Man of the Year

“He can’t tell you who you can and can’t date,” Brenda said.

“Sure he can. He holds all the cards. At least as far as the team is concerned.”

“You think he’d cancel the contract because you went on a date with a player?” Brenda was incredulous.

“I don’t know if he would cancel, but he could make our lives very difficult,” Samantha said, serious now. “I can’t—I won’t—take the risk of finding out how far he’s willing to be pushed. I do know Elliott was dead serious when he said he didn’t want any trace of scandal around the team.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Brenda sounded doubtful.

“I know I am. We need this contract much more than I need a date with some smooth-talking, sexy farm boy from Oklahoma.”

“It’s your call, Sam.”

“Exactly, and I don’t want anything that smells even vaguely suspicious getting back to Elliott’s nose. Besides, I get enough of baseball from Boomer. More, I don’t need.”

“Speaking of which, what are you going to do about him?” Brenda shuffled the pictures and came up with Boomer’s. “What’s his bit in all this?”

“Nothing special. I treat him just like any other player. He knows that and so do I. Elliott didn’t seem to think there was a problem, as long as we both knew that there would be no special treatment. I told him about the connection, but it turns out he already knew. Thanks to Boomer.”

“He told him?” Brenda asked, surprised. “Why would he do that?”

“Little brother didn’t want any blotch on his career because I was bidding on the team’s ad contract.”

“Huh? I don’t get it.”

Samantha shrugged. “That’s how he explained it. As it turned out, I may have gotten the contract because of my connection with him, at least indirectly. Elliott said that my knowledge of baseball was one thing that tipped the scale in our favor.”

“That and being low bidder.”

“Well, his budget is tight this year, so that worked to our advantage as well.”

Samantha was philosophical about why she had beaten other, more prestigious firms for the high-profile job. In the end, all that mattered was that she knew her team could do the work as well as, or better than, any other firm. She had convinced Elliott of that. And her spiel to him was not merely boastful, hopeful words. Samantha would not have taken the contract if she did not think Emerald was right for the job and that the job was right for Emerald.

The size of the project was a bit daunting for a small company, though. The firm would be responsible for not only the advertising, but also a new logo, uniform design and colors. Caps, buttons, bumper stickers, giveaways—the list was endless. They would set up interviews for the players at local radio and television stations. The budget ran into the millions.

To handle all this work, Samantha had to turn away numerous smaller jobs, some with clients that she hated to lose. In the past, those small jobs had been the company’s bread and butter. The contract with the Rainiers would usurp all their resources. If Emerald succeeded, it would earn national exposure. Other corporate clients would notice the small company from Seattle and come courting. Samantha’s fledgling firm would fly to a higher altitude in the ad business. With that flight would come money and prestige.

And if they failed? Samantha had not thought much about that possibility. Without consulting her accountant, she knew her business could not afford to lose. If Emerald failed to show Mr. Elliott a healthy return on all his advertising dollars, it would be stretched pretty thin, maybe too thin to recover. Nothing like putting all our eggs in one basket, Samantha had thought when she signed the contract.

“So, Bren, this is the big one. Let’s get started. I want to schedule a kickoff meeting with everyone on Monday. Afternoon is best.” She gathered up the photos.

Brenda jotted a few more notes on her pad of paper, then boosted herself out of the chair. “Right, boss. I’ll set it up.”

Samantha dropped the photos in the center of the mess on her desk. As if by magic, Jarrett’s picture slid out of the pile. He smiled up at her.

“Wipe that cocky grin off your face, Jarrett Corliss,” Samantha warned the man in the photo as she tapped his nose with the eraser end of her pencil. “I’ve got plans for you.”

Chapter Three

“Okay, sports fans. Here’s the pitch,” Samantha announced.

Her staff groaned loudly, their heads falling limp to rest on the conference table in mock anguish.

Samantha grinned. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Show some respect here. I’m the boss and if I want to play sportscaster, you all get to listen in rapt silence.”

A loud, wet raspberry cut across the end of her sentence and she scowled at the culprit. She should have expected it—Brenda. “Quiet! No dissension in the ranks.” She softened the stern warning with a smile. Then, before she lost control of the unruly bunch, she plunged ahead with the meeting.

“As you all know, I met with the Rainiers last week. Here’s the schedule I’ve penciled out for what needs to be done.” She passed a stack of papers around the table. “First, I have a meeting with Elliott and his people on Friday. We have to have presentation DVDs by then.”

There were several moans of protest.

“I know. It’s a push, but we need to roll in high gear. The photographer is scheduled to reshoot the team photos next Tuesday. The first commercial will be shot the middle of the following week, probably Wednesday and Thursday, depending on Dietrich’s schedule. We’ll use photos or pull stills from the video for billboards.”

Before she could continue, Lane interrupted. “Wait a minute, chief. What happened to all the time we were supposed to have to get ready for this project? We’ve known about it for a month.”

“You’re right. But contract negotiations were delayed, so we’re up against the wall. The team leaves for spring training camp in three weeks. All this has to be done before they go.” Samantha knew what the next few weeks were going to be like—an unbroken string of long days and longer nights. She didn’t like it any more than her team did, but it was essential that they attack it with all their enthusiasm and momentum.

“Hey, after three weeks of twenty-seven-hour workdays, things should settle down to a more reasonable pace,” she added with a smile.

She paused to survey the faces around her. They all looked interested, eager and alert. A little apprehensive, too. No harm in that. No one was surprised by the amount of work. No one complained.

“The tight deadline will mean a lot of work, but we can do it. Brenda has a list of all the details to be covered that we’ll go over at the end of the meeting. First, I want to start with the overall thrust of the campaign.”

Samantha outlined the information she had on the Rainiers, their recent history, changes in staffing, their strengths and weaknesses. If her staff hadn’t all heard this somewhere else, she wanted to be sure they did now. To design a good advertising campaign, Emerald Advertising needed to somehow magically erase the past. She wasn’t fooling anyone about how hard that would be.

“Let’s bounce some ideas around. Nothing is too far-fetched or corny at this point. Brenda, got your crayon and notepad warmed up?”

“Ready, coach. Let ’em fly. I’ll catch ’em.” Brenda’s pencil was poised to write, but the room was silent.

“Come on,” Samantha coaxed. “I can see those wheels turning. Spit something out. Anything.”

“Okay,” Lane began cautiously. “What about bikinis?”

“What about them?”

“Well, sports and women in bikinis just go together like, like—”

“Like safe and sex,” Pam finished. A burst of laughter followed.

“I’m all for bikinis,” Carol chimed in. “But only if the players are wearing them.” More laughter greeted this sally. Samantha joined in, then guided the conversation.

“Lane has a point. The commercials that have been used during most major sporting events have featured any number of bikinis and skimpy attire to promote everything except swimwear and clothes. But how do we use them? We’re promoting a baseball team. Is that a different market than beer commercials target?”

Samantha sat back and let the others debate the issue. Ideas were tossed out randomly. Bikinis and beer led—by a very circuitous route—to nuclear reactors and life preservers. She let them mine the raw possibilities of each idea for a while then pushed them off in another direction. Brenda wrote furiously, so every speck and notion was documented for future reference. Ideas and patterns of ideas mentioned in this session might even prove useful later for a completely different product. Brenda was a storehouse of past brainstorming sessions, any of which she might mention without warning to send them off in a new direction.

The discussion returned to its start and an argument raged back and forth about the ethics of using bikinis to promote anything. The women opposed it, the men were for it, so long as good-looking female models wore them. Then Lane yelled something crazy about extraterrestrials and the brainstorming took a decidedly odd turn. Samantha laughed and broke into the ruckus.

“Okay, guys. That’s a little bizarre, even for me. I know I said nothing was too far-fetched, but come on, aliens in bikinis kidnapping a baseball team?”

“Sure, it’d be great,” Stuart said, adopting Lane’s brainchild for the moment. “Like Willie Mays meets ET. But with less cellulite.”

“Yeah. The players could be sucked up into this ship. Then weird creatures would operate on them and make them better players.” Carol picked up Stuart’s thought and gave it another twist.

When this craziness had run its course, Stuart asked the question Samantha had been waiting for. “What do you have in mind for this campaign, Samantha? We’ve been spilling our guts for over an hour, but you haven’t offered much yourself.”

“Well. I’ve heard some good ideas passed around today, except the one about aliens.” She shook a finger at Lane. He smirked. “But I want to focus a little tighter on the problem before we look for solutions. The Rainiers are a bunch of druggies and bullies, and no one wants to go to their games because they always lose. Right?” There were nods of agreement.

“To change that perception, we need to recast the Rainiers as a completely new team. The old is gone. Here’s this new gang of kids that no one knows anything about. It’s our job to introduce them and show how they’re starting out fresh.” She paused for emphasis. “So I think we should show what the players were like in grade school.”

“Grade school?” was the startled question from several people.

“Yep. Grade school.” Samantha went on to outline her idea as she had to Brenda. “What if we set them up as a sandlot team on the playground. Make their individual talents come from something they did then. Exaggerate to show how they started out in the game.”

This set everyone into another flurry. Ideas spun around the room like Frisbees.

“Like the kid that hits a home-run ball through the plate glass window two blocks away,” Lane said.

“Or a pitcher that used to hit birds with rocks,” Stuart added.

“No. That’s too mean. Besides, the animal-rights activists would have a cow,” Carol countered. “How about throwing newspapers on a paper route. Or winning all the Kewpie dolls at the county fair. Something like that.”

“But what about the aliens?” Lane asked plaintively. Everyone laughed.

The group’s creative juices flowed freely. Once a basic theme was set, their ideas began to mesh. At the end of the meeting Samantha knew they were on to something good. She divided her staff into two creative teams—Stuart and Lane in charge of one, Carol and Pam the other. Then she assigned several of the more urgent items on Brenda’s list.

“Everyone know where we’re going and what we’re doing?”

There was a chorus of acknowledgment.

“Good. I want both groups to work closely with one another on this. It all has to mesh. Let’s meet again on Wednesday afternoon to go over the preliminaries. If you have any questions, I plan to be in all week. Thanks, gang.” The meeting was over.

Samantha watched as they exited en masse. Pam and Carol were already sketching ideas in the air for the project. Between them, she knew she’d have some good, solid stuff by midweek. Samantha crossed her fingers and hoped the Rainiers would be just as excited.

The wait to find out how the Rainiers felt didn’t take long, or at least it seemed that way. The week flew by and before she knew it, she had delivered her pitch to Andrew Elliott and the rest of the Rainier managers and coaches.

“A skookum presentation! I like it.” Elliott pounded his cigar into the ashtray on his desk. He was about sixty years old with the energy of a teenager. His short, round frame and rosy cheeks held all the good humor of Santa Claus. Except when he was crossed. Then he could outdo both Scrooge and the Grinch. The cherubic exterior hid a core of pure steel.

“Thank you, Mr. Elliott. If you’re satisfied, we’ll get the first commercial ready to shoot in about a week.”

“It’s wonderful, Ms. James. The campaign’s shaping up to be a real corker. Just what this team needs.”

Samantha chuckled at his quaint colloquialism. “I’ll let your staff know where and when we begin shooting as soon as I make the final arrangements with the director and the camera people.” She shook Elliott’s soft, chubby hand. As gentle as his grasp felt, Samantha knew it cloaked the proverbial iron fist with which Elliott ruled his organization.

Before she won the contract with the Rainiers, Samantha had wondered why Elliott had let the organization run so far into the dirt. Fearlessly, she asked him that exact question early in their negotiations. She had a lot at stake by taking on a project this size. If the owner wasn’t committed to bringing the team up to par with the rest of the league, there was no reason to stick her company’s neck out. After all, the advertising contract only covered one season. If the team did well—that is, if the stands were full—it would be extended to the next season. The gamble was acceptable to Samantha only if Andrew Elliott had the wherewithal and desire to pull the team from the bottom of the standings. Otherwise, what was the point?

Her direct and candid question was one of the ways she had impressed Andrew Elliott. He admitted his mistake: turning too much power over to the wrong man. His confidence had been misplaced, and he had found out only after disaster struck. Consequently, ninety-nine percent of management had been fired—canned was his word. Now Elliott was making the decisions, and the team would change. Which was not saying it was a sure thing. If they didn’t improve, Elliott planned to put the whole kit and caboodle on the auction block and sell to the highest bidder. Samantha liked his honesty, and despite the high stakes, she had signed the contract.

“I’ll talk to you Monday morning. The team photos are scheduled for Tuesday. I left a copy of the details with your secretary.”

Once out of the office, Samantha did a little dance of elation. The campaign was going exactly as she had hoped. Impulsively, she decided to walk over to the ballpark. Where better to revel in this small success? Besides, inspiration had hit her there before. Maybe another bolt of ideas would come with a new visit. She still had to catch up to Boomer, too.

Management offices for the Rainiers were in a four-story structure just north of the stadium. As she strode toward the main entrance, she was struck by how little Sicks Stadium looked like a ballpark. With its brick-and-wood facade, the old structure looked more like a large factory. Inside, a pitched roof covered the horseshoe-shaped stands. Like other stadiums built in the early part of the last century, the playing field was open to the elements.

She showed her badge to the security guard and wound through the maze of tunnels to the field, following a path she had memorized on her first visit. She didn’t see anyone until she climbed out of the dugout onto the field: a few players and coaches stood near the bullpen. Samantha ignored them and slowly turned in a circle, taking in the entire spectacle.

Anticipation filled the air, as if the old building was waiting for the season to begin. After so many summers of baseball, so many games won and lost, maybe the fanciful sensation was true. Maybe this place, like the fans that would fill the seats, waited impatiently for winter to end and another long summer to begin. She laughed at herself: she had definitely been spending too much time thinking about baseball.

JARRETT PICKED UP A new ball, gripped it loosely and slowly pulled his arm back to throw. He went through a pantomime of a pitch in slow motion, not actually letting the ball leave his hand. He repeated the movement over and over, loosening his arm and shoulder muscles. As they warmed, he could feel them easing, a fluidness coming in where rigidity had previously lay. He exaggerated the motions of pitching to work his entire arm, up into his back, down to his legs and toes, preparing his body for the real thing, the whole business of muscle and bones working together in perfect harmony.

Or not.

Jarrett had once taken the gift of painless motion for granted. Not so long ago, those muscles worked perfectly, giving him the control to pitch a baseball however he chose, as fast as he chose. He could fine-tune each pitch to place it low or high, inside or out, with any sort of spin the catcher signaled. And speed? His fastball was a thing of glory. These days, he struggled to reach that perfect grace. When it did return, it was often accompanied by grinding pain.

Nor had he always been so aware of the muscles in his arm. He had known the names of the major muscle groups, but that was it. Now he knew, down to the tiniest connective tendon, the name and function of each part of his shoulder: deltoid, trapezius, teres minor, teres major, scapula. He swore he could feel each one during his slow warm-ups. Learning how his body worked had been one of the ways he had kept his sanity during the long recovery. He had thought that if he understood the anatomy, he could somehow heal faster. It had helped him focus during therapy. With every pinch of discomfort or stab of outright pain, Jarrett would name the muscle and think beyond the agony. He supposed his method had worked, since he was pitching a baseball again, but at a price. His shoulder never completely stopped hurting him and control was elusive.

“All right, Corliss,” the pitching coach yelled from the other end of the bullpen. “Let’s see some heat.”

Jarrett stepped up to the mound and took his stance. He tried not to think about anything at all. Just throw the ball. The first pitch was wild, and Jarrett winced. The second wobbled a bit, but made the strike zone. With each throw, he tried to place the ball where he wanted it to go. Speed would come later in the session.

The coach stood, arms folded across his chest, hat pulled low over his eyes. Jarrett couldn’t read his expression and hoped his own was as blank. Training was always this way, from bad to better with each pitch. He just wished he didn’t start at square one each day.

“Try dropping your shoulder a bit on the follow-through,” the coach said, coming toward Jarrett. He picked up a ball and mimed his request. “I think you’re too high when the ball is here. See?”

Jarrett continued his practice, but control came hard. A few balls would be on the money, but the next would fly wildly astray. He felt frustration rise, which did nothing to help his game. He knew the coach was unhappy, too. As they discussed another tactic, Jarrett caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. When he looked, he was surprised to see Samantha James climb the steps out of the dugout and walk onto the field. The coach spoke again and Jarrett wrenched his attention back to his job, but his concentration was abruptly shattered. What was she doing here? And how could he get away from practice long enough to talk with her?

He had spent considerable time thinking about the lovely advertising executive. He hadn’t had a chance to pursue his attraction to her, but here was his opportunity. If he could just get away for a moment. The coach tossed him a ball. Jarrett wound up and threw. Perfectly. He blinked.

“Hey! Whatever you did, do it again,” the coach demanded.

Jarrett followed orders, and the pitch sailed over the plate. Without a word, the coach threw him more balls, and Jarrett pitched them. Each one flew as good as the first. Control was suddenly back in his hands.

The coach walked up to Jarrett. “What’s the deal, Corliss? You been holding back all this time?”

“Not on purpose.” Jarrett was as amazed as the coach. Where had this control come from? He looked over to be sure Samantha hadn’t left yet and an idea occurred to him. “Maybe I’ve been using the wrong lucky charm,” he said slowly.

The coach followed his gaze and saw Samantha. “Nice. And better looking than that mangy rabbit’s foot Seibert wears around his neck. Is she yours?”

“No,” Jarrett admitted, sharing a grin with the other man. “But if you give me a break, I’ll make that a yes.”

The coach chuckled. “Sure, Corliss. Go for it.”

Jarrett pulled off his glove and opened the gate on the bullpen. As he jogged over to her, he remembered how hot her gaze had been, stroking along his skin. This time there would be no interruptions. There was no telling what progress he could make today. He was back in control.

THE SUN MAGICALLY APPEARED for a moment to brighten the wet grass of the infield. Samantha took a deep breath of air and smelled her past: early mornings spent at the ballpark with her father and brother before school started, the air cool and damp, the grass wet with dew. Here she was again, wondering why the game had fascinated so many for so long. And how could she make one team recapture that allure and fill all these seats? Was she the right person for the job? Too late for second thoughts, she reminded herself.

“If you’re looking for someone,” a voice announced, “he’s right behind you.”

Samantha spun to face the man she had consistently banished from her thoughts over the past week. “Jarrett!” she said. “I mean, Mr. Corliss.”

“The first name suits me best.” A slow, warm smile creased his face. “It’s right nice of you to come all the way over here to check on me.”

That smile, coupled with the gleam in his eyes, sent her heart fluttering. The visceral attraction she had felt in the locker room was back in full force. Samantha was breathless. She struggled once more to pull a cloak of professionalism over her jangled nerves. “I’m checking up on the whole team. Not just you.”

“Check up on me as much as you want, darlin’,” he drawled, a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re great for my game. As soon as I saw you standing over here, my pitches started smokin’.”

“Oh, stop,” Samantha said. “All this flattery makes my heart go pitty-pat.”

Jarrett laughed. “Can’t be flattery if it’s true.”

Samantha rolled her eyes at that. “I just stopped by to check on a couple of items for the ad campaign,” she said lightly. “We’ll be shooting the commercials soon.”

“On Tuesday?”

“No, that’s a photo shoot for new close-ups and team shots, things like that.” Samantha gave Jarrett a cool smile. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Mr. Corliss, but I have to get back to my office.”

She turned away, looking for the nearest exit, anxious to put distance between her and this too compelling man. He stepped close and stopped her, encircling her wrist lightly with calloused fingers.

“Not so fast, we’re just getting warmed up here.”

“The inning is over, Mr. Corliss. It’s time for you to go back to your dugout.”

“Come on, Sammy, I haven’t even had a chance to throw one yet. Have dinner with me tonight.”

The question surprised her. The impulse to say yes surprised her even more. “Strike one, Mr. Corliss.”