Page 19 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

“So you’ve talked to her?” I look up from my notes.

“Yes, Gentry and I had a meeting with her. We agreed to reinstate her credentials if she’d stop talking about it.”

“Are you paying her off?” Gary’s eyes sink back into slits. “Gary, I have to know everything if I’m going to do my job effectively. I have a non-disclosure. I can’t tell anyone anything you say in here, and I wouldn’t anyway.”

“We’re not paying her off, but,” he says, pausing for a second to consider his next words carefully. “But we think one of our players might be.”

“For what reason? To keep her quiet about the clubhouse banning?”

“No, we think it’s more than that—”

“We think she might have been fucking one of our players, and that he’s paying her to keep quiet about it,” Gentry says. “And I would say it just like that to a white straight male.”

“Okay,” I say, looking between them. “What player?”

“We’re not sure.” Gary walks around his desk and motions toward the door, indicating that our meeting’s coming to an end. “We’re hoping you can figure it out. I’ve about reached my limit on the bad press we’re receiving because of this. I don’t want you to ask the players about it directly. Just get to know them and see if anything seems off to you. You might as well start now. They’re taking BP on the field. Gentry can take you down there and introduce you around.”

* * *

Gentry holds the elevator door open when we reach the field level. “I’d do this for a WSM, too,” he says, winking at me.

“Okay, Gentry.” My voice reflects the nausea that rockets back through my body as we step out of the air-conditioning into the hellish humidity. “You don’t have to vocalize it every time. Maybe just think it to yourself, but good job.”

“Again, I’m sorry if I offended you,” he says, motioning me to go ahead of him up the stairs to the field. “That’s the absolute last thing I would want to do to you.”

He makes that last part sound a little lewd. I want to punch him. He doesn’t look like he’s ever been in a fight in his life. I think I could at least knock him to the ground. He’s making me really want to try.

“Well, let’s just go by baseball rules.” I sidestep him as he tries to put his hand in the small of my back. “You have two strikes. Try not to get that third.”

“You know,” he says, “some of the best home runs in history have been hit when the player had two strikes—speaking metaphorically, of course.”

“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes. If I wasn’t so close to throwing up again, I’d say more but as it is, I’m using all of my energy to control the bile that’s trying to exit my body. As I step onto the field, the midday sun attacks me. I start sweating immediately. The sweat smells like tequila.

“Hey, are you Sophia?” A man—trying to type on a laptop while he walks—makes his way over to us. He’s wearing khakis and a T-shirt that look like he pulled them out from the bottom of the hamper this morning.

“I’m Ken Burris,” he says, looking at me with a weird combination of curiosity and suspicion. “I’m the VP of PR for the team. Gary told me you were coming in, although he never explained why.”

“Hi,” I say, extending my hand. He looks at it for a second before he shakes it. “I assure you I’m not here for your job if that’s what you’re thinking. No offense, but I can’t think of too many jobs I would want less.”

He grunts but starts to smile a little bit. “Well, Gary said you were smart. Why are you here?”

“Just some corporate image stuff. No need to get territorial. I’ll stay out of your way and be out of here as soon as possible.”

“Hey, Dane! Dane!” Gentry’s screaming at one of the players like he’s an eight-year-old fan. “Dane, this is Sophia Banks. She’s going to be working with the team.”

Ken whispers, “If you can take Gentry off my hands for a few weeks, I might even like you before this is all over.”

“Don’t get too crazy,” I whisper back.

“Dane!” Gentry’s still yelling.

The guy he’s yelling at turns around. “Quit yelling, man. I hear you.” He nods his head at me and waves. “I’m Dane.”

“Hey.” I manage to wave back.

Gentry keeps yelling my name and pointing at me. Some of the players are smiling but most of them look annoyed. The player behind the plate jumps up and charges toward us.

Gentry takes a quick step back, but still manages to say, “Seb! This is Sophia Banks.”

The player walks right in front of me and pulls his catcher’s mask up. I’m suddenly staring at the blue eyes I’ve been thinking about all morning.

“Sophie?” he says as a small smile starts to form at the corners of his mouth.

* * *

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