Diamond in the Rough

Miranda almost laughed then. If ever there was a man devoid of ego, it was her father. He wasn’t an easy man to know, keeping everything to himself, but she knew that much. In a world where people were eager to take credit for an accomplishment, her father had always tried to keep out of the limelight. He shunned publicity, both the good and then the bad, wanting only to play the game he loved.

“No, not exactly a fan,” she finally acknowledged. If he’d admired his own work—or more importantly, himself—she felt he would have at least attempted to speak up in his own defense rather than stoically accept the commission’s ruling that he be barred from baseball. “But he understands the man.” As well as anyone could, she added silently.

Her answer only raised more questions. He could see where his article would generate her terse response if her father was a diehard SOS fan and she’d been indoctrinated from the time she was a little girl, but obviously, that wasn’t the case.

Mike tried again. “He a gambler, too?”

The smile disappeared and her eyes, an incredible shade of sky-blue, darkened visibly.

“No, he’s not.”

As a matter of fact, except for that one incident that had brought him down, as far as she knew, her father never gambled. The one time she’d asked him about the details of the incident, he’d watched her for a long moment, then told her to leave it alone. She’d done as he’d asked, but that didn’t keep her from wondering.

Mike felt as if he was trying to find his way through an elaborate maze in the dark. “So you just decided to champion Shaw on your own.” He leaned forward, creating an intimate space for the two of them. “If you don’t mind my asking, why?”

That was why she was here, she reminded herself. “Because Steven Shaw doesn’t deserve to be remembered for one isolated moment of weakness, not when he had such an outstanding career from start to finish.”

She had a point, but that didn’t change the way things were. “Human nature,” he told her philosophically. “People tend to remember the bad rather than the good. Especially when they feel they’ve been betrayed.”

Miranda raised her chin defensively. He liked the way fire came into her eyes. “He didn’t betray anyone,” she protested.

Now, there she was wrong. “His fans felt differently. They believed in him.”

“And one transgression changes all that? What kind of fickle fans are they?” she demanded, passion growing in her voice. “For God’s sake, he didn’t kill anyone. He placed a stupid bet.”

Other men could place bets, but not a baseball player. She ought to understand that. “The man broke 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?”