with the organization about you and they want to give you a try.” His ball bounced too hard off the rails and missed the pocket.
“Yeah, well, thanks but no thanks.” Mace shot smoothly and put the seven ball in the corner pocket and set up for the next shot. “I’d rather just stay here and work on my pool game. Yours could use some work, too, by the way.”
“Hey, I’ve been on the road,” Stan said mildly, watching Mace sink the eight ball. He began pulling balls out of a corner pocket and stacking them into the triangular rack. “Okay, let’s make it a bet. You win the next game, I never mention it again.”
Mace snorted and took a swig of his beer. “The way you’ve been playing, we can just save ourselves the time and agree to stop talking about it.”
“Humor me.” Stan pulled the rack off the balls and gestured to the triangle of color. “I win, you take the roving instructor job for a season.” He chalked the end of his cue and walked to the other end of the table. “So maybe you can’t play. You can still teach. Better than sitting around here all season driving yourself crazy.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“I suppose being here gives you a lot of time to practice your pool,” Stan said placidly.
“Shut up and break.”
“Oh no, I’m the one who set up the bet. You first.”
“Break,” Mace snarled.
“Okay, okay.” Stan leaned over the table, stroked the cue a few times to get the feel, and slammed the cue ball into the balls, sinking two immediately and scattering the rest across the table. “I guess that makes me stripes,” he said, stepping around the table to sink two more colored balls in quick succession with machine-like strokes.
Mace’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me I didn’t just get hustled.”
“A bet’s a bet, Duvall,” Stan said with relish as he sighted along his cue and sank another ball in the corner pocket. “You’re not a carpenter, for Christ’s sake. Or a fisherman. You belong in a ballpark, and you know it.” He put another ball in the pocket. “Try the roving instructor gig. Maybe you’ll like it.” His bank shot put in the last ball.
“Maybe I’ll stop inviting pool hustlers to my house.”
Stan squinted down his cue at the eight ball. “Maybe you’ll invite me to the clubhouse the first year you’re managing in the World Series.” He slammed the ball into the pocket and straightened up with a guileless grin. “Looks like I win.”
Too bad he wasn’t better at sniffing out pool sharks, Mace thought, as he stood leaning on the Lowell ballpark fence and shaking his head.
He’d promised Stan he’d try the job, which as far as he was concerned meant showing up for a couple of days. They’d only taken him on as a favor to Stan anyway.
Mace pushed off from the fence and walked away. If he’d learned one thing in the past year, it was that reality could purely knock the hell out of any plans he might cook up for the future. He was through with doing what he was supposed to do in pursuit of some long-term goal. Nope, from now on, he was going to take life day by day. He’d do what he felt like now instead of constantly focusing on tomorrow. Starting today he was going to live the good life.
BECKA SAT in the dugout watching the players. “You know he won the Gold Glove three times in a row?” Stats asked Morelli before walking past him to take his position at first base, ready to run the minute the hitting coach at the plate slammed a ball into the outfield.
Becka rolled her eyes. She knew without asking that the “he” in question was Mace Duvall. In the past two hours she’d learned enough about the training regimen, lifestyle, achievements, batting stance, favorite shoes, and hobbies of baseball’s number one playboy to last her a lifetime. God help her, she even knew the recipe for his favorite protein shake.
“Sammy says he’s going to stay in the dorms with us,” Morelli said, watching Stats get thrown out at second. “I got an empty room next to me.” Most of the Lowell players didn’t bother to get their own apartments. They just took rooms at the University of Massachusetts dormitories that stood across the street from the stadium, which were empty during the summer break. Management encouraged it; it was easier to keep an eye on young players when they were nearby.
“You better not take all his time, Morelli, ya motor-mouth,” Chico threw back as he stepped out of the dugout. “Give the rest of us a chance.”
Next, they were going to start arm wrestling over who got to have the locker next to “him,” Becka thought exasperatedly as Sal Lopes moved into position at first and got prepared to run. They might have been old enough to vote, most of them, but they were all as starstruck by the great Mace Duvall as any Little Leaguers would be.
Becka watched the hitting coach knock a ball into the outfield, with Sal Lopes rounding second and heading for third in a feet-first slide. She couldn’t have said whether it was luck or premonition that had her watching Sal intently as he slid into the base, but she saw the exact moment his ankle folded against the bag at an angle that made her cringe. In seconds she was sprinting out to the field.
“I can’t believe I’m such an idiot,” Lopes groaned as Becka helped the pitching coach carry the player into the training room and lay him on the massage table. “Of all the stupid things to do, the day before Duvall gets here.”
“It’ll be okay,” Becka soothed, fitting a cold pack around the ankle, which was already swelling alarmingly. “Now you just sit and keep it elevated. Once the swelling eases a little, I’ll tape it for you.” She rummaged around the meds cabinet for ibuprofen. “Swallow a couple of these and lie back for a bit.” The phone rang and she turned to her desk.
“Landon,” she said briefly.
“Hey, sis.”
Becka blinked. “Nellie? What are you doing there? I thought you and Joe were still on your honeymoon.”
“We got back on Sunday. Joe wanted to have plenty of time to get me moved. Speaking of which, Mom said you wanted some help moving?”
“Not exactly. I was just trying to find that buddy of Joe’s who carries loads for hire. I can’t stay on the phone, though, I’ve got a hurt player here to deal with.”
“Oh, you don’t need to hire Charlie to move you,” Nellie said airily, ignoring her. “Joe will do it.”
“Nellie, give the poor guy a break. You just got back two days ago. You can’t just sign him up for duty.”
“Sure I can,” Nellie laughed. “I got my permission slip three weeks ago when he said ‘I do.’ You were there.”
“You’ve been watching Mom too much,” Becka muttered. “Joe might have something to say about that.”
“I know how to take care of Joe, don’t you worry.”
Actually, it was probably true, Becka thought. Her baby sister had always had her fiancé—now husband—wrapped around her little finger, and used the fact mercilessly. Becka glanced over at Sal and tapped her fingers restlessly.
Nellie chuckled again.
