A Fall Classic

Owen Murray was the loneliest man in the clubhouse and had been for five years. His locker was a battered mess. He'd refused to allow it to be repainted. His clothes hung in launderer's bags on the door, untouched since he'd returned from the showers. His teammates, his friends, were scattered throughout the crowded space or huddled in their own lockers. Nobody strayed near. Nobody got close. It was understood that it'd be like this when the game ended. They knew he'd stand there and take what they wanted to avoid, most of them anyway, only because to deny the press was to push them on someone else.

But this was his least favorite part of baseball.

He could hear them outside. Bustling. Talking. A thousand muted questions thrown at the security and managers outside the door and a flicker of camera flashes visible beneath it. Knowing they were out there ruined everything about the game for Owen and weighed on him like the long hours and the strain of crouching at that plate every day.

But this was part of it, he told himself. This was the price he had to pay. For the guys around him, the men who made up the Giants, the price was in the training. They labored to labor, toiled to get through a batting practice or drills. Owen didn't take joy in them, mind, but he needed them. He needed that grind. It was part of what made him tick and why he was always the first one there, last one out. It was why he put hours a day in where others didn't. And it was why he had went from a dirt-field in Saul, Iowa to San Francisco.

But the price wasn't the work. The work was something he loved and needed. It didn't give him pleasure, it settled him. It kept him from getting wound up too tight and exploding on anyone or anything that brushed him the wrong way. The price, for Owen, was the cameras and microphones. The fame and press.

He escaped them, at least for now, in the showers. Hot water ran along his body, followed the deep cuts where planed muscles stood. He looked at himself and saw the broad shoulders and rangy hips, big hands and long fingers. There were also the bruises, deep and shallow, that dotted his chest and arms and thighs. Shins were red and raw, a consequence of slides and a few unfortunate opponents who had managed to miss his gear and spike his skin. It always looked worse than it was.

That was why he'd always great lengths to make sure the press never caught him before he was dressed. For some of the guys it was a non-issue. For Owen it was everything. A part of this game was knowing where to dig a spike on a slide or where to apply a rough tag. He hid his wounds so nobody knew were to get him and because he didn't want anyone to see him vulnerable.

The showers were usually off limit. Outside, beyond the door, he could hear the press in the clubhouse. They'd gotten him timed by now. They'd be expecting him.

He reached for a towel and froze.

She was staring at him. Her eyes cutting a path along his body, over corded muscles that stood without bulk along his masculine frame. Owen abruptly dragged the towel over himself, attempting to cover the lower half of his body. It was a scramble to get the terry cloth into place, to conceal the worst of his wounds from her keen gaze. That had been the start, not his body. A modesty born of pride, revealed should she have chosen to see more than his bronzed skin in the midst of the shower.

Amongst the press, she was the very worst. In a way it didn't surprise him she would ambush him here, eventually push until he lost it. Every game, home or away, she was the first to push her recorder into his face while he stood blinded by the lights from the cameras. Her questions were typical, never original, and his rubber answers had always come without conviction or care.

But she was after him. Unrelenting. Each and every attempt he made to shame her off or distract her had only brought her earlier, happier, more focused the following game. He found himself almost admiring her for it. The near-gray of his eyes conflicted as they leveled their scrutiny along the shape of her.

"You should be with the others." He said. It was nearly a growl. The rumble of it ran through him as he reached, splayed a big hand on the tile and waited for her to lift her voice so he could, like he did so frequently, stomp all over her hopes and mechanical ambitions.

( This thread is closed. )

“Oohh, here she comes, Jessica fuckin’ Rabbit...”

“Hey, Jessie baby, you’re lookin’ good today, girl…”

“What’s Red trynna do, knock somebody’s eye out with those things?”

A short, sharp inhale of irritation through the nose. The slight stiffening of shoulders. A few fingers of one hand beginning to curl in agitation. Hairline cracks in an otherwise flawless facade of poise and control, as the young journalist sashayed through the frenetic clubhouse an hour after the Giants had pulled off another win.

The catcalls and the profanity were nothing new. Since day one of working for the San Francisco Chronicle, she’d been assaulted with crude wisecracks from a slew of foul-mouthed male sports writers, management, and security. The increasingly obnoxious nickname – Jessica fuckin’ Rabbit – however, was a fairly recent addition to the host of ludicrous remarks thrown her way. Salacious sobriquet had been designated during spring training several months earlier, when she’d made the mistake of straying from her usual work attire of baseball caps and baggy pants. It had been too hot for much more than a breathable cotton minidress the day she’d been assigned to interview a few of the rookies, and her peers whistled as those buxom curves and long, deep red tresses were finally put on full display. Since then, hardly anyone referred to the twenty-four year old ingénue by her real name, Samantha Howard. It was ‘Jessie baby’ or ‘Jessica’ or ‘Miss Rabbit’, in addition to, ‘Red,’ ‘Girly,’ or ‘Honey,’ that last one usually spat with genuine vitriol.

Over a year of working almost exclusively with older, crass men, Samantha had learned to keep her cool. A wry smile was plastered on her face, as if their comments amused her. She moved quickly through the throng, realizing that maybe today, she was asking for them to jab at her. A fire engine red blazer, with short, capped sleeves hugged that voluptuous frame as if it had been tailored for her. A low, rounded neckline did little to hide generous globes and an expanse of firm peaches and cream skin. Matching pencil skirt hit just above the knee, but the foxy looking heels at her feet only drew more attention to those shapely exposed calves.

She always dressed up on game days. Occasionally, sticking out from the crowd meant some of the players would actually respond to more than just the questions her editor had assigned her, and she could add in a few original queries of her own. Today, the red suit had worked its magic beautifully: Madison Bumgarner had stopped for a full sixty seconds to drawl into her tape recorder, and his quotes about pitching against the Sox were downright heartfelt. Now Samantha was hoping to push her luck even further. Crystal blue eyes scanned the room again and again, but no sign of her target appeared. Damn him, she thought, pushing one unruly wave out of her face before slipping out the door. He’s later than ever.

Owen Murray downright despised her. The superstar catcher had no interest in building a relationship with the press, it was true. But those withering gazes seemed to be especially reserved for Samantha alone. She regularly chased him from the locker room to the field to the clubhouse to the parking lot, hell-bent on getting a formal interview. He shut her down every single time, with increasing exasperation and a cold, steely appraisal of her form. Owen’s constant dismissal only fueled her stubborn nature, ignited her competitive edge, and made her work that much harder to wear him down. His story, the few bits and pieces she’d gathered, was impressive. A young, hard working man who climbed his way to the top with only talent and not much else to aid him. He had become the master of the field, the strong but mostly silent leader, speaking only when necessary. She never saw him paling around with his teammates, never heard him crack a joke, and it was obvious he wasn't the partying kind. As far as Samantha could tell, Owen was respected, if not actually liked.

Maybe that’s because he’s downright terrifying when he’s angry, she mused, while walking around to the front entrance of the locker room. She’d experienced plenty of his anger already, simply by showing up at random with her press pass dangling from her neck and a large, slightly antagonistic smile lighting up her face. As with her colleagues, Samantha would pretend Owen’s attitude was delightful, that it was the exact reaction she was looking for every time he swore and spat and raged.

It was time to piss Owen Murray off again. She knew he wouldn’t be happy if she walked in on him as he finished changing into clean street clothes, knew he’d look at her with a sneer before she could even open her mouth to speak. But maybe, just maybe, she could finally chat with him in private, pitch her story idea, and change his mind. Go for it, she told herself, smoothing her palms over the sides of that suit jacket before taking a deep breath and heading inside.

The room smelled of sweat and grass, of deodorant and cologne. By this time only a few players remained, in various states of undress, laughing raucously over a joke Samantha couldn’t quite understand over the din. Reporters walked in and out of this area all the time, and female journalists were begrudgingly entitled locker room access as well. A couple of men grinned wolfishly as the redheaded beauty walked by, but she only flashed a small, polite smile and asked where their absent teammate might be. No one knew, but would she like to stay and talk with them instead?

Keep your eye on the prize, Samantha reminded herself, before shaking her head and waving goodbye. He had to be around here somewhere. Undaunted, she walked over to the secluded showers, inhaling the clean, soapy smells that wafted in the warm, steamy air.

And that’s when she saw him. Owen Murray, in the flesh. Completely naked, droplets of water clinging to tight sinews and long, lean muscles. Blue-green bruises and one particularly nasty looking red scrape somehow adding to his powerful frame, rather than detracting from it. Samantha could feel a hot flush creeping up her pale throat as he began to turn and give her a full-frontal view of his wet, nude build. Leave. Now. Just leave. He’s going to blow up if he sees you. Go. This wasn’t what she’d intended. He was going to think she was some peeping fan girl, rather than a serious writer looking for a big story. If she ever wanted his time, she’d flee before he realized she was there. But her feet stayed planted into the hard cement floor, and those large eyes couldn’t stop staring at his freshly showered, athletic body.

He spotted her a moment later, and Samantha found herself swallowing hard when he hastily tied a towel around his slim waist. It was too late to run, and with every second that passed, too late to apologize, to explain. So she stood there, dumbly, willing her face to return to its normal color.

"You should be with the others." She’d crossed the line. He sounded ready to explode. That giant hand slapping the tile made her jump, slightly. Teeth began to chew nervously on one side of her lower lip, but then she thought the better of it and stopped. Now she raised her head to stare back up at him, defiantly. She wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t allow him to scare her. Not this time.

“Funny, I came to say the exact same thing to you.” The silky-smoothness of that feminine voice surprised her. She was getting better at appearing unshaken. “You should have come outside and said a little something, if only for five minutes. Do you know what some of my colleagues are starting to say about you?” She knew full well he didn’t give a damn what anyone said, but she kept speaking, confidence growing. “You’re getting compared to Bonds. The word ‘diva’ is being thrown around.” It was true. Bradley Frank, a pompous, troublemaking veteran of the sports writing world was incensed that the Giants’ leading catcher had snubbed him for an interview a week prior. Just minutes ago, Bradley had called Owen a ‘scowling prima donna, an ungrateful hick bastard' before suggesting to Samantha that she stop trying to ‘bat those pretty eyes at him so damn much,’ and wouldn’t she ‘be a doll and fetch him another beer?’ She’d sweetly agreed, before strutting out of the clubhouse and looking for Owen herself.

And now she sat on a nearby bench, crossing one leg over the other, pausing for a moment before adding: “And we both know once that word gets tossed into the mix, other, more dangerous words will follow.” Samantha shot him a look, knowing she didn’t have to actually utter the phrase ‘human growth hormone’ for Owen to get her drift.

“You could turn that all around, and very easily,” she pressed on, before he could as much as reply. “Give me an interview. Tell me your story. Let me show everyone what goes on inside that head of yours.”

Bonds. She mentioned Bonds. The name alone was enough to bring bile up from his belly, caustic and acidic as it teased its way into his throat and ruin whatever was left of the game's glow. Barry Bonds was one of the reasons that he did not want to be a Giant anymore. The man had taken something pure and fouled it, ruined it, and his actions afterward had taken the joy of success from every professional hitter. There wasn't an untruth in what she spoke and he resented her for it. The cold truth was that his calloused indifference to the press had already soured him to the media, lent his name to the many other cantankerous talents that denied the boys with the locker-room badges the clips and conversations that comprised their way of living.

Milton Bradley.

B.J. Upton.

Barry Bonds.

Owen felt his heart chill as he watched her and felt the last vestiges of his patience evaporating. All at once it took every ounce of restraint he had left to keep from exploding at her, from bellowing and cursing and belittling. Inside every woman, confident and stubborn or otherwise, there was a little girl. And he had a way of breaking people down. Grinding on them, pounding on them, until the child came out and the tears started. The savage intensity that seemed to have such a home on the diamond didn't simply go away, it followed him. It -was- him. And so it was hard, frightfully hard, to keep from giving her what she really wanted.

What all the press wanted.

They wanted to tear him down. They wanted him to break. When it came to success in the Major Leagues there were two particular schools of thought. You either gave the press what they wanted and enjoyed the fame they poured on you or you turned away from it. Became a pariah.

He cut his eyes over her body, seeing but not seeing the gentle curves and lean lines. When it came to Samantha Howard, or any journalist, Owen had kept it professional. Beauty didn't have much an effect on him. He was a one woman man, the kind that clung so ferociously and properly to monogamy that women often knew better than to approach. The ones that didn't learned. And so, while Samantha Howard was the kind of bombshell even the most disciplined eye had a habit of slicing over with the primal, masculine edge of want..

His did not.

The rumble of her name off his lips was crisp, efficiently offered, and despite the "oh shucks" accent that threatened to soften his words he easily kept them as bone-chillingly collected as any.

"Miss Howard, get the hell out of my showers." He said.

But it translated differently.

Go fuck yourself. It said. Or I will fillet you and send you out of here in tears infront of everyone.

Anger was pumping through him, surging through his veins until they stood along his arms, shoulders, and from his neck with pronounced and ferocious intent. He didn't need bulk to look strong. The squared breadth of his shoulders and the great size of his hands communicated it clearly, more so as they dragged the towel from his hips and bared himself to her once again. A lewd display, an ugly one, too. That body, a ruin of bruises and welts, ugly marks and abrasions from game after game behind the plate.

Bonds, she'd said.

Bonds had never turned an unassisted triple play at home, standing there while Kevin Youkilis and Victor Martinez took their turns driving him onto his back in the dirt and chalk. Barry Bonds had never broke fingers bare-handing foul-tips in order to throw a runner out. And Barry Bonds certainly didn't know how to sprint the bases after a homerun, head down, ignoring the crowd and that selfish little part of yourself that wanted to stare after it as it cleared the wall and went out into the cove for the Kayaks.

Barry Bonds had played Baseball like it was a game, a show. He'd been Primetime on the field and miserable off of it. To Owen; baseball was a war. Every game, every at-bat, every play was meant to get yourself one inch closer to winning. Every strike he framed, every call he argued, every time he ripped his old mask off his face and clipped his ear with the band so that he had to fight through flares of red-hot pain and the glare of the lights to find the ball, Owen claimed those moments with a quiet, boiling rage.

The inside of his thighs, bare and bound in corded muscle, showed clear indentations of spikes. Places where players, angry about some time before when he'd dropped a knee on their shoulder or swung his glove down in a brutal clip along the back of their head as they reached for the plate, had attempted to exact revenge. His stewardship over home plate had been his ticket. It'd been what had gotten him to San Francisco. Nobody, in his career, had ever successfully dislodged a ball from his glove. Sliding past him was considered a serious hazard; so much so that umpires often watched for overtly violent tags or intentional attempts to hurt players attempting to slide and paid little attention to whether the player got through to the plate first. So few did that it was rarely an issue.

And between his thighs his prick hung, thick and powerful inches exaggerated by the clean shaven flesh around it. Barry Bonds, she'd said. Successfully provoking his ire, sending fury coursing hotly through him until he'd nearly started shaking. Every reporter had an angle. Samantha Howard had several, each one delivered when the one before it failed. A tireless opponent. Dogging him. Hounding him. Trying to get an interview, a sound clip, something worth reporting. She saw him as prey. He saw her as a mosquito. A tick. And the urge to squash her under his hands was so potent that the temptation required serious, utter will to push aside.

But her body hadn't provoked that mighty length to harden, despite the undeniable fact that she was dripping raw sex beneath the polished exterior. A woman that looked that good couldn't help it. Even if the sensuality wasn't there a man was prone to imagine it. Owen didn't. He didn't imagine anything but that recorder, the devilish seduction in her voice as she tried to sell him his own salvation in a paper.

He reached for the gray cotton of his boxer briefs and sat and was aware she hadn't yet obeyed. She hadn't turned on her perfect little feet and saucy little heels and stalked off. It didn't matter. She would. And as he dressed, letting his shorts swallow up his cock and hide the cleat-marks along his muscled thighs, Owen hoped that her courage and persistence had limits.

Because he'd make her cry.

And ruthless a man as he was, Owen could forgive her for being insistent. He could forgive her for being tenacious. But he wouldn't forgive her for forcing him to strip her down and send her to the wolves, to the men that didn't know how to break a woman down without catcalls and self-defacing dialogue. Pigs. Men like the old guard of the Baseball media, over-educated needle-dicks who felt a need to keep themselves in the business by scorching anyone who didn't play the game by their rules.

To Owen this was war and Samantha Howard was getting dangerously close to becoming a casualty.

Pure, unadulterated hatred.

That was the only way of describing the expression on Owen Murray’s face as the redheaded reporter offered him redemption. No one had ever looked at her that way. As a small child, adults would study the slender slip of a girl with amusement at her whimsy, her obvious adoration for her doting father, the way she would chatter on intelligently about her short stories and Rod Beck’s 2.16 ERA. As that willowy body burst into puberty, men of all ages would ogle her young, voluptuous figure with an obvious lust that sometimes bordered on obscene. Other females would stare her down with envy, over the wide-eyed gazes she’d manage to capture or her stellar grades and accolades.

There hadn’t been a soul yet not to give at least a sympathetic glance on the rare occasions she would reveal her mother had died when she was only four.

He was the first person to look at her as if he wanted to totally annihilate her. Unfortunately, his contempt registered with her brain a good minute before her lips could stop moving. As she sat there, rambling breathlessly on about the interview she so desperately desired, part of her knew to stop talking. Knew that his ire was boiling, writhing up inside of him like venom, ready to spew from his lips with a menacing snarl. It was written all over his handsome face, the anger she’d incited twisting rugged features until they became a baleful mask of loathing.

But she hadn’t stopped herself when she should have. And when the all-star catcher, the most combative man in the entire MLB, scanned her body with unveiled disdain? When his simple command, delivered with a glacial bite to that normally mellow drawl, reverberated down to her very core? The reaction he drew from her was wholly unnerving, not least because she’d never experienced one like it before.

Samantha Howard was trembling.

Owen’s words remained suspended in the humid air, rang in her ears, made the drowning silence that followed buzz with warning. The muscles of that sylphlike throat worked visibly as she swallowed hard. When the thick, white terrycloth gave way to exhibit that flaccid, but lengthy shaft once more, Samantha had the decency of mind to avert those pale blues. She examined her shaking fingers instead, watching as the thumb and index finger of the right hand wrenched circularly at the base of the ring finger on her left. It was the same movement she made whenever she was scared or rattled. Almost a self-petting gesture, but the tiny bit of pain she inflicted was also a discreet means of punishment. On par with pinching herself awake or giving herself a mental kick. Samantha squeezed tightly at the spot beneath her knuckle now, in a subconscious effort to gather her wits about her, as well as to physically chastise herself for acting so foolishly.

Of course the name Barry Bonds would elicit this sort of a visceral, nauseated reaction. Of course a player like Owen, one who abhorred the press, one who had a temper that matched his tremendous talent, would be offended. Long before the steroids scandal, the surly outfielder had earned a reputation for being a scowling, insulting character that never seemed to grasp the elementary concept of acting as a team player. No one wanted to have their name equated with a self-centered boor, a man who trudged to first base as if he was doing the world a favor. She could understand that. Easily. Growing up, her father had expressed plenty of disgust over Bonds’ constant antics, behavior that distracted from the heart and spirit of the sport. ‘The guy cheapens the entire experience,’ he remarked one hot summer’s day at Candlestick park, while they attended their umpteenth ballgame together.

But Samantha hadn’t meant to insinuate that she thought Owen was another Bonds in the making. She’d made the fatal mistake of thinking he might see her words as a warning, as advice, and possibly view her as an ally from behind enemy lines. This was a woman who had dove into her subject’s past head first: she knew he had come from nothing. She understood that unlike Barry, Owen did not feel entitled to anything but privacy. That hadn’t exactly stopped her from pestering him almost daily for an exclusive, but it had made her believe she ‘got’ him in a way her colleagues could not.

When Owen Murray had refused to give game day sound bites, when he’d developed a pattern of evading the microphones and cameras, the press had acted brutally wounded. It was as if they, and not he, had made the man into the professional he was, earned him this illustrious career, and generously allowed him to claw to the top of the ladder. Samantha had seen other sports writers rip the player to shreds after he passed up an interview. That wasn’t her style. The more he turned her down, the more she wanted to win him over.

Because she knew – she just knew – that she could write the article that would change everyone’s minds about who he was both on and off the diamond. The feature that would make both his fans and detractors see Owen as a hero, a relic from another time, from when baseball players were genuine in their love for the game and their passion for strategy.

If only he would listen to her.

“I…” Samantha finally spoke as he fumed, feeling his eyes bore into her downturned head. “…I’m sorry,” she started again, in a shaky, awkward voice that struggled to remain above a stricken whisper. “I don’t really think you’re like that… I mean…” She looked up at him, just in time to see those vicious lacerations – and yes, his powerful looking cock – disappear beneath clean, starched briefs. Those crystal hues quickly locked with his, determined to appear as if his nudity wasn’t putting her on edge. Dear God, he still looked enraged. He stared back at her with the same flinty expression he gave his opponents whenever that face mask was ripped off during a particularly heated moment… the same look the local columnists compared to an executioner’s countenance upon hearing a criminal’s futile pleas for mercy.

And then it became clear. She could finally comprehend how he really viewed her. It wasn’t merely that she was a member of the press. She didn’t only anger him because he thought she wanted coverage the way all the other writers wanted it. This had become far more personal. He didn’t just despise her because she was one of many – he seemed to loathe her because of who he perceived her to be as an individual.

He hated her entire being, in that moment, with that seething gaze.

It was that realization alone that had Samantha up and off the bench in a single, fluid movement. It was her turn to look supremely pissed off as she marched right up to him, suddenly unafraid and uncaring. She was still quaking, only now it was in feverish indignation. All day, hell, all fucking season, a bevy of men treated the young reporter as if she were a second class citizen, garbage to be trampled on, or occasionally a piece of ass to be groped by rough, violating hands. She had endured all of it and then some. But it was blindingly clear that Samantha had finally reached her breaking point. A human being could only put up with so much abuse. And a woman can only be stifled for so long, before she begins to retaliate with her own brand of uncontrollable lividity.

“And don’t you dare think you can talk to me like that.” She hissed through gritted teeth, that tone low, snakelike, her lips curling as her face nearly collided into his. Those spiked, strappy shoes added a few more inches to her already impressive height, ensuring that Samantha’s eye line was level with Owen’s as they faced off in the middle of the secluded showers. “I won’t put up with your disrespect,” she spat, feeling the heat radiate off his naked upper body and surge dangerously close to hers. “I refuse to be spoken to – or looked at – as if I’m the one in need of a giant attitude adjustment.” She actually scoffed, shaking that tousled head and letting flashing, narrowed eyes laser into his own infuriated glower. Challengingly: “Or is your crucifixion complex so overgrown, you can’t even allow yourself to see just how pig-headed you’ve become, in spite of a kind offer?”

"Listen to me."

He felt deadly calm. She'd slipped into a trap; fallen as it'd sprung to greet her and clenched down on her little heart without mercy or relent. The heated place between sanity and total fury was a no-man's land of emotion when it came to Owen Murray; a place where most wandered out to get mowed down by the pure satanical force of his surliness. A fairer creature, a doe-eyed girl, would have left the room in tears by his manner alone. She'd made it through the wire, gotten close.

Certain it was ignorance, he loaded up. The harsh bite of her words went from righteous to explanatory, eventually turning petulant. When you got someone angry enough, someone kind at heart, they tended to puff up and blow out all at once. The fury that would sharpen them for a moment would be the same that distracted them the next. It would soak in and lull their senses away; leave them blind, deaf, and dumb to all the dangers lingering near. It was a consequence of the human condition that plagued even the most fiery spirits. Very few could truly operate angry and despite her best efforts Samantha Howard had waded out into deep waters.

Mercy wasn't in his game.

"You're hopeless."

He left her there, like that. It only took a stride to abandon the tile where they'd stood and approach his cabinet. There was no moment spared as he finished with her, applying deodorant and cologne with the usual precision of his routine. Rage, pure rage, was a tumultuous thing. It swelled and shook, forged itself a stormy sea for the most brief of moments. But it's true embodiment was an endless, inky nothingness. A soulless place where only the most predatory instincts survived and everything else faded.

Owen felt like ripping her apart. He envisioned it in his mind. The sickness of his hatred so intense that it blackened out his thoughts and left him to run through his routine at the mirror with machine-like disconnect. She was the epitome of the tireless media, entitled to everything they could find. They lacked scruples, principle, or even wit. Unable to see the purity of the game and feel the beauty of its timeless chord they lashed out, wrote sensationalist garbage and fought for post-game scraps that had become as shallow and as faceless as their work.

She, a big-titted blond-haired Valley Girl, was the final indignation he would suffer from the press. He was intent on burying her with the brutal impacts of the truth and give her the chance to flee him while his back was turned.

"And mommy and daddy aren't proud, and won't be proud, because you won't be able to hide your heart from them. It'll tell all through your eyes while your scared little thoughts rattle away inside that head of yours. And it'll scream to them, as it will to you every fucking night of your miserable little life, that you simply didn't have what it takes."

"Now get out of my locker room, Miss Howard, before someone comes in and sees the big-titted bimbo in the shower."

It was the most he'd ever said to a reporter. Outside, unaware, the crowds flitted from locker to locker. Cameras and recorders, microphones and reporters; they continued to flutter like buzzards around the remaining Giants. They fed the fools their catchphrases and cliches, talked of all things television and nothing of the game. Nobody wanted to teach people what it felt like to tag someone so hard their jaw clicked or how it felt when you caught a foul ball after slamming yourself against a concrete divider.

He would have gotten rid of them all if he could. Grabbed them each by the collar and kicked them out into the hallway where they could spill their dramatics into their useless, carbon-copied columns. It was a fantasy that would never, ever come true.

But he could break her. He could kick her out into the hall with his words and the cold cruelty of the truth as he saw it. That was a consolation he had seized.

”Listen to me.”

Let me guess what comes next: a highly unoriginal ‘Go fuck yourself’, Samantha predicted smugly. But she listened anyway. Locked her eyes with his. Tilted her head and raised her chin, as if she was genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say. Waited for the inevitable barrage of profanity she’d grown accustomed to hearing from her colleagues. A jolt of adrenaline kicked into her bloodstream: She was actually going to enjoy telling him off, once he unloaded on her. She would allow him to blow up, before knocking him down to size. She’d show him she knew how to play with the big boys, and could pack a proverbial punch better than any other woman he’d ever met. Patiently, she waited, anticipating his rage, feeling her own fury boil at her core.

”You’re hopeless.”

It wasn’t until Owen turned away with icy detachment that Samantha began to feel queasy. A sense of dull, sinking familiarity struck her. She froze, watching his bare shoulders flex, those bruised biceps rippling as he reached for his toiletries. Dread began to gnaw at the confidence she’d had moments ago. It ebbed away at her recalcitrant stance, and the anger roiling inside began to dissipate, leaving trepidation in its wake.

It was the exact same phrase Samantha had been berating herself with for months.

How could he know? Was it obvious that she woke up in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and panicked over the state of her career, with the same mantra pounding in her head? Could he see it taunted her, fed on her insecurities in the overwhelming darkness at three in the morning, when no one else was around to comfort or console her?

“And mommy and daddy aren't proud, and won't be proud, because you won't be able to hide your heart from them.”

Her heart lurched. She felt four years old again. All because of a single word that could unleash the wellspring of pain she fought daily to seal off.

”It'll tell all through your eyes while your scared little thoughts rattle away inside that head of yours.”

Don’t you fucking dare, she warned herself.

And it'll scream to them, as it will to you every fucking night of your miserable little life, that you simply didn't have what it takes."

Her body refused to obey. A ragged exhale left those parted lips, like a roar in the humid air. Tears stung those brilliant blues. They sparkled, blurring her vision, momentarily presenting two Owens before her, twin tormentors who seemed to feed on her every drop of self-doubt.

"Now get out of my locker room, Miss Howard, before someone comes in and sees the big-titted bimbo in the shower."

The second request wasn’t necessary. He laid down his final crushing blow when she was halfway to the exit. She had to cross where he stood to reach the door, and Samantha ducked her head so he couldn’t see her face in the mirror. Long red hair waved behind her like a flag of retreat. She could hear her heels clicking, towards him then past him, and her face began to burn in embarrassment over those stacked shoes, that tight suit, the generous glimpse of cleavage. Owen Murray had stripped her down and left her raw and vulnerable. Exposed her insecurities and held them up as evidence of just how right he was to loathe her. Fleeing was proof he had won this particular round, and they both knew it. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry, of watching her lips tremble, her eyes squeeze shut in shame, as his words lacerated her to shreds.

***

John McMillan had been a Bay Area sports writer for thirty-one years. As the nephew of a priest and the cousin of bishop, he had inherited the hallmark family trait of infinite patience. Holy men employed their sufferance through faithful prayer and confession; John applied his forbearance to the art of giving space. He knew how to approach players in a way that would keep the balance of power intact. He understood how to wait it out, to allow the post-game insanity to die down before racing to the clubhouse or locker room with his peers. The fifty-eight year old didn’t believe in bombarding people. Patience had allowed him to cross over from poorly paid staff reporter at the San Francisco Examiner, to a respected featured columnist for the Chronicle. In recent years, he had garnered national recognition as a semi-regular on ESPN’s website. Over three decades of pacing himself had even resulted in a book offer, but John had yet to decide whether he wanted to accept.

The same slow, methodical work ethic helped him win the heart of his best college friend and make her his bride. She had turned to him for solace after a messy break-up. Instead of swooping in on her fragile affections, he’d been her rock, a supportive shoulder to cry on. Never pressured, only barely hinted at his interests, until Linda finally looked up at him one day with something other than despair in those beautiful brown eyes. And when one of their five children would come home upset or enraged, John knew to let them cool off before asking so much as a single ‘How are you?’ or uttering an innocuous ‘Hello.’

So when Samantha Howard bolted past him like a fiery red flurry of activity, John held back. He didn’t call after her. A single glance at the girl’s face told him to wait. She was a mess: black mascara-streaked face and the slightly frazzled movements of someone trying to go unnoticed, while struggling not to break into a sprint. He watched her slip into the ladies room and decided to wait nearby, though not too closely. Weathered hands, the result of years spent standing in the scorching sun, rubbed absently at graying temples. A headache was coming on, mostly due to a lack of sleep. But he waited, and wondered what could have the young writer, a woman usually so upbeat and ferocious with drive, come completely undone.

His curiosity lingered for only ten minutes or so. When she emerged with shoulders squared and face all fixed up, John made his move.

“Sam.”

She glanced around, anxiously, and then spotted her friend with a look of genuine relief. It made him feel protective of her, in a way Linda had reminded him he should be. Samantha had no idea that John and his wife knew of her past, of the many tragedies that littered her family history. And the girl was blithely unaware of Bradley Frank’s track record, his penchant for running bright young things into the ground before their stars could even begin to rise. “She’s sharp,” Linda intoned after Samantha had run into the couple at lunch one day, months before. “A real sparkplug. But she needs guidance. Otherwise the old boys are going to try their damnedest to snuff her out.”

John suspected something along those lines had happened today. Surprise registered on his face when Samantha marched up to him, eyes still puffy from crying, and murmured: “Owen Murray is an absolute bastard.”

They walked out to the parking lot together, he slowing his pace so she could keep up in those teetering heels that made all the men stare. Silently, he listened as she relayed the disastrous shower confrontation in its entirety. Her voice caught slightly while quoting Owen’s final scathing insult, and Samantha turned her face away, blinking in the setting sun before speaking again.

“What I hate is… he thinks the same thing that I do, John. I do feel hopeless. Bumgarner gave me some time today. That was good. But… I just feel like maybe I am in the wrong field, maybe I don’t need to waste my time-“

John cut her off, a rarity for him. “That’s garbage, Sam.” He paused, fishing keys from his pocket and hitting the automatic unlocking button to his car, parked a few spaces over from hers. “You,” he turned back to her now, green eyed gaze turning serious. “Are exactly where you’re meant to be.”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“How’d you get Madison Bumgarner to answer your questions earlier?”

“I…” Samantha leaned against her driver side door, crossing slender arms over the lapels of her crimson blazer, thinking for a moment. “I approached him when he was by himself. Congratulated him on his play. Asked if he’d mind giving me a second of his time. And he… well, he sort of looked me up and down, and smiled. Told me he’d be honored to, actually.” Teeth chewed at that bottom lip again, the old nervous habit returning.

“Uh-huh. So you were very respectful, polite, and non-threatening. And,” John smiled ruefully, “he noticed you’re, uh, all woman. So that helped.” His words were plain and factual, free of the licentious undertone found when most other male reporters spoke to the young head-turner.

Samantha started to smile back, but eyebrows furrowed in a painful memory. “Or, as his asshole teammate would put it, he noticed the ‘big-titted bimbo’ and decided to throw her a bone.” That voice dripped with disgust, perhaps at Owen's behavior. Or maybe at herself.

“No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Your problem is that you’ve let the guy psyche you out. He has you right where he wants you, see, far away and doubting yourself. He’s led you to believe that your natural ability isn’t enough to win him over.” Samantha listened intently, looking up at him with a blue-eyed stare of interest. John didn’t always speak at length. He seemed to reserve words for his award-winning columns, pieces of writing that motivated the rookie reporter to hone her skills in the hopes of one day accomplishing the same.

He paused, letting it all sink in. He pulled a tissue from his other trousers pocket and mopped beads of sweat from his brow before continuing.

“A man like Owen Murray wants privacy. But he also wants respect. He wants to be left alone, sure, but he acts like that field is a battle zone. Even the most selfless war heroes secretly want a little honest-to-goodness appreciation for the crusades they’ve won. He may not realize it about himself, but it’s the truth. If you don’t want at least a small piece of the glory, you don’t strive for something like televised, major league baseball. You keep playing ball in your own backyard or at the family reunion picnic if you only care about playing the game for fun.”

Red tresses bobbed as Samantha nodded slowly, one thumb rubbing curiously at her bottom lip.

“You need his story so you can keep your head above water. But the mistake you’re making is using someone else’s tricks, when your own brand of getting the job done is just fine. What you told Owen about Bonds might have…” John stopped, stroking his salt and pepper stubbled chin. “It could have sounded like a threat to a man like that. That’s the kind of game Frank and his crowd pull when someone like Murray doesn’t give in, you see. And it works most of the time, as you already know.”

He looked at her, and it was clear the wheels were turning inside her head.

“But it won’t work with him. You learned the hard way. What you need to do is go back to your original plan of wearing him down, only with a little more finesse. Charm the hell out of him. Show some remorse – act like it was you who was out of line today. These players get hassled and clamored after every day, Sam. Take the fact that you’re not a balding middle aged man with a chip on his shoulder and run with it. Do what you did with Bumgarner, only better. Make Owen Murray feel respected in a way no one else has, or may even be able to. And I guarantee you’ll get that story.”

Samantha smiled broadly. An attack plan was written all over her face. The doubt and despair were gone. John couldn’t be sure what she was up to when she thanked him profusely, said goodbye, and got into her car. But he knew that whatever he’d said had re-ignited the fight inside her. He drove away from AT&T Park smiling proudly through the throbbing migraine pounding in his ears.

A Couple Hours Later

Fans didn’t feel it. Couldn’t. The pulse of a season, a good season, was something that’s true chord lay within the players that played it. They had been trained, as all professionals are trained, to be gracious. It was unfathomable not to thank the fans for making the game what it is. A little lie that had been told with timeless and good-natured dishonesty for the better part of baseball’s last hundred years. But any player knew, any that really cared about the game that they played, that the heart of the game didn’t belong to anyone. It simply lived, thrived, blossomed inside the players that were open to it.

Things hadn’t started off as they’d hoped. He’d slumped early, badly. The absence of his bat had broken the middle of an already suspect lineup. It was hard for fans to see a good player when he wasn’t hitting, especially when they expected it. The announcers, the press; they all played into it. If there was anything that defined the light-hitting Giants it was their grit, their fundamentals, and the way they embraced the game as it had always meant to be played. Batting .250 for April had eclipsed his play behind the plate, his defense and his ability to command a frightfully young pitching staff to frightening heights. The entire team had started that year with a mantra. A dialogue.

No stars. No quit.

And so, while Tim had lost a few ticks off his fastball, he hadn’t lost his willingness to compete. The Golden Boy of the Golden Gate, Tim Lincecum was one of baseball’s most underestimated players. His boy-next-door sincerity and aw-shucks surfer look made him an instant fan favorite, a cherished and sincerely adored member of the Bay Area. He’d been arrested for possession and it’d only heightened his fan base, brought him more in-touch with the crowd. But they didn’t know him for what he was. A competitor. A red-blooded, flame-throwing, strike-out machine that took the ball with the design to humiliate grown men. That mentality was something that had caught on early with the other arms in the Giants stable.

It was why, despite his intentions of leaving San Francisco after this year, Owen would miss this team. He would miss the hard-knocks grit of the players that surrounded him, veiled in the shadows of Barry Bonds and the dismal nature of the NL West, they were all unheralded, underpaid, and underappreciated. A slumping bat eclipsed a sterling effort in the field, or the ability to grind out ten pitches in an at-bat even when you had lost your swing. The fans had jumped all over them early. Booed, hissed, and jeered as they watched a team flounder around five-hundred and struggle to keep themselves within an arm’s reach. They simply hadn’t seen what Owen had seen. What he’d felt. What they’d all felt early.

They’d all felt things click together, early on, even in the midst of a six game losing streak that had ended when they’d been swept by the Rockies in their own park. It’d been three straight one-run games, decided in extra-innings, where the bats hadn’t woken up late enough. It’d been clear though, against a Rockies team that was absolutely tearing its way up the division standings, that they’d hung in there while in the midst of a serious flunk. Owen remembered standing at his locker and catching a look from Barry Zito, one of the strangest men in the game, that said, “Yeah, alright. We can work with this.”

And so May had come and the team started winning. Two of three in a series here, three of four there. And then eight in a row. Then ten. Then another win-streak of five. It hadn’t been easy. They’d slipped and faltered. But every now and again they’d hit a groove where everyone was hitting and teams would melt away under the onslaught.

The real reason for the winning, of course, was the pitching. Tim had discovered that ninety-two on the corner was filthy when you threw a low-seventies curve-ball after. Matt Cain had learned that working inside and outside with his two-seamer blew both righties and lefties out of the box. And the biggest surprise, besides Zito’s return to serviceable form, had been Bumgarner’s slider taking on near-mythic proportions when he worked off his fastball. The staff had gotten together, it seemed, and simply figured out what they could do to win. And they’d all finally gotten accustomed to having Owen behind the plate for them.

He might shout at them from the plate, cursing for them to work faster or to throw a fucking strike already, but he’d suffer broken fingers and still catch foul-tips. He’d never miss-play a bunt. And he’d take shots like a rugby player to protect their earned-run average and the team’s chance at a win.

It was all a part of the game and how it swallowed them, enveloped them in the history and the intensity of it all. Suddenly, contracts had melted away. The questions over whether or not he would resign, or Tim would extend, evaporated. The writers became fiends for the team’s legitimate chance to post two twenty-game winners, a chance to steal the division from a much more offensively dynamic Dodger’s squad. The field became an escape, a holy place. He went out there, day after day, and crouched on aching knees and caught ninety-plus heat with his busted up catching hand. The slump that had dogged him had slipped away and he’d felt something, a chord, a lightning rod of inspiration that had him dialed in. His homeruns were up this year. He’d probably hit forty-something, challenge for the homerun crown. His average was a frightening .397, climbing slowly, towards the mythic number. He had cut down on strikeouts so much that when he did punch-out the announcers took note, ran off the number, marveled. He, like the rest of the team, had gotten caught up in the game’s magic.

But still, once he got off the field, the writers were there. Nothing was sacred. He was loathed. In the beginning he’d attempted to be cordial. It hadn’t worked. They’d wanted their piece of him, their chunk of his story, as though they’d owned the right to cover him now that he’d put on the uniform. And when he’d asked them to stay away, they’d torn him apart. They’d ripped him up and down as the ungrateful new kid, the prima donna. A diva.

They’d compared him to Bonds and dug at his contract, meager as his salary was, to scrutinize the special language. He was the only player in baseball whose organization was contractually obligated to provide him transportation. It was a strange bit of language. He’d insisted on it when the Giants had expressly forbidden him to ride public transportation to the game. It’d been something he’d always wanted to do, an homage to the New York teams of the 50’s. Back then the ballplayers had rode the subway to the park with fans beside them, represented players within the community. But the world has changed. The Giants hadn’t allowed it.

And so he’d asked them to pay for the transportation. The press hadn’t told the entire story. It was entirely possible they hadn’t known it.

But they’d slaughtered him. And the stories were further shadowed by his stoic presence in the locker-room and the way he sat by himself in the dug-out. It’d chewed up his reputation, made it difficult to negotiate a fair salary with Giants ownership. They felt they had him by the balls. If he left for another team, for more money, he’d be proving the media correct and carrying baggage with him. If he stayed for less he’d be giving in, caving, breaking down and letting them walk all over him. He’d be doing a disservice to every catcher in the league, every man suffering behind the plate under bruises and breaks, in one of the most unheralded positions in baseball.

He hated them. And he hated how the purity of the game and its escape so quickly were erased once he got off the field. He hated how he had to hide his injuries because to confess them would only give the press more fodder for their papers, more accusations to level on him. As it was, he was suffering. Suffering badly. The fractures in his catching hand made every pitch an experience and every foul-tip a mind-clearing bolt of pain away from a mistake. Errorless baseball, behind the plate, was almost impossible when you were healthy. It had been the most challenging part of his season to maintain it with a busted catching hand.

“Owen?”

His thoughts melted. They slipped away. Now, more than ever, his frustrations were clear to him. He’d ignored Claire, abandoned her on the phone while she’d told him about Paris. His mind wasn’t right and he shook his head, trying to get it clear. The sound of her voice through the phone as suitable as a slap from her long-fingered hand.

“Where are you, Owen?” She asked. Concerned.

He sighed, glanced to the phone. “I’m here. “

A pause. He looked at his apartment. Quaint. Small. Suitable for a starter home, cheap and inexpensive. He’d sell it quickly when this year was over. The next one would be larger. There’d be more money. The Yankees needed a catcher and a bat and he was both, and Scott had made it clear to him that so long as he held out there’d be no doubt that they would make him a very wealthy, very happy man.

“I miss you. I wish you’d talk.” She was pouting. He could hear it in her voice. The girl’s need for his affection and attention were intense, sometimes too much so, but a part of him wanted it that way. A part of him wanted to feel needed and loved.

Because you’re not bound to feel that way in the game, that’s for fucking sure.

“I miss you too, Claire. It was just a rough day.”

“Tell me about New York.” She sighed at him.

They had gone over their plans a half-million times. It was a reset for them both. The reality that they were looking forward to. She, a model, would work in the City that Never Sleeps while he would play there. A chance for them both to stay true to their professions and still be close. A chance to escape the absence that they were forced to suffer while he was playing out the season.

“An apartment in Manhattan, a nice one. I come home from the games to spend the night with you, face to face.”

“Because you’re awful on the phone.” She teased.

He smiled some.

“Yeah.”

“And would you kiss me every night?” She asked. Her voice turned silky.

“Any man that doesn’t kiss his super model girlfriend, babe, isn’t batting from the right side.” A terrible analogy he’d used a hundred times before. She’d stopped laughing long ago. He heard a familiar buzz on the phone. His plastic gift to her two years ago.

“Mmmm, I want you to kiss me.” She sighed on the other end of the phone.

A routine. Like any other. Baseball players lived for them, needed them. The grind of the season, even a good one, required mechanisms of focus. He listened to her, the way her breathing changed. He tried to remember what it was like to have her under his hands and couldn’t. Couldn’t remember her face when she came, when the emotion slipped past the almost austere beauty of her features.

The prick in his hand, powerful and strong, remained soft. Each pass of his fist failed him, failed to inspire his reactions. And so he faked it. He moaned. He let his voice turn dark, husky, and heavy. He spoke of taking her, loving her, being with her, while she lay at the other end and it occurred to him that she was most likely doing the same. It occurred to him that they were both faking, lying there in bed, frustrated and unsatisfied. A thousand miles away from happiness, of any kind, and unable to express it.

And so he hung up. He didn’t say goodbye. He simply hung up. The phone’s red light clicked off as the line went dead, and Owen sat up. The misery of the day, the misery of the evening, hanging over him like a cloud. It buzzed in his mind, the questions, the lights of the camera’s. He’d given the cursory interview, given it out of spite. He’d given it after she’d left in tears, tears he’d caused, in order to wound her again.

The guilt crept up. The frustration with the life. The lack of peace. The strain of the season and the ache of his body all fighting him as he rose from the bed and fixed his pants, fixed his shirt, and made for the door.

Mackey’s, one of the only Irish Joints in the Bay Area, was always his escape. It was the place he could belly-up to the counter and be left alone. The prices, the velvet rope, served to keep the average fan from getting near the place. It was a haven. A smoky-lit, piano-featuring, throwback bar to the post-war world his Grandfather had heralded as the best and brightest.

He sought that taste now. An indulgence that he succumbed to only when his mind wasn’t right. It wasn’t right now. All he knew was that his girl was calling him, unable to get him to answer. Wondering, maybe, where he’d gone or what had happened. And he was walking to the bar, scared because his prick hadn’t responded, and even the act of being with someone had somehow made him feel more alone.

The red suit was ripped off and slammed angrily into the wicker laundry basket. The shower turned on with a blast of cold water. Fingers twisted and adjusted the knob before stilettos were kicked furiously off into the adjacent bedroom. Nylons were peeled down leggy stems as the temperature rose. Slip, bra, and panties, all in a uniform shade of sultry noir, were sailing discards behind her as she moved around the spacious bathroom. Lace-trimmed underpinnings landed in a heap on top of the suit, filmy straps dangling over the gingham liner’s edge.

He’d given an interview to another reporter from the San Jose Mercury.

Samantha’s acquaintance at the paper had texted her the news after she’d left John at AT&T Park, the seeds of a few ideas beginning to sprout in her emotionally rattled mind. If she hadn’t been upset before, word of Owen’s latest blow to her career – not to mention her pride – had sent her over the edge. The interview had been brief. Perfunctory, the text had said. A physical strike across her tear-streaked face couldn’t have hurt any more than this.

It hurt because he’d done it intentionally.

And he made me cry, on top of everything else.

It was that thought alone that sent Samantha into a rage, again, as she stepped beneath the spray and began briskly shampooing that thick mane of unruly red. Lacquered nails roughly massaged her scalp, sending suds down the sides of her face. Crystalline eyes snapped shut, and beneath them was Owen’s cutting stare. Mocking her. Listen to me. You’re hopeless. His lips forming the words again and again in her mind’s eye.

Samantha let out a small growl of frustration as she rinsed her head and began coating on conditioner.

Those ten minutes in the clubhouse bathroom had been awful. She’d hidden in a stall and stood there, sobbing hard, hating herself more than she hated him. Tears were weak. Running was pathetic. But Owen had unknowingly found her Achilles heel. It was unfair. It almost didn’t count.

Oh, but it did… She brandished a bar of Dove, working it into a creamy lather. The perfectly re-applied makeup job she’d hastily done after composing herself was washed away.

For nearly a decade now, Samantha could count the number of times per year she had cried. Every year accounted for a total of two: once on her mother’s birthday, back in March, the other on the anniversary of her death, in October. Not a single tear had been shed over anything else since she was fifteen. When her last serious boyfriend, Jake, had broken up with her seven months before, she hadn’t cried. When he explained that after four years of dating, he simply didn’t love her enough to want to marry her or even continue the relationship, there had been no sobbing. Just several days of feeling numb, in between small moments of frustration and confusion. Friends and family had seemed to be holding their respected breaths during the weeks that followed. They all waited for the tears to show themselves on her unlined face, as if anticipating Pacific waves to crash onto a flawless white sanded beach. It would have been a natural reaction. Any day now, they all silently projected, she’ll crack. She must be so devastated. She must be so hurt.

The tears never came, even if the hurt and devastation were there. Samantha had not allowed such emotions to be expressed in hysterics or wailing – it wasn’t her style, and it wasn’t how she’d been conditioned to react. And a tiny, stubborn part of her had refused to give in, to give physical, tangible proof of her pain, if only in an attempt to prove everyone wrong. She would be fine, and a lack of histrionics would only further demonstrate that fact.

So the tears that Owen drove her to, those choking sobs and shameful gasps for air in a deserted bathroom stall… they made Samantha livid. Not even the ‘big-titted bimbo’ comment he’d thrown in for good measure, in a moment of total overkill, had angered her as much. Her mother’s death was a trigger. Mentioning her while echoing Samantha’s own self-doubt in the same breath had been cruel, far crueler than Owen could ever have anticipated. He had spoken so casually, never knowing the effect of his own words beyond the momentarily scathing manner in which they were intended. And that too was another issue: He now thought her weak. She’d ducked her head and ran, and he surely had assumed it was because he had raised his voice. For a woman who fought so hard to appear flinty, coming across as soft was maddening. Those tears felt stolen from her. Control had been lost.

To regain it, more control had to be given away. Or it has to appear that way, she reminded herself while applying shower gel to a wet loofah. Intoxicating notes filled the room. Violet, jasmine, grapefruit all mingled in the air, clinging to her satiny skin. A quick rinse and the water was shut off. A matching lotion was slathered over every inch of her wet, nude flesh as soon as she stepped out of the shower. She watched herself in the mirror, analyzing the body she worked so hard for. The stomach, thighs, and arms were slender, toned. Hips, breasts, and butt were lushly curved, eye-poppingly so. There was no denying what John had stated earlier: Samantha was all woman. Where most men would argue this to be an enormous plus, she knew better.

Owen’s girlfriend was a model. Dark straight hair, dark smoldering eyes, deeply tanned skin. Over six feet of angles. Hipbones that jutted out over a micro-mini bikini, ridiculously high cheekbones and dramatically shaped brows. Limbs that were outrageously long and skinny. She made up for a lack of tits and ass with a sort of exotic sensuality that made the most basic of fall separates look utterly glamorous on every runway she ferociously strutted. Claire was Samantha’s complete physical foil. As she walked to her closet, toweled down but still naked, the nervous lip chewing momentarily returned. Blues scanned the contents of her wardrobe, as she wondered if she wasn’t fighting a losing battle. Did Owen have a type? Was he only interested in emaciated Amazon women?

Tonight he won’t be. She psyched herself up and began rapidly rifling through every dress, skirt, and blouse she owned. The red suit had been aggressive and overly forward. Tonight she had to appear demure, and, hopefully, genuinely apologetic. Something… romantic. To throw him off the scent.

A creamy sleeveless dress was plucked off its hanger. Double layers of chiffon, a hemline that exposed three inches of thigh, and a rounded, ruffled neckline. The ample cleavage would always be there, but the ruffles would help her look sweet, rather than seductive.

Her lingerie was a different story. The bra was simple: Hot pink push-up with smooth silk cups. The bottom was not so simple. A v-string in the same shade of pink left her sculpted cheeks totally exposed. Three strings of stretchy, thin fabric covered her lower back with wicked flair. Flirtatious little bows were topped off with rhinestones, and the front hugged her smooth, shaved sex so tightly, the outline of her young, tight folds could be clearly seen. The second she removed her opaque dress, the catcher’s eyes – amongst other parts - would bulge, the anger replaced with red-hot desire. No other reaction would do.

Samantha had the plan all mapped out in her mind. Owen was being spotted at a place called Mackey’s with increasing frequency. She’d approach him there now. The beauty of a public place meant he couldn’t shout, slap his palms in fury, or curse at her. His celebrity was growing, and it wouldn’t do to be seen exploding at a young girl in the middle of a bar. She could corner him easily, and if she acted quickly, played just the right notes of respect and regret, she could make him stay.

Graceful hands began expertly drying those crimson tresses, before setting them in long, loose curls down her back. A small gold clip held them back on one side, letting the rest tumble over the opposing shoulder. She imagined rubbing that bare arm against his, once Owen had relaxed somewhat around her. Samantha would apologize, order them both a drink, and keep them coming all night long. She could crack him in this setting, while he was slightly inebriated and on public display.

And after an hour or so had passed – or however long it would take for the Giants star to grow totally at ease with the wide-eyed reporter – she would make her move. It would be easy, direct, but in a way that would make Owen feel as if he was in control, as if he was choosing her. She would take him back to his place. The kisses would be hot, the work of her hands on his prick even hotter. Her eyes closed now while she adjusted the strap of her dress, remembering how hung he was in the locker room. Samantha hadn’t been with a man in seven months. Maybe tonight she’d enjoy herself.

There was no doubt that Owen would enjoy himself immensely. She’d push him backwards onto the bed after his jeans had been removed, his erection tenting the briefs he wore beneath. A short, sassy striptease, a hip shimmying little turn so he could get the full effect of that lecherous lingerie, and then she’d straddle him. Ask him how badly he wanted her, maybe coo that she’d been thinking of his cock all day. And then help him slip on a condom before driving that fleshy rod inside her wet cunt, as she smashed those tits together and dangled them teasingly over his face. The fuck would be long, torrid, hard. She would cum first, or if necessary, she would fake it. And before her bruised and broken stud could bat an eye, his buxom bimbo would climb off, slide down his body, tear off the condom, and begin sucking him off.

Samantha knew how to work her lips around a cock, even one that was as thick as Owen’s. “Cum on me” – she might purr that at him before swallowing inch after inch, bobbing her head hungrily, and slurping up her own juices from his powerful head. And she wouldn’t stop even after he’d exploded inside her hot mouth, wouldn’t stop until he begged her with a hoarse, exhausted voice to finally, finally release him.

She would keep fucking him for however many weeks necessary until the interview was granted, completed, and set to print. The moment her story broke, with her dazzling photo in the byline, Samantha would drop Owen cold. She wouldn’t speak a single word to him again – the ultimate payback for making her feel wholly inadequate… and for reminding her of what she’d lost.

Manicured nails whipped open her cosmetics drawer. Agile digits made up that heart-shaped face with a light hand as she plotted. Skin was left dewy, opalescent, and eyes were barely made up with a smudge of subtle bronze and soft, glossy lashes. A small pot of NARS lip gloss was applied with the ring finger of her left hand. The shade was a sheer, whispery pink entitled ‘Baby Doll’. It was exactly what Samantha looked like, the very picture of a doe-eyed young beauty, totally harmless and completely innocent of any wrong-doing. The lid was snapped back on and those pouting lips broke into a deviant grin back at her reflection. Container was tossed haphazardly onto the counter, sending perfume bottles rolling with a dangerous sounding clatter, before she sauntered out and flicked off the light.

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Mackey’s Irish pub and piano bar was well-known as a sports star’s hot spot. Most of the press wasn’t allowed in very easily, unless they were with a player, or unless they were famous in their own right. Samantha flashed her press pass, but intoned that she was there to interview Owen Murray of the San Francisco Giants – he should be waiting for her at the bar. The bouncer took one look at her, making no attempt to hide his obvious appreciation for her curvaceous little frame, and let her step inside.

The interior was nothing like Johnny Foley’s, the tourist trap she and her friends would sometimes frequent out of boredom. Mackey’s felt more authentic, like a relic that had been perfectly maintained for sixty-odd years. The sounds of a piano being tuned up, and a singer introducing herself announced her arrival to the bar area. The creamy white dress had been a stroke of genius. In a sea of San Franciscan black, Samantha turned a dozen heads. Her eyes locked with Owen’s profile immediately. He looked relatively content in casual clothes, sitting with two empty chairs on either side of him.

And he looked… okay, she could admit it. He looked handsome.

Samantha walked closer, drinking him in. Handsome, yes, but maybe content had been a misjudgment. It occurred to her that she’d rarely seen him looking anything but frustrated or enraged. The lack of a scowl had led her to believe Owen was happy. But as she sidled up to him, her breath in her throat – adrenaline was kicking in, and she longed for a drink – she realized he was sullen. Downtrodden. But as in the showers earlier, it was too late to go back now. He was studying the marble bar top, but the bar tender was making his way over to her, acknowledging her presence.

“What can I get for you, miss?” His voice gave away the slightest of Irish lilts.

She looked straight ahead, gazing into a pair of kind, pale green eyes, and feeling Owen’s glinting greys stare at her as he looked up. She could feel the heat of them practically radiating on her cheek.

“I’ll have whatever my friend here is having. And bring him another, please?” She spoke in the kindest of voices that meant no offense, as the older gentleman smiled and walked away.

“After all,” she breathed softly to Owen now, turning her head slowly to face him. “It’s the least I can do… to make up for how I treated you earlier.”