I Can See for Miles

            She leaned back in her seat and watched the rest of the practice. Greg did a lot of coaching, and threw a lot of instructive pitches, but he did not pitch himself. And, as practice broke up, Emily went back to her cubbyhole office and stewed over the fact that Greg Dobermenn had arrived, and no one had told her, not even her supposed “friend” Jack Byrne. And Greg had not come up to tell her he had arrived, to stop fining him $10,000 a day, to have a discussion about what the new rules were going to be. Hateful man, she thought, brooding in the office. And what was to be done? What should she do about it?

            Emily wandered back out onto the field. No one was there. Not that she had expected there to be. She walked back into the bowels of the modest spring training facility, past the locker room, and walked by it before she registered the shape out of the corner of her eye. Someone was there, she realized, and backtracked.

            He had his back to her, was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt in the blue and white of the Bluebirds. His hair was neither brown nor blonde but an untidy mix of the two, and it was haphazard all over his head, as if it had not seen a comb in a long while, and it was a bit too long, as if he were a couple of weeks past his haircut appointment. And she recognized him just from that. She had spent too much time studying everything about him not to recognize immediately Greg Dobermenn’s messy, brown-gold hair. Normally it was under his baseball cap, but she recognized it nonetheless.

            She leaned up against the doorjamb to the locker room and crossed her arms and tried to think what to say. And finally she said what she really wanted to say. “If it isn’t my seventeen-million-dollar-a-year prima donna.”

            He didn’t turn to face her immediately. He took his time about it, which irritated her more, closing his locker. When he finally did turn, he smiled without warmth and said, matching her tone, “If it isn’t my new general manager.” He walked toward her. “I am so happy to finally meet you. Sharpe tells me you’re costing me a great deal of money.”

            He looked thoroughly amused by the whole situation. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to slap him even more because he was taller than her, and broad-shouldered. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a flat stomach. Far more in shape than Jack Byrne, she thought.

            “Where have you been?” she asked, trying to sound as casual as he did, instead of furious.

            “A very, very, extraordinarily expensive vacation.”

            “Vacation?” she repeated.

            “Yes. To Cancun.”

            She didn’t believe him. He had a flatness in his eyes. They were, like his hair, an untidy mix, of green and brown. A genuine hazel. “You’ve been in Cancun?” she repeated.

            “Yes. Acapulco, too, I suppose.”

            “You suppose?”

            “Well, yes, it was a drunken blur, wasn’t it?”

            Emily smiled without amusement. “Where were you?”

            “It doesn’t matter where I was. I have paid your ridiculous fine. I am here now. I don’t think it’s necessary for my general manager to know anything more.” He went to move past her.

            “You didn’t throw today,” she said.

            He paused and glanced back at her. “I threw just now. Sorry you missed it.”

            “You threw just now? Who caught for you?”

            “Good pitchers don’t need catchers, Madam Manager. If they have enough baseballs.”

            “I’m hiring a manager for you, you know.”

            “For me? I’m flattered.”

            “But until I get one, I’m acting as interim manager. And tomorrow you throw.”

            “I’ve been a pitcher my whole life. I know when I have to throw.”

            “I’ve no doubt. Nevertheless, you’ll throw tomorrow.”

            Greg smiled at her, a smile that didn’t reach those hazel eyes of his. “My,” he drawled. “You’re fun.”