Curveball (23 page)

“But my scout won’t even take a look at him without an agent. He figures if a player
is worth his time, he’ll be represented.” She pointed to the doctored player profile
in his hands.

Chance took his time reading it over. “Not bad. Little old.”

“Yeah, but he’s hungry. He had a chance to sign a minor league deal with Chicago a
few years ago but his family needed him here. He took a decent job at a sweat-free
garment factory and stayed home instead.”

Chance’s hazel eyes trailed off the paper and back to hers. “I’m waiting to hear the
sob of this story, aren’t I?”

If the prologue had had the least effect on him, it didn’t show on his blank face.
Cat wanted to smack the bored right out of his flat voice. Sure,
this
tale of woe was fabricated, but she doubted it was too different from the stories
Chance heard every day.

Instead, she clasped her hands on her laps and tried her best to sell her ire at Chance
as heartbreak for Junior’s alias. “Last year the company he worked for pulled out
of the DR to move to China. When the factory shut down, he was lucky enough to find
another job and make ends meet. Unfortunately, this factory is not of the sweat-free
variety. He’s making a fourth of what he did and on top of that, no benefits. Now
he realizes what a mistake it was to have turned down the minor league deal.”

“I’ll say.” Chance rubbed his chin and eyed her for several seconds until Cat broke
his eye contact. “I’m not buying it.”

“What do you mean?” She batted her eyes, confused.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

She was prepared for this. Chance might’ve thought she was a fool but Cat didn’t think
he was one. As prepared, she feigned hesitation. “There’s a slight health risk.”

His fake smile had turned genuinely smug. “I knew it. He’s injury-prone.”

“No, not at all.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not.” She blinked, holding her eyes shut for an extra second. “Okay. His physical
showed a very minor ACL issue from his factory work. The repetitive motion caused
a teeny bit of wear to the meniscus. That’s what scared other agents off a little.”

Chance frowned. “I don’t blame them. A hitter without an intact ACL is like a door
without a hinge. Or a rock climber with a broken rope. Or—”

“Come on, Chance. I’m not saying he’s a five-tool player anymore. I won’t deny that
he’s not going to be stealing forty bases at the major league level. But the kid’s
got a monster bat and a cannon arm from the outfield.”

Both were true, at least when Junior was a freshman at Lincoln State. She tried to
gauge Chance’s tentative face and continued with the sales pitch.

“Do you really think I’d waste your time and, more importantly, mine?”

Chance leaned back in his chair, fiddling with his fingers. “I guess not.”

He gave her another scrutinizing look. “Okay.”

“Okay … you’ll give him a shot?”

He pulled out his Blackberry and poked it with the stylus. “Okay, I’ll consider it.
I’m free today at four. Bring your boy in.”

“Great, we’ll be here at four o’clock.” She stood up. “One more thing.”

Chance raised an obnoxious eyebrow, as though he’d already done her a huge favor,
how dare she ask for another.

She played along with his phony benevolence, holding her breath hesitantly before
asking, “I know you and Paige are getting close but would you mind keeping this between
us?”

“Why?” The eyebrow was still raised, and Cat was finding it hard once again to restrain
herself from repositioning it on his face with the palm of her hand.

“I don’t want to risk this getting back to Roger Aiken. I’m on kind of a probationary
period with the Soldiers. They might not look too kindly on my helping a player get
an agent. To them, that’s kind of like giving a gazelle a set of fangs and claws.”

He considered for a moment before his lips stretched into an obliging smile. “I know
how teams can be. We’ll keep this between us.”

“Thank you.” She stopped at the doorway and turned around. “Chance?”

He tilted his head. “Hmm?”

Cat knew she should get out with the plan in motion but she’d never forgive herself
if she didn’t ask. “Have you spoken to Cristian Encarnación lately?”

“Cristian?” He looked off to the side as if contemplating it. “Not for a bit, why
do you ask?”

“He’s missing.”

“Missing?”

Parroting is a common liar’s trick. Supposedly it gives the fibber time to come up
with a story but in Chance’s case, it allowed him to feign a shocked gape that she
was sure he practiced in the mirror.

“That’s right. I went to
La Tambora
and he wasn’t there. I even talked to the owner and he told me he’d never heard of
him.”

“Is that all?” Chance laughed. It was a loud bellow that bounced off the small walls.
“I know the owner there. If Icky said that, it was true.”

“Icky?”

He silenced her with a light wave of his hand and a frivolous smile.

“Icaro Mendoza. He probably hadn’t heard of Cristian because he never takes the time
to learn busboys’ names. They have a high turnover rate there so he just calls them
all
Chamaco
.”

“Oh.” Cat couldn’t say much more without showing him her hand, but that didn’t explain
why Icky hadn’t put together that this
Chamaco
—slang for “kid”—had not only missed his lunch shift, but the morning meeting with
her.

Chance sighed and ran his hand through his wavy hair. “It’s my fault.”

She didn’t expect that. “What is? Cristian missing?”

“Truth is, I think he blamed me that the Dutch deal fell through when he was the one
who tanked it. He stunk the place up so bad, they wouldn’t have hired him to throw
hot dogs.” He shrugged and met her eyes. “I wouldn’t worry, though. He probably realized
that since his baseball career was over, it was time for him to get a real job. Busboys
don’t usually give two weeks’ notice. Not showing up is probably just his way of quitting.”

She searched his tan face for a few strained seconds and then resumed character with
a big, grateful smile. “Okay. Tonight, four o’clock?”

He returned the smile. “See you then.”

Cat ran her fingers through Junior’s hair, trying to give the unmoving locks a tousle.
She tugged at his polo shirt until it untucked from his jeans.

He frowned at her.

“I’m sorry, you’re just a little too well-coiffed.” She flipped down the passenger
seat visor so he could see himself in the mirror.

He gave himself a look and smoothed his hair. “Coiffed? What is that?”

“That’s my polite way of saying you’re a pretty boy.” She gave him a thorough once-over.
“We need Chance to think you’re a desperate local, not the spoiled heir to an All-Star.”

“Gee, tell me what you really think of me.”

She shrugged.

He leaned in toward her. “I think I liked it better when you were just calling me
old.”

“I don’t think that, but you have to admit you fit a lot better in Paige Aiken’s world
than Cristian Encarnación’s.”

He crossed his arms and turned to her, settling back into the parked convertible’s
seat. “You know, I’m doing you a pretty big favor here and I’m not feeling the love.”

She gave him a double-take. “There’s love.”

He leaned over the console and waggled his eyebrows. “And here I thought it was just
lust.”

Cat backed away, cleared her throat, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “We should
probably go in. He’s expecting us at four.” She didn’t wait for his response before
opening her door and hopping out.

Her heels crunched on the gravel. Junior caught up to her under the orange canopy
and held the glass door open.

No one was at the receptionist’s desk. She peered down the empty hallway before shrugging
at Junior.

“Guess we’ll just have a seat.”

Junior picked up the old issue of
Sports Illustrated
and whispered, “Goody. I can check up on my reading.” He pointed at the cover. “Look
at this, Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire, co-Sportsmen of the Year. Wait until all my
friends hear about this breaking news. How admirable.”

She shushed him, speaking very low to eliminate any possibility of being overheard.
“You’re supposed to be a meek hopeful, not a sarcastic ass, remember?”

Junior’s self-satisfied smile vanished when his eyes darted behind her. She turned
around just as Chance was walking up.

“We meet again, huh?”

She and Junior both rose to their feet.

“Chance Hayward, this is …” As her words trailed off, it dawned on her that in all
their forgery, they’d forgotten to give him an alias. She hadn’t been sure what Junior
had wanted to use and had been too embarrassed by their kiss to call him so she’d
just typed in a profile number on the player sheet.

“Uh …”

Junior widened his eyes at her as he stuck his hand out.

“Leon Guerrero.”

Upon hearing his attempt at a Spanish accent, Cat stifled a laugh. She covered her
gaffe by faking a coughing fit, covering her mouth and turning around to finish.

Junior was a first-generation American. His dad was a Dominican-born pitcher who had
played his entire career in the States. By the time he was a veteran in the league,
he spoke English with only a twinge of an accent. Junior’s intonation was that of
a Connecticut newscaster.

“It is nice to meet you, sir. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

Leon Guerrero, on the other hand, spoke like an inharmonious amalgam of
Scarface’s
Tony Montana and
Sesame Street’s
Count von Count. Cat tried not to cringe as she watched for Chance’s reaction, but
the agent extended his hand with no hint of suspicion.

“Come on back.”

As Cat and Junior took their seats, Chance sat on the front corner of his desk, placing
himself nearly eye level to Junior’s belt buckle. Cat fought to roll her eyes at his
pathetic attempt for a power grab against what was supposed to be an eager, impoverished
youth.

“So Leon, I’m curious, why you choose to make jeans for comparonas instead of going
into the minor league system and playing ball?”

“Yes, sir. It was my mother. She was ill and I needed to stay at home to help take
care of her.”

“That’s unusual. Most guys here would throw their mothers off the
Pico Duarte
for a chance to get close to
Las Grandes Ligas
.”

“Yes, sir. My family needed me.”

“How admirable.”

Cat gulped, hoping it was merely a coincidence that he used the same phrasing a very
American-sounding Junior had just used in the waiting room. Chance looked over at
her. He seemed to require her agreement, so she nodded vehemently.

“You’ve seen him hit?”

“I have. Junior’s got a lot of pop in his bat.”

“Junior?”

Every muscle in Cat’s back tensed up as she realized her blunder.

“Uh …”

She fumbled for a plausible excuse for her slip of the tongue. A hot flush crawled
up her neck to her cheeks; she prayed they weren’t turning a telltale shade of red.

“Leon Guerrero, Jr., sir.” Junior stepped in to save the day again. “My father was
Leon Guerrero, Sr., but he passed away.”

Cat’s shoulders dropped. She took a deep breath to release the tension in her spine.
Junior, on the other hand, looked as cool as a Coco Rico. It was a shame Junior wasn’t
still playing baseball. If he could hold his composure this well, he’d be an asset
at the plate during playoffs.

“I see. Where are you playing now?”

Cat silently chastised her galloping pulse. They’d gone over his fake profile twice
on the way over. Junior had this situation well in hand. He’d already shown that he
could lie with the best of them and Chance Hayward the star player on
Team Them
.

“I play outfield for
Los Diablos Locos
.”

Cat didn’t blink.
Los Diablos Locos
were a team sponsored by none other than
La Puerta del Infierno
in a local league,
La Liga Central Independiente de Béisbol
. It was risky, taking a chance that the agent wasn’t familiar with the team’s roster
or worse, had a contact on the team that’d reply “
¿Quien?
” when asked about Leon Guerrero. Junior had wanted to use the profile of an actual
player but to Cat, that was even iffier. Who was to say that Chance hadn’t already
met with the potential victim of their identity theft? Should Chance look into Leon
Guerrero’s fictional background with the factual team, they could claim he’d been
released or he was new to the team, and if things got really hairy, she could say
Leon made it up out of his own desperation.

Chance didn’t blink either. He kept his eyes locked on Junior’s. “They’re decent this
year. What’s your average?”

“I am hitting three-twenty right now off the bench.” He swallowed and added in his
meek accent, “But my slugging percentage is six oh one.”

“Uh-huh.” Chance looked over at her again. His eyes narrowed into hazel slits, like
an ump’s would just before he checked a Louisville Slugger for a cork inside.

“Leon, can I ask you to step outside? I’d like to talk to Cat alone for just a second.”

Cat gulped. This did not bode well.

Chance clicked the door behind him and took two long strides over to his desk, this
time opting for the chair over the desktop. He leaned forward and sat both hands on
the desk, staring across at her with unreadable, empty eyes. He didn’t say anything.

Cat stretched her toes out as far as she could in the narrow sandals. They were beginning
to sweat inside the synthetic leather. She took a deep breath and straightened her
back in the chair. It squeaked when she did so, and she was grateful for its interruption
in the silent office.

Chance shifted, too, scooting his chair back just enough to cross his foot over his
knee. He placed an elbow on the arm rest. His lips curled into a small smile. “You
want to tell me what’s going on here?”