to save her work, Tilda nodded toward the banished newspaper.
“What’s the matter, doesn’t your favorite sportswriter think the Angels will win the pennant this year?” she asked, referring to Miranda’s favorite baseball team—the team her father had played on the last seven years of his career.
Miranda didn’t answer right away. Instead, she just scowled and she glared down at the offending paper.
“It’s about your dad, isn’t it?” Tilda asked.
Miranda shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her lab coat. She wanted to pace, but the lab wasn’t made for releasing bottled-up energy of the human variety. It was designed to maximize experimentation.
Blowing out a breath, she bit off one word. “Yes.”
With a shrug, Tilda went back to what she was doing. “Don’t pay any attention to it. Tomorrow that article will be lining some bird’s cage—or sitting in a bin, waiting to be recycled.”
But today it was being read by who knew how many people? And, most likely, her father. And that was all that counted.
Miranda squared her shoulders. Bottling this up wasn’t going to help. She needed to excise this somehow.
“He said that—” Miranda pulled the paper out of the trash again, holding it the way a person might hold a dead rat they’d been forced to retrieve. It took her a second to find the right page. “‘Steve Orin Shaw, SOS to his friends and the players that feared him, sadly embodies everything that is bad and corrupt about the game…’” She stopped, her throat hitching, as she was momentarily waylaid by angry tears that came out of nowhere. “There’s more,” she finally managed to say, clearing her throat.
“There usually is.” Recognizing that Miranda was not about to let this go easily, Tilda left her workstation and came over to her former lab partner. She draped her arm around Miranda’s shoulders. “Look, people’ll always talk, even when there’s nothing to it. And when there is,” she added innocently, “they go into high gear. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Miranda shrugged off Tilda’s arm. Her eyes narrowed as stubbornness came into them. “Yes, there is.”
All Tilda could do was sigh. “You do realize that murder is illegal in all the fifty states.”
“There’s some play for justifiable homicide,” Miranda countered. She didn’t want to kill Marlowe, just watch him eat his words. And to retract them—publicly, so that a little of her father’s pride could be salvaged.
Tilda shook her head. “I don’t think a judge would see Marlowe’s writing an article insulting your dad as a sufficient reason for your killing him.” She dropped her bantering tone. “Let it go, Miranda.”
But Miranda could sooner stop breathing than say nothing. Her father needed someone in his corner, fighting the fight he wouldn’t. Being banished from baseball had robbed him of his spirit, his zest. Granted, as she grew older, he’d had less and less time for her because he was on the road so much. And then Ariel had died and everything began to fall apart. First her parents’ marriage and then her mother. But, through it all, the one thing she wouldn’t allow to change was the way she felt about her father.
He needed her more than ever now.
“I can’t.”
Miranda planted herself in front of her computer again. But this time, there were no equations, no on-going research figures dancing before her on the monitor. She pulled up a screen and began to write. Feverishly. Had they been wired for sound, the keys on the keyboard would have groaned and whimpered from the lightning assault.
Curious, Tilda looked over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Miranda continued typing. She lifted her chin as she answered, as if silently daring the world to take a swing at her for expressing her opinion.
“I’m telling Mike Marlowe what I think of him and his high-handed article.”
“Are you going to tell him whose daughter you are?”
They both knew that would probably add weight to the e-mail. But it would also make it seem biased. And she was doing her best to be fair—not that the cretin deserved it.
She paused to push her blond bangs out of eyes that turned a darker shade of blue when she was angry. “No, just that he’s an ass.”
Tilda laughed, shaking her head. Backing away, she gave her friend some measure of privacy. Her mouth curved in amusement. “I’m sure that he’ll find that enlightening.”
Mike Marlowe had expected feedback from his article. To some degree, he got it with every article he wrote for the Times. With his most recent piece he’d expected e-mail from die-hard lovers of the game who agreed with him.
It was sad, really, he thought. There’d been a time when Shaw had been revered as the greatest pitcher who’d ever lived, certainly the greatest living pitcher of his generation. He could make the ball do everything but sing the national anthem—and there was some doubt about that. He remembered watching the man play and worshiping his precision. In an arena where a career total of three thousand strikeouts was astounding, SOS had managed to garner two more than four thousand. A lifetime total of three hundred wins was something every starting pitcher dreamed of. SOS had three hundred and seventy-seven under his belt when he was forced to retire from the game.
In almost every way, the man had been a god among men, almost being the key word.
And it was almost that wound up being Shaw’s undoing.
The one unpardonable offense in baseball was not the loss of a crucial game, or the throw of a wild pitch that ultimately cost the team the World Series. It was steroid use and gambling.
It didn’t even have to be the supreme sin of betting against your own team, which indicated that you were somehow involved in throwing the game. The very act of placing a bet where the outcome of a sporting event was the deciding factor of the prize was comparable to partaking of the forbidden fruit. SOS had committed that offense, that one unforgivable sin. One late summer he had bet on a series of games. And he had been discovered and disgraced.
Mike supposed it was to the man’s credit that Shaw hadn’t tried to deny what he was being accused of or attempted to explain it away. He hadn’t pleaded temporary insanity or momentary drunken enthusiasm for the game he loved more than life itself. Shaw had stepped up to the plate, taken the pitch without flinching and retired his bat, as well as his glove.
Mike remembered that awful day well. Remembered hearing the news broadcast just as he and his family were about to have dinner. Remembered catching those mind-numbing words—banned from baseball forever—just as his father had turned off the set in the living room. Hearing them, he’d bolted out of the kitchen back into the living room and turned the television set on again, his stomach twisting itself into a knot. He was twelve at the time, too young to lose a hero to the ugliness of reality.
Surprised by his actions, his father had begun to reprimand him, but Kate, the wonderful woman who had become their stepmother, had shaken her head and told his father to come help her in the kitchen. Kate knew how much the game—and the pitcher—had meant to him.
There
