The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(39)

“Charley, meet Fred Busey. Fred, this is Charley, one of my teammates and an old friend.”

Charley gives me a look that conveys moral indignation and deep, deep hurt. “And old friend, huh? So I guess last week meant squat?”

Fred, understanding that good-looking Charley feels I have thrown him over for Fred’s own rotund self, beams. I close my eyes briefly. “Charley and I had dinner last week,” I explain to Fred. Turning to Charley, I add, “Those clams were great, Charley. I had a nice time.”

“Nice time, is dat right. I getcha. Fine. No prob, Luce.” He gives Fred a disgruntled look, then tromps off to right field, where we put all the guys who can’t catch.

“So this is fun,” Fred says. “I haven’t been to a game in a long time. Maybe we can grab a drink afterward?”

I swallow. “Um…yeah,” I say. “Let’s see how, um, how long the game goes.”

“Sounds great. I’ll be cheering for you.” He winks, then waddles off with Corinne over to the bleachers. Ah. Good. Parker and Nicky are there, too—we’re playing Ethan’s team again.

I don’t see Ethan yet…he’s been late a couple of times recently, driving in from Providence, but I start at seeing International’s new pitcher. Doral-Anne Driscoll. Uh-oh.

In addition to being a loose-moraled, obscenity-spewing, nasty and not-always-clean bully, Doral-Anne was also the captain of Mackerly High’s softball team. The year we won States. I wasn’t on the team…my baseball talents were dormant till I started playing as an adult.

“Well, well, well,” Doral-Anne says, then spits. I square my shoulders. She can’t scare me anymore. I’m a grownup. A grown-up who bats .513.

“Hi, Doral-Anne. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Ethan Mirabelli invited me to come,” she says. “Saw him the other day. Said I wouldn’t mind playing again, and he said his team could use a good pitcher, so here I am.” She pulls a face, daring me to protest.

“Welcome,” I say. My mind is racing. Why would Ethan invite Doral-Anne? Surely he can’t be…interested…in her, of all people!

“Batter up!” calls Stuey Mitchell, our home plate ump. I take my bat, tap my cleats and go up to the plate.

Three pitches later, I’m out. Somewhat dazed, I slink back to the dugout.

“Way to go, D.A.” someone calls.

It’s Ethan, walking toward the field from the parking lot, tucking his International Foods T-shirt into his pants. I can’t help it, I know it’s juvenile, but heck! Ethan’s supposed to be my friend. He’s not supposed to cheer when I humiliate myself at bat. He must see my disgruntled expression, because he smiles. “Nice try, Lucy,” he adds.

Doral-Anne doesn’t seem to have lost her stuff in the years since high school. She retires us in order, and I can’t help but notice that Ethan and she have a laugh together back at the dugout.

Bemused, I get my glove and head for the mound.

Ethan’s up first…the privileges of ownership, when he’s around, anyway. Doral-Anne watches his ass quite intently as he walks to the batter’s box. Super.

My first pitch is a bit inside. Okay, okay, it’s a lot inside. Ethan jumps back, a swirl of dirt rising from his cleats. “Ball one,” Stuey calls.

“Control yourself, Lang,” Doral-Anne shouts, then spits in the dirt. God. Martha Stewart would just have to smother her with an eiderdown pillow, wouldn’t she?

I try to ignore Doral-Anne and catch the ball Carly Espinosa, our catcher, throws back. She gives me the sign for an outside pitch. I shake my head. She gives me another sign—fast ball down the middle. I nod and, launching into the odd little windmill windup of softball, I let the ball fly.

The pitch is wild; Ethan jerks back, but the ball bounces off his helmet.

“Jesus, Lang!” shouts Doral-Anne. “Is this how you always pitch?”

“Sorry, Ethan!” I call, ignoring Doral-Anne. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he answers. He tosses his bat gently to Carly’s son, who’s eight and serves as batboy, and then jogs to first.

International Foods scores three runs that inning. Clearly I don’t have my best stuff. Everyone hits me. Including the debutante princess, Doral-Anne, whose mother, legend has it, named her daughter after Dorals, her favorite brand of cigarette.

At some point later in the game, I manage to make it to first base on a weak little hit that’s fumbled by International Foods’ shortstop. Finally.

“Yay, Aunt Wucy!” calls my nephew. I glance over, then start. Fred Busey. Crikey, I’d forgotten all about him. I wave. He waves back, then smoothes his hand over his paint-enhanced hair. Parker says something, and they chuckle.

“Give ’em hell, Lucy!” my friend shouts.

“Go Bunny’s!” Fred seconds.

Though I’m not one hundred percent sure I want it publicly known that the man with the inked-in scalp is with me, my battered ego is still somewhat soothed. I contemplate the distance to second base. Take a subtle step in that direction. Another inch. Another. After all, I’ve been known to steal a base or (ahem!) a hundred and twenty-two! League record, ladies and gentlemen! And besides, that would really piss off dear Doral-Anne, who’s pitching far too well. If we’re going to have a chance, I simply must get in scoring position.