The Off-Season
an excerpt

He rolled onto his side. “So what is it that you do?”
She laughed. “I own a bed and breakfast.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“On Cape Cod?”
“Very good. Yes, on Cape Cod. Well, the locals say ‘on the Cape.’”
“Wow. That’s awesome.”
“Thanks. I inherited it from my grandmother.”
“Really? Family tradition?”
“You might say that.”
“Where on the Cape is it?”
“I told you. It’s in a town called Dennis.”
“But where’s that?”
“Do you know Cape Cod geography?”
“Not really,” he admitted.
“I’ll show you. Make a muscle.”
“What?”
“Your arm. Make a muscle.”
He obliged, confused.
“Your hand is Provincetown,” she said, tracing down to his elbow with her finger. “Then it goes Truro, Wellfleet and Eastham. Your elbow is Orleans, Chatham, Harwich and Brewster. And right here,” she said, pulling her finger in just an inch from his elbow, “is Dennis. It’s considered mid-Cape.”

“So that wasn’t a dream? Because when I woke up this morning and you weren’t here, I panicked until I remembered that you called me. But I swear, I thought that was just a dream.”
“It wasn’t a dream. Can you pass the orange juice?”
“You actually spent the night with Ian Whiting?” Mark said incredulously as he flipped a chocolate chip pancake. “Do you want confectioners sugar on this?”
“That would be great. Yes, of course I did. Where else would I have gone last night?” She was starting to get annoyed.
“It’s just so…”
“Why is it so surprising that someone like Ian would be interested in someone like me?” She knew why it was surprising. She was just daring them to say it.
“OK, that’s not what we meant,” Lizzie said, easing into a chair and slicing strawberries. “It’s not that he wouldn’t be interested in you. It’s that he’s so… and you’re so…”
“So… what?”
“He’s so cocky, that’s all. He’s so full of himself. You don’t like guys like that, that’s all. You like them smart and quiet and sensitive.”
“She’s not going to have a relationship with him or anything,” Mark said, setting a plate of pancakes on the table in front of him before taking his place.
Of course she’d known that, on some level, but hearing it spoken as an obvious fact was a stab in the heart. That must have shown on her face.
“Oh, Emily, he didn’t mean—“
“No, I know. It’s OK. But really, you didn’t get to know him. He really can be very sweet. He was a gentleman. And it’s not like I do this all the time, you know. I haven’t ever just gone home with a guy.”
“I know you don’t! You would have told me.”
“I gave him my number. I’m sure he’ll call me at some point.” She shrugged. “It was fun,” she said, feigning nonchalance. She noted the look that passed between Mark and Lizzie and sighed. “He was sweet.”

One week later, and still no word from Ian. Emily brewed herself a cup of tea using the catnip leaves that she’d dried that summer. She dropped a few on the floor for Arnie, who pounced on them and began to roll around. Catnip tea had the opposite effect on her; it was a natural calming agent.
She dropped the tea ball into the steaming mug and carried it out into the living room of her own private quarters. She clicked on the TV and started flipping channels. Baseball was on three channels. She groaned. She did not want to hear about baseball again for a very long time.
But that wasn’t actually true. Just that morning she’d done a Google search on Ian to see which city he was sleeping in that night. She’d thought up funny things to say to him if he called, ways to console him if they’d lost, ways to congratulate him on a win.
She’d even checked to see that the phone still had a dial tone twice since the reunion. She’d been breezy on the phone when Lizzie called.
“Ian who?” she’d joked, her heard a lump of lead. She didn’t want to believe that she’d been used. She didn’t want to believe that she’d just been another notch in his bedpost. She wanted to know that she’d meant something to him, anything at all.
But of course he hadn’t called. He was busy. He was working. He was playing, really, but that was his work, and he had to concentrate on that. He couldn’t be bothered right now . The Yankees, she knew in spite of herself, were doing well. The playoffs were coming up, and they’d be vying for a spot in the World Series. He needed to concentrate on that. Who had time for women at a time like that? After the World Series, she was sure she’d get a call from him, friendly and happy, wanting to see the Cape in autumn for himself. She could be patient. In the meantime, she would drink her tea.

“Oh, my God!”
“What?” Emily asked groggily into the phone. It was only six o’clock in the morning. Lizzie was never up this early unless she had to be. “Is it the baby?”
“What? No! I’m not due until next month!”
“So what is it?”
“Turn on ESPN. Turn it on right now.”
“I don’t even know if I get ESPN.”
“Check your TV guide. Find it. Hurry.”
“OK, OK. Relax. What’s the matter?” She clicked on the TV and started to browse the channels until she landed on ESPN. A newscaster was sitting behind a desk reading something off a teleprompter. What was more interesting was the photo of Ian in the top right corner of the screen with the words Steroid Scandal underneath. “Oh my God!”
“I know! Have you heard from him at all?”
“No. He was in Chicago last night, though.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s where the Yankees played last night,” she said simply. “What are they saying?”
“He’s apparently been taking steroids for months now. They’re going to make him submit to a test.”
“What if it comes back positive?”
“He can’t play baseball anymore. Plus possible jail time.”
“Are you serious?”
“I guess they don’t mess around with this stuff.”
“Wow,” she breathed. “Poor Ian.”
“Poor Ian? Emily! The guy has dragged you through the muds and back and now he’s getting a little karma and all you can say is ‘Poor Ian?’”
“Hey, he didn’t force me to do anything.”
“I know, but still.”
“He hasn’t actually done anything to me.”
“Not actively, no. But think about it. He broke your heart.”
“He did not.”
“Yes, he did. And now he’s getting what he deserves. You shouldn’t be feeling bad for poor Ian. Poor Ian will be just fine. Eventually. After he goes to jail.”

When she was finally done with her 20 minute run, she trudged back up her driveway and into the house, sweaty and winded. She went to the main front door so she could retrieve the newspaper, and swung the heavy door open. It was never locked. She stepped inside, scanning the headlines, and nudged the door shut with her hip. When she glanced sideways into the living room, she caught a glimpse of a man sleeping on her couch, and she involuntarily gasped loudly. She dropped the newspaper and put a hand to her heart, the thought at the moment being that she’d just done her run to keep her heart calm. The man raised a hand to his face and removed the baseball cap that he was using to cover it. He pulled himself up and rubbed his eyes.
“Good morning,” he said sheepishly.
“Ian! I thought you were in Chicago,” she said, before it occurred to her not to admit that she was following baseball now.