Be My Baby Tonight by Kasey Michaels Page A

nothing but
super highway and generous speed limits between Whitehall and
Philadelphia.
    So an hour. Hour and ten minutes, tops. That
was what Tim had promised her, assuring her that flying into the
local airport instead of Philadelphia International and taking care
of Margo wouldn’t be any problem. They would still get to the ball
park on time, in plenty of time.
    Unless there was an accident on the turnpike,
or a backup on the Schuylkill Expressway.
    Today, they had had both.
    So here they were, at the stadium, with a
seven-twelve start time, and it was already five-twenty-two.
    The manager probably had a legitimate
beef—but Tim’s late arrival time was only one small part of Sam’s
anger.
    Because, according to Sam, there had been
reporters milling around all day, driving him nuts, asking
questions about Tim’s absence.
    Why hadn’t he flown back on the team plane?
Did that hit from Sanchez do more damage than anyone was telling
them? Was it true Trehan was in a Pittsburgh hospital, checked in
under another name, and in some sort of coma? Hey, no, someone else
said it was a punctured lung, and they had found him unconscious in
his hotel room. Or was management thinking trade, because everyone
knew Tim became a free agent at the end of the season, and the
Phillies had so typically refused to talk contract yet. Was Trehan
boycotting the team?
    Suzanna had heard it all, both on the
all-sports station Tim had turned on in the car, and in the
hallways as they walked toward Sam’s office. Sam had then told them
all of it again... as little flecks of foam had gathered at the
corners of the manager’s mouth.
    Two reporters entered the hallway, and
Suzanna turned her face toward the wall, hoping neither of them
recognized her from the quick sprint she and Tim had made between
his car and the players’ entrance.
    “I say he’s pulling a fast one, faking an
injury,” one reporter said, adjusting the press pass hanging around
his skinny neck. Then he pulled out a cigarette, lit it. “Man, I
needed this. Let’s just stay here a while, okay?”
    “Why in hell would he do that?” the second
one asked.
    “Do what?”
    “Pay attention, at least to yourself, for
crying out loud. Fake an injury. Why would Trehan fake an injury?
And blow that damn smoke somewhere else, okay?”
    “I’ll tell you why. It’s simple. Sit out a
few games, show management how much they’d miss him if he goes.
When are they going to wise up upstairs? Sign the man.”
    “The way I hear it, Moore wants over a
hundred million for six years,” the second reporter said.
    Suzanna sort of choked, coughed, and put one
arm against the wall, bracing herself, pretty sure anyone who
looked could now see the white all around the irises of her eyes.
    “Chicken feed, Alex. Look at the Rangers,
throwing down more than twice that for a ten-year deal.”
    “Yeah, but what happened in Texas is never
going to happen again. Damn sure not here in Philly. Hell, they let
Shilling get away. You could damn near field a team of All-Stars
with ex-Phillies who are still out there, playing. He’s gone, I’m
telling you. If they don’t cough up the bucks, Trehan’s gone at the
end of the season. Off to greener pastures.”
    “Unless the curse gets him first,” the guy
named Alex said, and Suzanna perked up her ears once more. The
curse? Hadn’t that kid in Pittsburgh—Joey, right?—said something
about a curse?
    “Right, there’s always that. So is Moore
playing games? Or is Trehan really hurt? He didn’t look hurt, Herb
told me, and he saw him walking into the clubhouse with some hot
babe on his arm.”
    “They don’t put a sling around a concussion,”
the other reporter said. “And maybe his ribs are taped. I’m telling
you, something happened out there in Pittsburgh. Something’s going
on. Why else would Moore have called a press conference for after
the game?”
    Suzanna was beginning to feel very
conspicuous, all alone in this hallway with the