I’d make you eat your words.
Mike leaned back, studying the latest missive that tore across his screen like silent gunfire. He’d obviously struck a nerve. Part of him felt like just letting this go. But both his father and stepmother had taught him to stand up for what he believed and never to back away from a fight, even one that was annoyingly inconsequential, like this one.
No matter what my location, he typed, referring to her comment about standing in front of her, I’d still believe what I believe. He took off the kid gloves he’d envisioned himself wearing during the initial response. Forgiveness is for dropped pitches, not dropped morals. If you’d like to continue this debate in person, you name the time and place.
There, that should put her in her place, he thought, pressing Send.
Mike didn’t think he’d receive an answer, other than a few choice expletives, so he was rather surprised when yet another volley of words appeared on his computer screen.
Bailey’s Sports Bar. Six o’clock. Today.
Chapter Two
Mike stared at the screen, waiting for something more to appear.
Several seconds passed. No additional words materialized. The brief, staccato sentences seemed to pulse on the field of white, looking for all the world like a challenge. It reminded him of a cocky kid with his chin thrust forward, daring him to take a swing.
Except that in this case, the words belonged to a cocky female. One who obviously lived and breathed the game of baseball—or maybe just focused on Shaw to the exclusion of everything else.
The woman obviously was in dire need of a life, he decided.
For a second, he debated the wisdom of meeting her. Undoubtedly, there were too many birds nesting on her antennae and he had no desire to get tangled up with a crazy woman. But then, Bailey’s Sports Bar was a pretty crowded place at six, even on a Monday. Besides, he had to admit that his curiosity had been aroused. If the woman actually knew SOS, she might be willing to tell a few stories. This might the closest thing to an interview with Shaw that he could score.
Or maybe, if he played his cards right and she did know the former pitcher, he might even wind up getting an introduction.
But as he finally put his hand to the keyboard, Mike saw a single word take form on his screen. Afraid?
She’d hit him where he lived.
You’re on, he typed, then realized he needed a way
to recognize her when she walked into Bailey’s. How
will I know you?
Her answer was far from satisfying. Instead of a description, she gave him a cryptic reply. I’ll know you.
Miranda liked having the advantage on her side. Maybe it wasn’t polite, but at the moment, with the article still warm on her desk, she wasn’t feeling very polite. And this know-it-all didn’t deserve any cut slack.
Unless the photo on top of your column is an outdated one, she added.
It was a distinct possibility. A great many people in the arts used publicity photographs far more reminiscent of years gone by than of present day.
He answered her in less than a beat. Only by a year.
That meant he was good-looking, Miranda thought. Either that, or the photographer was deeply enamored of Photoshop. In either case, it didn’t matter. Giving the man a piece of her mind in person was most important. If people like him, bent on maintaining a grudge, didn’t exist, her father could receive the honor he richly deserved. He told her that it didn’t matter to him, but she knew better. How could something like that not matter?
Good, she typed. I’ll see you at six, she reiterated.
Maybe six-thirty would be a better time, Mike decided, typing the words the moment he reconsidered.
But it was too late. The woman on the other end of the dueling e-mail exchange was gone. His amended suggestion received no response and the sentence he’d typed sat as a solitary bottom line, lonely and unnoticed. The dialogue, such as it was, was over.
Mike studied the very brief correspondence, beginning with the woman’s opening e-mail to him about today’s column. This “Miranda” had to be old, he decided. His proof was that there were no one-letter shortcuts in any of the messages as had become the custom in quick messaging. It was a way of communication that personally irritated him. As a journalist, he’d always thought of the English language as an art form, something to be utilized rather than pared down. Most of the people he worked and socialized with didn’t feel the same. They were all in their twenties or early thirties.
This led him to the conclusion that the woman he had agreed to meet in person had to be some obsessed middle-aged—or older—harpy. She probably had a shrine in her bedroom devoted to Steven Orin Shaw, complete with a wall of photographs. Most likely she had it surrounded with candles.
Mike leaned back in his chair, knotting his fingers together behind his head as he mulled over the situation.
Maybe he wouldn’t show.
He did have an excuse. It was only Monday, but he did have to start getting ready to fill in for Ryan Wynters this weekend. The senior sportswriter had come down with the worst case of flu according to his editor, Howard Hilliard. Ryan was supposed to be covering the Super Bowl this Sunday. Since he was next in line, that meant that he was now covering the tradition-honored event. By all rights, he should be home, packing, not wasting his time sitting on a bar stool in a sports bar with some incensed female nut-job intent on a duel of words.
Whoever this Miranda was, he wasn’t going to convince her and she wasn’t going to convince him. What was the point of going?
He frowned.
The point of going was that he’d said he would. And he always kept his word.
Mike sighed.
Lance Matthews, the theater critic who sat opposite him, looked up. His gaunt, elongated face was devoid of any sort of telltale emotion or even a clue as to his thoughts.
“A little stronger and that could qualify as a class one hurricane. Did Ryan call in to say he was feeling well enough to cover the Soup Bowl after all?”
“Super Bowl,” Mike automatically corrected, even though he knew that Lance had made the mistake on purpose. Just like everyone knew that Ryan had to practically be on his death bed to miss the event. “No,” he added slowly, “I’m just debating whether or not to meet this fan at a sports bar.”
Something akin to mild interest passed over Lance’s alabaster face. “Fan of what? You?”
Mike heard the incredulous note in the other man’s voice. Lance was the one with an ego, not him. “No, of Steven Shaw.”
The man nodded and Mike expected him to drop the matter. Lance looked down his nose at anything more physical than finding the seat numbers on his theater tickets. But apparently the man did absorb a few things that went on around him. He actually knew who Steven Shaw was.
“They’re
