Clutch Hit

and what it would take for them to move up. Every detail was at her fingertips, and she could answer any question Dan put to her. All of her hard work paid off, for as soon as her predecessor had retired, she’d been promoted. Even the owners had given their blessing. Dan knew she’d do anything to help her team win, whether it be working twelve or thirteen-hour days, traveling across the country to meet their rookies, mediating between the front office and her guys, which was what she called the players, or putting organizational goals ahead of anything personal. They had a mission statement in the two-word motto, Bring it. They wanted to win and insisted everyone commit to the kind of team spirit that would accomplish that goal.
Last year they’d almost done it, but almost didn’t cut it. She’d spent most of her time since the loss in October, three long months ago, helping to fill in the missing pieces in their quest for a ring, but she’d gone over and above in one instance. It was what was causing the dread.
With clammy hands, she opened the glass door of the facility and stepped inside. She could hear voices, the crack of the bat, all the signs that a practice was in session. At her request, Leo Quijano, the infield coach, had brought three of their potential stars in two weeks early for a mini-training camp. She wanted to see if her instincts had been right, see if they’d bring it. It looked good from what she’d heard, but she needed to give it a more personal touch, strengthen the connections, show up. The players needed to know she was paying attention, that they were valued. They were the biggest investment the team would make, and in order to earn dividends, she needed to monitor their progress daily.
When she moved to the edge of the field, the dread came with her, increasing in weight and mass. The Cuban she’d rescued from Mexico was standing at the plate, totally focused and she watched, spellbound. He looked so good standing there, and there was an unexpected ripple of pride. His swing was near perfection, and he met the balls that came flying at him with the kind of power she knew would win ball games. It was what his body did to hers that caused the concern. His muscles rippled with each stroke of the bat, and her breath held as he lifted one ball after the other into the nets over four hundred feet away.
He was hers. Her find, her…
Her mind drifted back to the day she’d met him, sitting at a bar in Cancun. She’d needed a break after the World Series loss, needed to regenerate for the hard work that was ahead, so she’d moved forward with her plans, going solo when her usual traveling companion and BFF Casey Calipari, had been unable to accompany her. She’d walked the beach, gotten some sun, slept in late, all those things she’d come for, but by the third day, she’d gotten restless. Scenes from the last game of the World Series began streaming again. It was top of the ninth inning, fucking Rick Watters, the Greenliner closer, one strike away from a win when, crack, the batter sent the ball flying out over the Green Monster, taking back the lead and the Series win. That one ball, placed smack dab over the plate, had ended the team’s run for their first championship in over eighty years and a coveted duck ride through the streets of Boston. The rival team had been touted around the city holding the trophy high in the air, while she was laying by a pool, drowning her sorrows in tequila concoctions. Her team’s victory had been dashed by a single clutch hit. She’d needed to find a new closer, a third baseman, and a shortstop. They would be the pillars on which they could build a winning team, and she’d been chomping at the bit to find them.
After a morning strolling the open markets, trying to decide if she should head home and get back to work, she’d found a cantina where she decided to grab some lunch. It was an open-aired eatery, the rotating fans overhead creating just enough of a breeze to spell relief from the hazy, hot sunshine. After glancing around for an empty seat, she’d claimed one next to a good-looking man at the end of the bar. While sipping a margarita, light-headed from the heat, the potent tequila, and lack of sleep, she’d thrown caution to the wind, and begun to flirt with him. He was dark, gorgeous actually, and she’d felt a burst of heat that knocked her off her stride. She’d been ready to end her dating drought here, far away from those who knew her and all that was familiar, and he seemed to fit the bill. In a big way.
His lips were full, his eyes bits of obsidian, his shoulder-length dark hair brushed back, a widow’s peak framing a heart-shaped face. And he carried himself like an athlete, all muscle and sinew.
She’d leaned over, was a breath away when she asked, “Are you alone?”
He’d met her eyes and she felt another surge of fire streak through her.
“I am. Yes.”
His voice was heavily accented, but his articulation was precise. She was more than intrigued. She’d swiveled toward him, crossed her legs, allowing her sundress to shift up. It gave him a glimpse of some thigh.
“Where are you from?”
He searched her eyes. She felt his hesitation, thought maybe he wasn’t as attracted to her as she was to him, attracted at all. His scrutiny was unnerving, and it caused another flush of heat.
When he said, “Cuba,” all she could do was gape.
She knew some Cubans who had defected to play ball. She’d heard some of the horror stories about their attempts to get to America, the ransom, the threats, and even a death. It wasn’t an easy country