
“I can justify it. We have to play out there! Those ‘customers’ are fans who are not going to come to this park and buy thirty dollars worth of peanuts if there isn’t a god damn game!” Ken stood and headed for the door. He stopped halfway and turned that angry finger on her. “You’re a nice girl, Maggie, and I liked your dad. But I like my team more. You get this clown sorted out.”
It took a lot of willpower not to slouch down in her chair in front of Thorgerson. He looked up with a sympathetic, condescending smile. “He is a notoriously difficult man.”
Maggie ground her teeth. “Get rid of the grubs, get the field in order.”
Thorgerson wisely took that as his cue to exit, and Maggie sank down in her chair for real. Would every season be this big of a fight? Her dad had never let on that “team owner” actually meant “person who writes checks and gets yelled at.” She would be counting the days until she returned to her New York office.
She needed to get out. After instructing Molly to hold her calls, Maggie practically ran through the underground employee parking garage on the way to her car. Molly’s pink VW Bug was parked in the space usually reserved for her boss; her assistant had bought a huge birthday cake for one of the secretaries in the front office, and Maggie had taken pity on her and switched spaces. The extra walk was doing her some good to clear her head. The hot breath of car fumes in her face was the sweet air of freedom. Maybe she would go get a beer. Hell, maybe she would go get a whole bar. It was that kind of day.
A door slammed somewhere in the garage, and her gaze snapped to the black BMW parked ahead. Her stomach dropped when she saw the man reaching into the trunk.
She couldn’t face Chris. Not after what she’d said to him before she’d left his apartment. She’d basically let slip that his career was over and crushed any hope of ever sleeping with him again in one fell swoop. You’re not supposed to hope to sleep with him.
He’d seen her, too, and now he walked toward her, his jaw tight, expression otherwise neutral. He didn’t speak as their intersecting paths brought them closer.
It was too awkward. He was one of her players. She had to say something, or be horribly rude. “You looked like you were in good shape out there the other day. Before the seagulls.”
“Thanks.” He passed her, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking a hell of a lot better than the beer she’d been wanting earlier. Then, he stopped and called, “Sorry your first game was a bust.”
“Sorry your first game was a bust,” she repeated, her steps slowing despite the neon yellow warning lights flashing in her head. “I’ve got assurances that it’s going to be under control by the time you get back from Nola.”
“I hate playing down there. The humidity is crazy.” He stopped a few paces from her. “Checking out for the day, then?”
“No, just taking a little break. What are you doing here?” Unbelievably, she’d stopped walking, too. What the hell did she think she was going to do, stop and have a polite chat with the guy she’d so thoroughly pissed off a few days before? “I didn’t think you guys had practice.”
“We didn’t. I was coming in for some exercise, maybe watch some of Jacobson’s at-bats from last season. He’s playing for New Orleans this season.”
“I remember. He got traded from Atlantic City.” It hadn’t been easy, stepping in as team owner in the middle of a flurry of trades and new contracts, especially when she was still so steeped in grief over her father’s passing. But strangely, all the little details had stuck with her, who had gone where and why. She owed Casey Morgan, the team’s general manager, a huge debt for helping her navigate the process. Next year, she’d be ready to be more involved.
