Team Player Page 10

  Gwen glanced at the box of peanut butter and pickles currently stashed under her desk. Promotion. “Right.”

  “The team’s headed there tonight after they wrap up in Atlanta, so you’ll meet them tomorrow.” She handed over a ticket. “You have a front row seat from which to write your talking points, and access to the clubhouse so you can personally deliver the notes to Strip.” She extended a laminated clip-on badge identifying Gwen as a member of the Thrashers organization. The photo she’d chosen was one of Gwen with her nose wrinkled up, mouth half open, clearly mid-sneeze. It was infinitely less than flattering, and now it was permanently preserved in plastic.

  “This seems like a lot of—”

  “Also Denzel Reed’s ego is getting out of hand, and I’d like you to address it when you’re down there.”

  Gwen was still staring in horror at the badge, and now looked up in alarm. “Me? But I’m not—”

  “Rewrite his bio while you’re at it,” Allison said, tapping on her phone, already done with the conversation. “The one we have on the website is from six years ago and he sounds like a dick.”

  Chad and Brandon snorted.

  “You’ll be there for all three games,” she added, dropping her phone in her pocket. “Make the most of them. Your plane ticket’s in your inbox.”

  She left without waiting for a reply.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON Gwen touched down at Tampa International Airport and took a taxi to the four-star hotel housing the Thrashers for the next two nights. She climbed out of the car in jeans and a tank top and made it all of four steps toward the revolving doors before she started sweating. Five steps later she was inside the marble lobby, an almost-blinding display of white stone and enormous gold fixtures. Even more beautiful were the women lingering not-so-casually in the lobby, dressed like they were preparing to attend the Grammys. The baseball game started in five hours and most of the players would already be at the field, but there were always the hopeful few who stuck around hotel lobbies and player parking lots, hoping to bump into a late arrival.

  Suddenly the sequin trim on Gwen’s top felt cheap instead of glamorous, and the denim made her conspicuous in a room of designer suits and dresses. The flight was only three and a half hours, but she touched her hair self-consciously, wishing she’d taken time at the airport to freshen her makeup and fix her ponytail.

  “Excuse me, madam,” said a white-suited concierge bearing a tray of champagne. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, please.” She gratefully selected a glass and gulped it down in three swallows. Her nerves had been going haywire for the past twenty-four hours but she’d been too frazzled to find a way to calm them. As nervous as she was, this was one of the first times since joining the Thrashers that she’d been given any real responsibility. Not to mention a free business class plane ticket and a hotel room and a per diem. And her very own ID badge, albeit one so hideous it was stowed safely in the depths of her bag.

  Gwen checked in and rode the elevator to her room on the fourth floor. The Thrashers occupied the top two levels of the hotel, but she didn’t mind being down here alone. So many of her waking hours were occupied by the team, she deserved to have her resting time to herself. Not that she didn’t dream about press releases and talking points and one particular player no matter where she was.

  Her room was small but bright, with a queen size bed, a view of the parking lot, and a vase of fresh flowers sitting on the desk. Gwen dropped her bag and immediately pulled off her too-hot jeans, swapping them for a pair of loose linen pants.

  The change of clothes was nice, but was no help at all in determining just how she was going to “keep Reed’s ego in check.” She wasn’t even sure she’d be able to convince a guy whose current bio included the line “be great, am great, always great” to say, well, anything else, but her head for stats meant she knew enough of his history to start a new draft of the website bio.

  She grabbed the complimentary hotel pen and began to write a pleasant, inoffensive new description, then stopped and pondered. Allison was a frightening mentor, but she was good at her job, and Gwen had learned a lot from her over the past months. She tore off the top page and threw it away, then started again.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Gwen made her way through the Rays clubhouse level, following the people wearing black and teal Thrashers colors to the area reserved for the visiting team. Her hand was sweaty where it gripped her notepad, but she told herself the perspiration she was smelling was the general funk of an athletic venue, not her nerves betraying her. She’d only just barely gotten used to venturing into the Thrashers clubhouse on a regular basis, and now here she was, passing Rays players and coaches, trying to either look like she belonged here or be altogether invisible.

  Gwen took a deep breath and told herself to get a grip. This was her job. She was a professional, even if she was keeping close to the walls with her head ducked so she didn’t bump into Ty. All she had to do was find Reed and rewrite the bio, and no one would ever have to know she’d even been here. When that was done she’d head upstairs, grab a burger and a beer, and enjoy the game from her front row seat. Despite her current predicament, she couldn’t stop the giddy little thrill that ran through her at the thought.

  “Gwen?”

  She stumbled to a halt and turned to see none other than Pierce Altman, hitting coach for the Rays and her October one-night stand, emerging from one of the training rooms. With his blond hair, golden tan, and Rays polo shirt, he looked like he belonged here. Even with her badge, Gwen felt like an interloper.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, flashing a smile. “Yep. It’s me.” She winced inwardly. Pierce was the only one-night stand she’d ever had and she clearly didn’t know how to play it cool. Or be cool at all, really.

  But he smiled back, all white teeth and pure handsomeness.

  “What are you doing down here?” He stepped closer so they didn’t have to shout to be heard over the clubhouse din. His eyes flickered to the badge clipped to the lapel of her jacket and his brows lifted. “Official business? Did you get a promotion?”

  Gwen smiled. “I guess I did,” she said, still not sure if it was true. “Well, sort of. I still have to scoop ice cream and tweet from time to time.”

  “Well, that’s awesome, congratulations. How long are you here for? We should catch up.”

  She froze. “Ah...”

  Pierce’s friendly smile didn’t falter. “Just to talk. You’re too smart to be scooping ice cream. How about tonight, after the game? One drink, and I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”

  A strange feeling crept up Gwen’s spine and she glanced to her right just in time to see Ty stroll by, unfairly sexy in training shorts and a black Thrashers tee. And definitely close enough to have overheard Pierce’s offer, if his arched brow was any indication.

  “Sure,” Gwen heard herself say. “I can meet you after the game.”

  “Great. I’ll find you. Nice seeing you again.”

  “You too.”

  Pierce ducked back into the training room and Gwen hustled off in the opposite direction, crashing right into Denzel Reed’s sweaty chest.

  “Whoa,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “You okay?”

  “Um,” she said. “Yes, I—Sorry. I was coming to find you, actually.”

  He looked pleased. “You don’t say.”

  “I’m Gwen Scott, from Public Rel—”

  Reed laughed. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you around.”

  “Oh.” She blinked. She really didn’t think anyone saw her.

  He folded his arms across his chest, biceps bulging. No doubt deliberately. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Sign autographs? Photo spread? Quote of the day? How about...”

  “Ah, no,” Gwen interrupted. “I’m here to update your website bio.”

  The smile disappeared as fast as it had come. “There’s nothing wrong with my bio.”

  “It’s a little out of date and—”<
br />
  “It’s fine.”

  “Allison sent me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Reed made a show of peering around. “Is she here?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I don’t have time.” He started down the hall.

  Gwen took a breath and went to plan B, brandishing her notepad as she hurried to match his pace. “That’s what Allison said,” she lied. “She knows you’re very busy and very popular, so she took a moment to draft the bio herself.”

  Reed glanced down, frowning. “She did?”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll read it to you, and you can sign off, okay?” Before he could answer, she started reading her own scratchy notes from the hotel. “Selected by the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 32nd round of the 2001 draft—”

  “Whoa—whoa.” Reed stopped walking. “2001? How old does she think I am? And 32nd round? That was—”

  “We can tweak the minor details later,” Gwen assured him, then continued reading the most horrible bio she could come up with. “Denzel Reed made his major league debut with the Minnesota Twins at the age of twenty-one, starting nineteen games in right field and hitting .173 in his first year.”

  Reed sounded like he was choking. “That’s not enough data to make a—”

  “Traded to the Chicago White Sox for his off-season antics, Reed spent his first year with his new team on the bench, going 0-6 in pinch hit appearances, and getting thrown out in two of his three efforts as a pinch runner.”

  “Allison wrote this? You sure she’s not here?” He looked around, paranoid.

  Gwen kept her expression studiously blank and continued to read. “He finally found his stride when he joined the Philadelphia Phillies, enjoying an impressive season hitting .293 while playing in 151 regular season games.”

  “Yeah, that’s better.”

  “The upward trajectory continued for the next three years, seeing Reed make three appearances as the starting right fielder for the National League Team in the All-Star game.”

  “Heck yeah, I did.”

  “He peaked at age twenty-seven, then began a gradual but respectful decline—”

  “What?”

  “—fighting to make the starting lineup for the next two years. After a leg injury sidelined him during spring training last season, he returned to the field in July, posting a .193 batting average before being released from his contract. The Thrashers acquired the struggling Reed for a modest sum and two minor league players to be named later.”

  “Modest sum?”

  Gwen tucked the notepad away and did her best to look sincere. “Anyway, does it have your approval?”

  “What? No! Of course not! That’s incredibly misleading!”

  “It’s statistically accurate,” she said with an apologetic shrug.

  “Who cares if it’s—”

  “We can take a moment to adjust it now, or I can tell Allison I ran it by you and she can post it on the site. It’s a slow news day, so you can expect plenty of fans to see it!” She beamed, though it was challenging in the face of Reed’s angry expression.

  “It’s gotta be fixed,” he said through his teeth. “Right now. It cannot go on the website like that. It can’t go anywhere like that. Let’s find a spot and get this over with.” He shoved open a door and flipped on the light. It was a training room with an empty tub for ice baths, workout mats, and two workout balls.

  Gwen followed him inside and they each balanced on one of the large rubber balls.

  “Okay,” she said, clicking open her pen and flipping to a new page on the notepad. “What would you like to change?”

  Reed gaped at her. “Everything!” he exclaimed. “Everything has to change!”

  “Well, everything within reason,” she said. “It still has to be accurate.”

  “Accurate can suck my—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Okay, fine. Say this—Denzel Reed is a three-time All-Star who brings his skill and charisma to the field. You visit him at www-dot-Denzelreedrules-dot—”

  “It’s not marketing copy,” Gwen interrupted. “We’re looking for facts, not rhetoric.”

  “What the hell is rhetoric?”

  Gwen wasn’t completely sure she knew.

  Reed shook his head. “Okay, anyway. Anyway. I was drafted in the 10th round, not the 32nd—”

  “Well, you were drafted in the 32nd,” Gwen corrected, “but you turned down the offer and entered the draft again the next year, right? Then you were drafted in the 10th?”

  He squinted at her. “We don’t need the part about the 32nd round,” he said firmly.

  She shrugged. “Okay, fine. Drafted in the 10th round...”

  “And forget that part about the first year stats. It’s ancient history. Not that ancient—I’m not old.”

  “Of course not.”

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway, drafted in the 10th round, posted a .304 batting average in his first full season with the Phillies—”

  “It was .293.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Enjoyed three trips to the All-Star game as the starting right fielder, hitting the game winning home run in his first year.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gwen waited.

  “And that’s it.”

  “That was five years ago.”

  “Well, that’s enough.”

  “Okay, so should we just keep the rest of Allison’s draft about—”

  “No,” he said sharply. “We should not. You think I don’t know I had some struggles? I did. Why do we have to advertise it?”

  “I don’t think Allison wants to rewrite your bio to advertise your troubles, so much as to...remind you,” Gwen said cautiously.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because of your post-game comments the past few nights.”

  Reed stared at her, then looked away. “They might have gotten a little out of hand,” he said sullenly.

  Gwen checked her notes. “I’m the cure this team has been waiting for...the anti-virus is here,” she quoted.

  Reed sucked in his cheeks, like he was trying not to laugh. “I won’t say it again.”

  “It’s all coming across as a little...vain,” she said. “Let’s add—”

  “Vain? I’m not vain!”

  “Your auction basket is only Denzel Reed items.”

  He looked affronted. “It’s a Denzel Reed auction!”

  “No, it’s a Thrashers auction.”

  “Well, I signed my Thrashers jersey.”

  “Can you think of one more thing to include that’s not quite so...Reed-centric?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwen said. “Do you have any hobbies? Anything close to your heart that’s not baseball-related? And doesn’t have your face on it?”

  He hesitated. “I mean, I have a daughter, and she likes to read, and I’m trying to read more too, to keep up with her so we have stuff to talk about. So maybe some books. Or a gift card to a bookstore?”

  “Sure, that’s a great idea. How about the gift card and some personalized recommendations?”

  “You don’t think that’s stupid?” he asked nervously.

  Gwen scribbled it down. “No, I think it’s great.”

  Commotion picked up in the hallway outside and it was time for Reed to head to the field for batting practice.

  Gwen stood. “Thanks for your time. I’ll finish the bio.”

  “Don’t put—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  Reed surprised her when he extended a hand to shake. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Gwen placed her fingers in his, feeling for the first time like maybe she wasn’t completely terrible at this, even if she had lied about pretty much everything.

  Reed started for the door, then paused. “Allison’s mean,” he said, then left.

  Gwen shut the door and lay on one of the treatment tables. That had gone well, but her limbs were weak and she felt like she’d narrowly dodged a heart attack. She gave herself five minutes to regroup, then stood and headed f
or the door. Her fingers had barely glanced the knob when her phone rang. She grimaced at the call display and answered. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Allison said. “How’re things going?”

  “They’re fine. Good. Great.”

  “That’s convincing. I have another job for you.”

  “Er—”

  “I had a call from Tampa General,” Allison continued, naming the local hospital. “They have a teenage patient whose dream is to meet Tyler Ashe. Make that happen.” She rattled off his name and room number and Gwen scrambled to write it all down.

  “How—”

  “Also, he’s being transferred to Miami tomorrow,” Allison said, “so get Ashe there tonight. The hospital has agreed to extend visiting hours. Don’t forget to take pictures. And alert the press. You know the deal. Let’s change Ty’s narrative from ‘Why can’t this guy hit?’ to ‘What a guy,’ okay?”

  “But how—”

  “And Denzel Reed’s agent called to ask what I thought I was doing writing his client a new biography that said his career peaked five years ago.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Did he agree to update it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then good job. Bye.”

  The dial tone hummed in her ear as Gwen climbed back onto the treatment table and lay down again, staring at the ceiling tiles. Get Ty to a hospital to visit a sick kid. Alert the press. Where did she even begin? Thrashers players regularly did things like this, but Allison was normally the one to handle it, since it looked good on her already-stacked resume. Gwen hadn’t even seen her do it, she’d just read the articles online afterward, touting the players’ generosity of spirit. And now she had to figure out how to get Ty to do the same. Tonight. After he played nine innings.

  Okay. First things first. She did a search for the hospital. It was a thirty-minute drive. Tonight’s game started at seven o’clock, and would likely take them past ten. If Ty showered, changed, and drove straight over, he’d arrive around eleven p.m. Allison hadn’t said anything about the teenager’s health, but if the hospital had agreed to extend visiting hours, hopefully that meant he’d be awake.