Diamond in the Rough. Marie Ferrarella
a cardinal rule.”
“I don’t remember ‘Thou shalt not bet’ being one of the Ten Commandments.”
“It is in baseball,” he pointed out. “If you’re a player.”
“And God forgives—but the baseball commissioner doesn’t, is that it?” she asked sarcastically. On the way over here, she’d promised herself that she’d keep her temper, but she’d had all these feelings bottled up inside for so long. It seemed to her that no one, no one had taken her father’s side in this.
“Something like that,” Mike answered. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like the type to be a baseball groupie.”
She’d always hated that term, hated the connotation associated with it: mindless people who blindly followed a team or a player. There was far more to being a true fan of the game than that.
“I’m not,” she retorted. “I just love the game. And, I hate injustice.”
“So you think that Shaw got a raw deal.”
“I know he got a raw deal. The man played his heart out at every game. Nothing, but nothing came before baseball for him. The so-called ‘offense’ took place over ten years ago. The statute of limitations runs out in seven years for everything but murder. Don’t you think it’s only fair that it run out here, too?”
Maybe, if SOS had had this woman pleading his case, the commission might have been swayed, he mused. She certainly was passionate enough about her cause. “Like I said, baseball has different rules.”
Miranda shook her head. “Baseball is the all-American game and America stands for justice, or so we like to think.”
“Why are you so adamant about Shaw?” he asked. “From what I hear, the man’s almost a recluse.”
“He was,” she corrected. A hint of pride came into her voice. “Right after the car accident.”
It had been touch-and-go for a while. Her father had even been in a coma and some thought he’d never recover. But he did, or at least his body had. But even that was not entirely true. In the last ten years, five operations were needed to make him whole again. Fixing his spirit, however, took even more effort.
“But he’s set to start coaching a Little League team now and he’s finally coming out of his shell.”
Mike thought of all his failed attempts at getting an interview. The woman had really aroused his interest now. Maybe this would was the key to getting to the man. “Sounds as if you know a lot about him.”
For a moment, Miranda debated shrugging off his assumption, but that would be lying. And it would seem as if she was ashamed of being Shaw’s daughter and she wasn’t. She believed in her father, she always had. She was proud to be his daughter, proud of what the man had accomplished. His being banned from baseball didn’t change that. Just made her that much more protective of him.
More than anything in the world, she wanted to get her father inducted into the hall of fame. He’d earned the honor. He deserved it.
This sportswriter still waited for an answer. “I make it my business to,” she told him.
She saw interest flare in Mike Marlowe’s deep blue eyes.
Miranda didn’t often act on impulse. Something told her that she’d made a mistake coming here.
Chapter Three
“Do you know SOS personally?”
As he asked the question, Mike could feel his pulse accelerating. He tried to talk himself down. It was too much to hope for, stumbling across a private in with Shaw.
He caught himself hoping anyway. In all ways but one—maintaining lasting relationships—Mike thought of himself as an optimistic guy. And this whimsical meeting might just be the opportunity of his young career.
He glanced at the woman on the bar stool next to his and waited for an answer. He was more than a little convinced that she would affirm his hunch.
Miranda blew out a breath. No doubt about it, this was a mistake. She should have never agreed to this meeting, never mind that she had been the one to suggest it in the heat of the moment. It was a mistake, pure and simple.
Served her right for letting her emotions get the better of her. In that respect, she’d taken after her mother, not her father. Being stoic, like SOS, was simply not in her nature.
Although, God knew she tried. But any good intentions had died the second she’d read Marlowe’s column. Someone had to speak up for her father. And look where that had gotten her. Tap dancing madly around words in a sports bar, edging away from an overly eager, overly handsome sportswriter.
Time to retreat.
Miranda slid off the bar stool and slipped her purse strap onto her shoulder. “I have to go,” she told him with finality.
Mike read between the lines. Her evasive action told him what he wanted to know. God, but he was glad he’d answered her e-mail. “You do know him personally, don’t you?”
She hated lying, but she also understood the kind of floodgates that could be opened if she admitted knowing SOS, much less that the former pitcher was her father. She’d been through this more than once.
Still, the word No refused to form on her lips this time.
“And if I do?” Miranda hedged.
The excitement built within him. “Then I’d fall to my knees right here and start to beg.”
That wasn’t what she was expecting him to say. Amused, she asked, “That might be interesting, but why would you go to such lengths?”
He felt not unlike Aladdin holding the magic lamp in his hands, about to come in contact with the genie for the first time. “For you to use your influence with SOS so that I could land an interview with him.”
She knew without having to ask that no way in hell would her father go along with an interview. It had taken her a long time to get the man to communicate with her beyond a few precise words at a time. He wasn’t the kind of man to talk to strangers, much less bare his soul to a journalist. Her father was, at bottom, a very private, very shy man. He always had been. She couldn’t remember his ever having given an interview. Certainly not since Ariel’s death.
And with each devastating incident that occurred in his life—Ariel’s death, his divorce, her mother’s passing, the scandal and finally, the car accident—her father had just grown more reticent and distant. Even in the best of times, he wasn’t someone who liked listening to the sound of his own voice. He preferred doing to talking.
Looking at Mike, she shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck there—”
“On my own, yes,” he agreed, talking quickly, “but I’ve never met anyone who actually had access to the man before.”
Miranda had learned how to bob and weave with the best of them. “I didn’t say I did,” she reminded him.
“You didn’t say you didn’t.”
Fair enough, she thought. He had her there. But she could remedy that. It meant a small white lie about knowing her father. “Okay, I don’t know him.”
Mike smiled broadly. “Too late, Miranda. I don’t believe you.”
Her stomach tightened when he said her name, and she didn’t like it. She really needed to get going.
Miranda shook her head. “That has no bearing on the situation.”
As she began to leave, Mike stunned her by doing exactly as he’d proposed. He fell to his knees right in front of her, impeding her exit. He caught hold of her wrist—preventing her from just walking around him to the front door.
“Please.” The entreaty seemed