Clutch Hit: Greenliner, #3

By Faith O'Shea

Alicia Nilsson, the Vice President in charge of Player Development for the Boston Greenliners, would do just about anything to see her team win the World Series. And she'd proven it. She had also proven, quite possibly, that she was crazy. But when she bumped into a Cuban player at a bar in Cancun, what else could she do? He was the third baseman she'd been looking for and he came with a strong bat to boot.

Mateo Alvarez couldn't believe his luck, or how far a woman would go to provide for her team's future. He chalked it up to some pretty strong existential winds, the kind you don't mess with.

At least he wasn't willing to.

Could he convince Alicia that she was the sky he took flight in and his glove and bat might be clutch, but they weren't the only things she needed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faith O'Shea
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733571265

Book preview

CLUTCH HIT

Alicia Nilsson, the Vice President in charge of Player Development for the Boston Greenliners, would do just about anything to see her team win the World Series. And she’d proven it. She had also proven, quite possibly, that she was crazy. But when she bumped into a Cuban player at a bar in Cancun, what else could she do? He was the third baseman she’d been looking for and he came with a strong bat to boot.

Mateo Alvarez couldn’t believe his luck, or how far a woman would go to provide for her team’s future. He chalked it up to some pretty strong existential winds, the kind you don’t mess with.

At least he wasn’t willing to.

Could he convince Alicia that she was the sky he took flight in and his glove and bat might be clutch, but they weren’t the only things she needed?

CLUTCH HIT

FAITH O’SHEA

Copyright

Copyright 2019 Sue Campbell/Faith O’Shea

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in all form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known of hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in an information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author, Sue Campbell writing as Faith O’Shea at [e-mail]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Jaycee DeLorenzo at Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

Formatted by Woven Red Author Services, www.wovenRed.ca

Clutch Hit/Sue Campbell writing as Faith O’Shea- 1st edition

Copyright eBook: 978-1-7335712-6-5

Copyright Print: 978-1-7335712-7-2

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my editor, Amy from Blue Otter Editing, for her expertise. She has become a valued partner in my writing life and I don’t know what I’d do without her.

Jaycee DeLorenzo form Sweet ̍N Spicy Designs has done it again. I want to thank her for her patience working with me on my covers.

I’d also like to thank Joan Frantschuk, from Woven Red, who not only formats my work for eBook and print but who has become a valued resource.

And of course, I’d like to say thanks to my family. Jeff, Kait, Juan, Justin, Kathryn, Jaiden, Jakob, Jon-Christopher, Dominic and Liam. They surround me with the kind of love necessary for creating novels that touch the heart.

And it might be time to say thank you to my Dad for introducing me to baseball. I’ve watched our home team for over fifty years. There’s been some ups and downs, some highs and lows, but it’s always been summertime entertainment.

And to all who read my books, I thank you for taking time out of your life, to journey with me.

CHAPTER ONE

Alicia Nilsson approached the Calipari Sports Complex, the knot in her stomach tightening with every step. It was the first time in the two years she’d held the job as senior vice-president of Major and Minor League Operations for the Boston Greenliners that she felt this kind of dread. She usually relished the interaction she had with the men she’d drafted, traded for, or farmed in their minor league system. When she’d taken the job, a rise up the front-office ladder that had her as only the fourth woman who’d risen that high in the ranks of Major League Baseball, she couldn’t wait to put her well-defined plan into action. Dan DeLorenzo, her boss and president in charge of Baseball Operations, had given her the green light to create a manual that spelled out exactly what it meant to be a Greenliner. From clubhouse behavior to how to wear the uniform to rules about facial hair, she’d defined what administration expected from their team members.

The expectations, no longer ambiguous, were clearly stated and she hadn’t stopped there. She culled the scouts until she had the best, and she gave them quantitative measures for what she wanted from them— specifics on strengths, weaknesses, stats, family, attitude, any and all information they could gather about the person in question. And she insisted each player be treated as if he were a precious investment.

Because he was.

She’d done her part, objectively evaluating each of their prospects, discussing their skills and talents and what she thought they’d bring to the team with the managers. She’d had individual sit-downs with each of them, wanting to get to know who they were and how they approached life. She challenged the professionals in the big leagues to be better, and she outlined ways they could achieve those goals. What had surprised most of her critics was that they had all listened. What the naysayers had missed in the gender equation was that she was good at her job.

She’d been talking baseball since she’d been a toddler at her father’s knee, interned with the team in high school, and when she’d graduated from college with a degree in sports management, she was hired as Dan’s assistant. From that moment on, she’d made a point of learning every player’s name, from every league, minor to major, every stat, where the men came from, how they got where they were, 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 to escape.

There was concern in her voice when she’d asked, How did you get here?

She’d sensed his body stiffening, as if she were a threat to his well-being.

A fishing boat.

His eyes kept wandering to the doorway as if he were expecting someone, or maybe he’d been planning his exit strategy. She still wasn’t sure which.

When? Recently?

His eyes had narrowed at her inquisition.

This morning.

He’d slid off his stool and took some rumpled bills from his pocket to place on the bar.

I must go.

She’d put a hand on his arm. The sizzle that came was mind numbing.

Where? Where are you staying?

She hadn’t seen the duffel he had with him until he picked it up and shouldered it.

I do not know yet.

No wanting to let him go, she asked, What are you doing here?

I am a ball player and I must find a way to get to America.

All she’d heard was ball player. She’d whisked him away to her hotel room, all thoughts about physical satisfaction receding into the mist.

She’d sat him right down, pulled his whole history out through a series of questions.

When he’d told her he played third base, she’d felt the hairs on her neck rise in attention.

He’d played for the Camagüey Alfareros, one of the provincial teams, and he’d seen some action on the national team, had traveled to Rotterdam and Canada with it.

She’d known only the best were given that prerogative.

When she’d asked why he left, he’d told her he was tired of playing for no more than blood, sweat, and the glory of the state.

Expecting the worst, she held her breath after she asked if there were any repercussions that came out of the exodus. She let it out when he’d told her he’d landed safely, without any problems. Only later did she find out he’d come with little money and no real strategy on how to get to America.

During the many conversations that followed, she’d asked what he would have done if she hadn’t come along. He had no answer other than he’d waited for a mystical solution. He’d quoted something written by Rumi, about his soul needing to be somewhere else and he intended to end up there.

She’d been stunned by his reply. The man read Rumi. She didn’t know much about him other than he was a poet, centuries back. She’d shaken her head at his faith in the impossible, thought the sentiment might have been wishful thinking, if it hadn’t worked.

It made her wonder if her presence had been fated? She’d almost chosen Cozumel as her starting point. Almost hadn’t gone, once Casey had told her she was needed in Boston.

Unwilling to dwell on it, putting it down to coincidence, she’d gone right to work.

It had taken days to do her vetting, and when she was finally convinced that he might be the third baseman she’d been looking for, she’d called an agent she knew and got the official ball rolling. It was Keith Zamoutto who’d ultimately helped Mateo apply for a visa and began negotiating a contract with a major league team. Her major league team.

It had taken months to get him here, along with a few sacrifices. She’d put the organization before her own personal integrity.

Now she had to live with it.

Enrique dos Santos’s voice brought her back to the present. He was the new shortstop they’d acquired from the Mets and he was slapping Mateo on the back, obviously pleased with something. Enrique had been a risk. Was a risk. He was known for his partying, disrespect for the utility role, and he’d gotten lazy over the last year. After reviewing reams of information and getting positive feedback from Reid Jackson, their ace and Rique’s brother-in-law, she’d decided all the shortstop needed was playing time. They could give him that. His stale performance spelled tradeable and she’d suggested they jump on it. She didn’t want to take the chance his stock would go back up, so she insisted Dan get right to work negotiating the trade. The deal was ironed out just over a week ago, in time for spring training.

The other man out on the field, Sebastian Layden, had been languishing in the minors, his stats compelling them to move him up, but their man filling the position was still winning Golden Gloves. When Atticus Carleton, their veteran left fielder, blew out his knee, there was no choice but to invite Seb to Sanford for spring training and possibly a permanent placement on their roster. She had no doubt he’d do the job. There was just one tiny little problem. He’d dumped her best friend right before college. She’d have to spend time with him so they could come up with a development plan and she didn’t know how Casey would take that. The only reason he wasn’t completely on her shit list was because he’d done it right. He’d never cheated on her, but when he’d felt he needed some space, he’d taken it. Casey had been singing Going to the Chapel, while he’d been humming the tune Goodbye to You. It wasn’t his fault she had higher hopes for their relationship than he had. What he’d left behind was a broken heart and…

Hey, Allie. What’s up?

She looked up to see Seb alone and walking toward her, a smile on his face. Rique, who was from Brazil, the dark features giving him an international flair, was concentrating on something Mateo was saying. With bat in hand and wearing a serious expression, the Cuban looked to be showing Rique a different way to hold it. From what she was seeing, her belief that he could be a leader in that aspect of the game was confirmed. He had it all.

The tongues of guilt and regret tickled her fancy. The attraction was still there, the one she’d almost acted on, would have acted on had he not mentioned he was a ball player. Her body was recommending she pick up where she’d left off, but he was way off-limits now. And it wasn’t only because he was a member of the team and she had to keep her hands to herself. She’d found out a long time ago, baseball players might be her life, but only in the professional arena. She’d wasted a year on one in her last year of college, a guy in the minor leagues. Met him when she’d been cycling through the marketing department for the Greenies. They’d hooked up, spent time together when they could. She didn’t know until too late he was hooking up with other women when she wasn’t around. Every member of the team knew, and the pitying looks they gave her in the aftermath were humiliating. She’d sworn never again.

And she’d meant it. It didn’t matter at all that Mateo Arteaga Alvarez made her knees weak.

When she noticed him walking toward her, Rique in tow, she stiffened.

Alicia, it is good to see you.

It was his voice that tickled her now, right into breathlessness. She unconsciously thumbed the finger where his ring had sat as if she missed its weight.

A bittersweet crest of emotion filled hers. Mateo. How are you doing?

I am good, although I would be better if I was out of the hotel. It is lonely.

She felt more than a tad of regret she hadn’t gotten to housing sooner, like before he’d arrived. She’d certainly had enough time to have something ready and waiting. It had only been in the last couple of days that she’d gone on the hunt and it hadn’t taken her long to find what she’d been looking for. It was within walking distance of Harborside Field and she thought it would be a good way for him to learn the neighborhood. She’d filled out the application earlier this morning, and the rental agent told her she’d be in touch as soon as she went over the paperwork with the owners. It was ready for occupancy so she was assured he could move in as soon as the lease was signed.

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long but we’re close. I’m hoping by tomorrow.

I couldn’t have stayed with you?

Cutting her eyes to the both Seb and Rique who’d heard the question, she felt another strand of anxiety coil in her gut. They were now looking at her for an answer. She’d already told Mateo why when he’d asked upon his arrival in Boston.

You know the answer to that. And from what I’ve heard, the guys are keeping you busy.

She nodded to the two men who were listening intently to their conversation.

Mateo asked, as if pleased. You know this?

She flicked her eyes from one to the other to the other. Leo told Dan, who told me.

Dan was keeping her up to date on all the latest news concerning the Cuban. She wished he’d stop.

Seb chortled. She keeps track of all her boys.

She arched her eyebrows in dismay. "I’d prefer to think of you as men. Mature, competent, driven. I’m considering listing grow up as one of your short-term goals."

He laughed good-naturedly and said, Maybe you should make it a long-term goal instead.

With that, he wandered away, moving in the direction of the cooler. It would be stocked with Gatorade and water so they could stay hydrated. From the sweat circling their underarms, they’d been worked hard.

Rique said, I took him to my place for supper last night. Fifi made sure we were well fed.

Her brow wrinkled. For some reason she didn’t like the fact that he’d already had dinner with another female.

Fifi?

Mateo corrected, Her name is Fiona.

Rique explained, She’s the dog walker and house sitter. I guess you could say she’s becoming a friend.

Alicia said in exaggerated fashion, A friend, huh?

Yeah, a friend. She’s keeping me in line.

Mateo suggested, I think he likes her, but he won’t admit it.

I admit I like her. But that’s where it ends. She knows it, I know it, now you know it.

He kicked the turf and walked away, as if there was no more to say.

Mateo said with a smile, He’s lying. It will be interesting to see where it goes between them.

She couldn’t imagine Rique settling down even though it would be good for the team. The relief that came was knowing Fifi…Fiona was in Rique’s sights, not Mateo’s.

That thought made her uncomfortable.

Leo called out, Okay, you bums, break is over. Let’s see some sprints. Three times around the field.

Mateo flicked her a smile as he backed up, keeping her in his sights until he began to jog away. The three men were running together, in harmony, their strides evenly matched.

She felt a flicker of pride in a job well done. She’d brought them all here, to this place, with the hopes that they would be the anchors the Greenliners needed to claim that ring. Not the brass one, but the one that proclaimed they were the best to the world. She could hear the pounding pulse of the song We Are the Champions, reverberating in her head.

Leo came over to where she stood as the men ran their laps.

I think you might have hit the jackpot here, Allie. Their chemistry is off the charts. I’ve started calling them the triumvirate. Mattie’s helping Rique with batting, Seb’s keeping them laughing, and Rique’s been quite hospitable, taking Mattie under his wing. And I’m quite impressed with our new shortstop’s work ethic. I think you were right about him. All he needed was play time.

And Mateo?

He’s a natural-born third baseman, but we’ll get more out of him than we thought. He’s going to be one hell of a powerhouse hitter.

He’s getting comfortable here?

Still serious but I’m beginning to think that’s just his nature. Seb’s the only one who’s gotten him to crack a smile.

I’d love to sit down with you before I meet with them. I want your feedback before I get to the nuts and bolts of their individual development plans.

Email a couple of times that work for you. I’ll arrange my schedule accordingly.

Thanks, Leo.

As Leo trotted away, her eyes were drawn to Mateo’s form as he ran around the outfield, now a few strides ahead of Seb and Rique. She was glad she’d found him when she did, glad she’d been able to get him here for the start of the season, and she was glad he was making friends. There were still some concerns, and one very major problem but she wasn’t going to worry about it today. But when she glanced over one more time before leaving, he was smiling at her. His eyes were bright, his cheeks crimson from exertion, an unruly wave pasted against his forehead. He was bathed in sweat.

Okay maybe there was more than one major problem, the one that had her marry the man.

She wanted to kiss those cheeks, drown in those eyes and share that sweat. She gulped back the desire and retreated.

CHAPTER TWO

Mateo Alvarez watched Alicia leave the field as he came around the circumference of the path, he’d set for himself. It was the first he’d seen of her since they’d disembarked from the plane that had taken him from Brazil to Boston, the country where he’d been counting down the days until his visa was approved. Keith Zamoutto, his agent, had been waiting at end of the concourse, and had whisked him to the hotel where he was now in residence.

He still didn’t understand why she’d turned down his request to stay with her. She’d given him a variety of reasons, but none made much sense. She’d told him that she didn’t have room, that it would look odd, but more importantly, she couldn’t set precedent. Didn’t her job include helping the new recruits settle in? And the thing about setting a precedent was laughable, from his point of view. He was sure she’d broken that in bigger and better ways than anyone would guess. It should have irked him that he’d gone along, but there was something about her that drew him in. Add that to some universal hand’s intervention in the pairing and it couldn’t be ignored. She’d become the river flowing through him and he finally understood what Rumi had meant when he said lovers didn’t meet, they resided in each other for all of time. It had to be that. They hadn’t spent enough time together since meeting in that bar in Cancun last October to grow this feeling. It had taken less than a week for her to work out all the arrangements for his transfer of talents from Cuba to America, from hiring Keith to getting his contract negotiated. He was now owned by the Boston Greenliners, one of the National League teams in Major League Baseball. It still felt surreal. Not only would he be competing against the best in the sport, but he’d be earning money doing it. And that was only one small difference between here and there. Here there’d be no shortage of audio or visual electronics, no gaping holes in the stadium’s roof or ramshackle seats, and no lack of a livelihood. The stadium where he’d be playing home games was brand- new, the locker room fit for a king, and he’d be earning a huge paycheck, in addition to a small percentage from the sale of his merchandise. He might not be playing for the celebrated socialist sports machine any longer, but he’d eat well. That he had to defect, leaving behind his citizenship, hadn’t made the news. It was no longer a story. It was the wave of Cubans who’d come before that had stolen the spotlight with some grizzly tales about how they’d gotten here. He’d learned well from them and had slipped quietly away in the dead of night with a friend and trusted ship captain to arrive safely on Mexican shores. He hadn’t even been a blip on the radar.

The one thing that was the same? Baseball was a fixture in both cultures. Now he just had to prove he had what it took to play here.

Seb’s laugh finally caught up with him.

Do you always have to show us up?

Mateo slowed down, coming to the end of the three laps.

Sorry. I need to prove I am worth the money they are paying me.

You are so ready to play here it’s crazy. I don’t understand why they think you need handling. You can speak English and you have a burning desire to be the best. You don’t need much else.

Rique, out of breath, asked, Is Alicia hiring someone to help you navigate the ropes?

What kind of ropes?

Rique was bent at the waist, his hands on his thighs.

Income taxes. That was a big one for me. Make sure you have an accountant. American laws are very strict when it comes to paying your fair share. And learning to drive here. There are a lot more traffic laws here than in Rio.

Seb nodded at that but added, And the fans. They can be obnoxious. Doesn’t matter you’re starting at ground zero, you’ll have a base in no time with the way you hit. They’ll be hounding you to sign just about everything from your number thirteen shirts to your balls, and I don’t mean baseballs.

The number he’d chosen to wear had a significance, but he wasn’t sharing what it was. Not yet.

What he did share was his aversion to what Seb was suggesting. The women are that forward? I thought I left that behind with my Alfareros shirt.

Rique said with a labored breath, Too bad you didn’t leave your hat behind. That violation could have earned you a couple thousand more laps.

Mateo had made the mistake of wearing his Cuban team’s baseball hat to his first meeting with Leo. Wearing an opposing team jersey had gotten Rique a tougher workout than usual and he’d wasted no time pointing out Mateo’s mistake.

Repeating the words Leo had spoken after he whipped it off, Mateo said dryly, I didn’t bring an attitude.

I’m exorcising that as we speak.

If the shortness of breath and sweat were any indication, he was telling the truth.

Leo approached them, pointing to the paddle boards, and the drills began again in earnest and lasted until late afternoon. They were all wrung out, but Rique seemed to be the one most out of shape. He was limping as they returned to the van for the short ride to Harborside, the field where the Greenliner’s played.

As they were pulling up to the steel building, he heard the peal of a siren that jarred and Leo’s bark. What the fuck?

They all streamed out, Leo hurrying ahead, asking questions as he followed the EMTs into the passageway that led to the offices.

Someone was pacing furiously outside Farina’s office. Mateo knew whose it was because he’d met the team manager just yesterday for the first time, had sat in that very room, Farina welcoming him to the city, asking him if he had any concerns, upbeat about the team Alicia had helped assemble. He’d been looking forward to a winning season. Now… Mateo was as unsure as any of them as to what it mean if he was no longer around.

The tension was thick, the air filled with anxiety, and he half-expected to smell the pungent aroma of what he’d come to know as death. The foul odor had permeated the house when his grandfather had died, and it took days to bleach it out. The cleansing had also wiped out all other familiar scents that reminded him of the old man, the fruity aftershave they’d bought on the black market, stale cigar smoke, and his salt-tinged hair. His grandfather had been the only man in his life and the death had felled him. It was Uriel Arteaga who’d introduced him