Wooing Cadie McCaffrey Read online

  But the fact of the matter was that most people didn’t come to work at ASN if they weren’t governed by their love of the game. Whichever game. At least one of the games. I knew I was an exception to the rule, and always had been, and that worked just fine for me. Spreadsheets don’t need color commentary, and they don’t go into overtime. What did go into overtime, however, pretty much every single day, was my work schedule. And when you work all the time, work is the best place to meet guys.

  It would be nice if once—just once—the guys weren’t sports guys.

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Swoosh. Well, thanks for your help with the cake and, you know . . . that whole embarrassing birthday debacle.”

  “Anytime,” he replied with a smile. “I guess I should get to this interview.”

  “Definitely. And if you hurry, maybe you can still catch Joe Montana.”

  He nodded appreciatively and made his way out the door and into the hallway. “This way?” he asked, pointing toward The Field.

  “Yep. Good luck.”

  I smiled at him and then turned back to my mess of a cake. A girl can’t afford to be a cake snob on her thirtieth birthday, so I began the arduous task of scraping the wax onto a paper plate, salvaging as much of the frosting as possible. It took several minutes, but I tackled it with the precision of a neurosurgeon, sucking on wax chunks as necessary so nothing went to waste. Of course it was just as I had stuffed another giant dollop of icing into my mouth that he showed up at my door again.

  “So, I’m going to venture a guess and say you’re not really turning fifty years old today. Correct?”

  I gulped down my glob of sugary indulgence as quickly as I could and turned to face him. “That is correct.”

  He was in the doorframe, leaning against one side of it, one leg crossed in front of the other, his arms mirroring the position. He really was cute, my second viewing confirmed. And he got even cuter as a wide grin overtook his entire face.

  “What?” I asked, my own smile growing by leaps and bounds at the sight of his.

  “Black frosting,” he replied as he took one step back into my office.

  I still didn’t understand what he found so amusing, but as long as his amusement kept resulting in that smile, no one would hear me complain. Finally, he realized that I had no clue why we were staring at each other with goofy expressions on our faces.

  “Black frosting,” he repeated. And then he took yet another step. “It’s . . . well . . .” He chuckled softly and then said, one more time, “Black frosting.” But this time the words were accompanied by a general sweeping motion across his own mouth and pearly whites, and I understood.

  “What’s your point?” I asked, hoping that my self-assured demeanor was at least somewhat believable. “I refuse to allow the world’s prejudice against food coloring–stained teeth and lips to stand in the way of my birthday celebration. After all, a thirty-year-old only turns fifty once. Or twice potentially, I suppose.”

  “Very true.” He nodded and smiled and then stepped farther into the room—closer to me, and then closer still. It had been quite a while since I had felt any sort of chemistry with any guy, or even been somewhat attracted to one, so to be attracted and feel a spark was almost enough to make me wonder if my two important birthday realizations from earlier in the day had just been the sad, pathetic musings of a woman desperately grasping at straws upon waking to discover she was no longer in her twenties.

  But then the cute stranger with the slightly too-big nose and the slightly asymmetrical eyes—and the absolutely bewitching smile—walked straight over to my cake and used his fingers to dig into the thickest patch of black icing he could find. He turned to face me and grinned the toothiest grin you can imagine—and his teeth were the stuff of Halloween legend, just like mine. Then I knew—or at least I suspected, or at least I really, really hoped—that those two realizations had been rendered obsolete. My smitten brain was already working on the revisions.

  1) I didn’t need a man in my life in order to be happy or fulfilled. But having the right man in my life certainly wouldn’t stand in the way of happiness or fulfillment.

  2) My chances of meeting and falling in love with a man—and having him fall in love with me—would increase exponentially if I lowered my standards. But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t be pleasantly surprised by someone actually raising the standard. And it didn’t mean that someone who raised the standard wouldn’t be . . . better.

  “So, you’re thirty?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of me as his icing-stained fingers went back for seconds. I laughed and nodded. “What other lies has this cake told? I bet your name isn’t really Palie at all, is it?”

  My eyebrow rose. “No, it isn’t.” I peeked at the smeared, waxy icing, which now said, “Harpy soy Birdbay, Palie!” and started cracking up. “You think my name is Palie? And . . . today is my thirtieth birdbay?”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem quite right, I confess,” he said. “But really, your name . . . how old you are . . . none of that matters. What really matters is that you have a harpy soy birdbay. So . . . has it been a harpy birdbay, Palie?”

  It’s getting better all the time. “Yes, thank you. It’s been pretty harpy.”

  “Good.” He smiled and looked down at his shuffling feet. Once he looked down, he realized he was fidgeting and put a stop to it. “I’m Will Whitaker, by the way,” he said, raising his eyes to meet mine once more. He began to stretch out his arm to shake my hand but quickly realized the staining was not just reserved for his face. With a laugh he stuck out his left hand instead. I would have met it with my left hand, but I was even more untouchable than he was, so I awkwardly shook his hand with the pinky finger and thumb of my right hand.

  I finally told him my name as I laughed and shook my head at the absurdity of it all. “Cadie. Cadie McCaffrey.”

  “Ah yes.” He nodded. “That suits you so much more than Palie.”

  I would have gladly stood there, being amused by each other, all day long, but the thought suddenly occurred that I had work to do—and he was supposed to be in an interview.

  “Oh my gosh.” My eyes flew open as his had earlier when he’d realized he was running late. And now he was very late. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Kevin?”

  “He was busy with Joe Cool. We’re meeting in a few minutes.”

  “Joe Cool?” I repeated, my men-who-love-sports trepidation rising back to the surface.

  “You know . . . Joe Cool. Joe Montana.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “I figured.”

  “You’re not a Montana fan?” When I didn’t reply and just shrugged my shoulders, he pushed further. “Not a football fan?” I bit my lip and still said nothing. “Not a sports fan?” he asked incredulously.

  “No, I’m really not.”

  That was it. I knew that was it. See ya, Will Whitaker—ye of the shaggy head full of hair and the tiny little dimples that had already presented themselves as an added benefit of making him laugh. If there was one thing I knew from experience, it was that I wasn’t nearly as opposed to dating sports guys as they were opposed to dating someone who didn’t understand the first thing about their greatest passion.

  “Okay.” He shrugged, the intensity of his eye contact and the sparkle in his eyes not fading one little bit.

  Hang on. What?

  “But listen,” he continued. “You don’t have to like sports to still appreciate Joe Cool. Montana was the best of all time. It didn’t matter what was happening on the field all around him—his head was always exactly where it needed to be. He could size up fifty yards of chaos in an instant, and zero in on exactly the right play at exactly the right moment. He’s the reason I fell in love with football. He made me realize that sports—when done right—isn’t just about strength and speed and agility and all of that. Yeah, Montana had an arm like no one else, but he’s in the Hall of Fame because of his brain.”

  I have to admit, Will Whitaker had found a way to m
ake sports talk somewhat interesting to me. And a little bit of that may have even had something to do with Joe Montana.

  A very little bit.

  “Will?” I began with a smile.

  “Yes?”

  “It sounds like Joe Montana is a hero of yours.”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, so you need to get over to The Field. Run to the men’s room, splash some water on your teeth, and go meet your hero! What are you doing standing around here?”

  The corner of his mouth rose once again, and the shuffling feet returned—but this time, he didn’t look down at them. His eyes never left mine.

  “I needed to see if you have plans tonight. Because, if not, I’d love to take you out for your birdbay.” He leaned in slightly and added, in a near whisper, “That would make me very harpy.”

  Ladies and gentlemen: the meet-cute.

  1

  Four Years Later. To the Day.

  What a difference four years can make.

  I sniffed and dabbed at my eyes as I scrolled through the countless photos on my phone. Selfies on roller coasters; shots of beautiful scenery, taken on weekends when we got out of the city and drove upstate; Central Park, covered in snow—serving its premiere purpose as a worthy backdrop in every picture I could manage to sneak of him.

  Those were always my favorites. The sneak attack photos. When he knew I was taking his picture, it was as if his face wasn’t capable of a non-goofy expression. And I liked those too. But when I caught him taking in his surroundings, delighting in . . . anything? Well, that was when Will Whitaker was the most photogenic man on the planet.

  I hadn’t taken a sneak attack photo of him in almost a year. Actually, I had to go back six months to even find any photo of him at all.

  If no longer feeling compelled to snap adoring photos of the person you’re supposed to be in love with isn’t a sign that the relationship’s in trouble, I don’t know what is.

  I threw my phone against the cushions of the couch and stood—finally resolved. That phone call had pushed me as far as I was willing to go. I crossed to the mirror beside the front door.

  “Okay, that won’t do,” I told myself upon witnessing the brown-black mascara circles underneath my eyes. I hurried to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. “What’s your rush, Cadie?” I muttered. “It’s not like you have anywhere to be for ‘A day or two. Three at the most.’” I groaned as I repeated his completely noncommittal brush-off.

  I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on time. At least not for a date with me. For work? Sure. Kickoff? You bet. He’d never so much as missed a performance of the national anthem. Punctuality was, apparently, completely unnecessary for evenings with his girlfriend. But cancelling altogether? That hadn’t happened very often at all before tonight.

  Four years.

  The number seemed to magnify and expand each time it entered my thoughts. The number of years had felt like a huge, wonderful accomplishment back when I thought Will and I were building toward something—and a huge, disastrous waste of time now that I finally accepted that we weren’t. And if we weren’t building toward something, it had to end. That was all there was to it.

  Work would be awkward, of course. I wasn’t looking forward to that. But it wasn’t as if either of us ever had much reason to visit the area where the other worked—and we’d have even less reason now. In fact, I’d be perfectly content if I never had to step on The Field again, whether Will worked there or not.

  I dropped the white washcloth covered in dark smudges into the sink. “Who cares?” I groaned.

  I stared into the mirror, but I wasn’t looking at the remnants of makeup, or the angry red hue of my fair skin, splotchy from crying and agitated further by my careless use of the washcloth. I wasn’t even looking at the constellation of freckles across my nose, which had once made me self-conscious until Will convinced me they were one of his favorite things.

  I was trying to see deeper than that. What was it about me that would never be enough for him? I knew my flaws, and of course Will knew my flaws. But he still called me his girlfriend. He still professed his love for me. Nothing had ever made him run. Nothing had ever caused him to seek comfort in the arms of another woman or to grow bitter with me.

  Nothing had ever caused him to ask me to be his forever, either.

  I could play it tough all day long and put up the defenses that had to be in place in order to keep from being destroyed by him, but staring in the mirror, with only my doubts and fears and fragile heart to guide me, I knew I was in very real danger. My heart had been claimed long ago. It belonged to Will Whitaker for as long as it was beating. And I didn’t know how it would survive the final, painful realization that he didn’t love me quite enough to give me his in return.

  I stopped in my tracks, midway between the bathroom and the kitchen, where the cold, congealed marinara sat in its pan and unlit candles sat on the table, taunting me.

  Am I actually going to end things?

  Tears pooled in my eyes as I thought of it all as an inevitability for the first time. No more trying to figure out how to keep things fresh. No more wondering if something had caused him to lose interest—if something had caused me to lose interest—or if our ho-hum monotony was normal for couples who had been together as long as we had. No more dropping hints about marriage. No more disappointment each time another significant date or special occasion concluded without a proposal.

  No more walking through doors that he held open for me. No more laughing together at four years’ worth of inside jokes, lost in a language that only he and I understood. No more of that bewitching smile, reserved just for me.

  Stop it, Cadie. I couldn’t afford to spend time thinking about all I would lose by ending my relationship with Will—not when there was so much to gain. After all, I had had two very important realizations.

  1) I didn’t need to get married in order to be happy or fulfilled.

  2) My chances of convincing myself I actually believed realization number one would increase exponentially if Will Whitaker was out of my life.

  2

  About Twenty-five Minutes Earlier . . .

  Are you absolutely sure, Will?” Kevin asked—all eyes on the guy at the table who really needed to be sure.

  “Yes. Of course I’m sure,” Will replied, almost as sure as he was trying to convey that he was.

  If there were two things Will had learned in his four years at ASN, they were that Kevin loved it when The Daily Dribble staff stuck their necks out and made bold assertions, and that he hated it when their bold assertions proved to be incorrect.

  “You can trust me on this,” Will continued. “There’s going to be a doping story break, some of baseball’s biggest names are going to be at the center of it, and it’s going to break before the World Series.”

  “Who’s your source?” Lorenzo Bateman asked from across the table.

  Will raised his eyebrow. “I think you know I’m not going to tell you that, Enzo.”

  Enzo sat up taller in his seat in an attempt to intimidate, but he always seemed to be the one person who forgot he wasn’t the least bit intimidating, in any way. Lorenzo Bateman worked in legal and sported less of an imposing presence than even Will, the only other person in the room who had never been a professional athlete.

  “Okay then,” Enzo pushed with a sigh. “How big are we talking?”

  Will took a deep breath, ready to put it all on the line. “Big enough that, if my source is correct, we may not have a World Series this year.”

  “Oh, come on!” Enzo retorted through his laughter.

  His deep chortles seemed strangely out of place considering everyone else in the room had been consumed by completely silent shock.

  Kevin cleared his throat. “Hey, everyone, can you please give us the room for a few minutes?”

  This can’t be good, Will thought, though he refused to back down. He was sure about this. Absolutely positive. His sourc
e was ironclad, the intel was indisputable, and most importantly, his gut told him he was right.

  “That means you too, Enzo,” Kevin boomed, and the lawyer made his way out into the hallway along with everyone else. Suddenly, Kevin and Will were alone, and Will was completely aware that his career was on the line.

  “Okay, Kev . . . listen. I’m sure about this. If I’m wrong, fire me. But if I’m right, I just can’t stand the thought of any of the other networks getting the exclusive. Can you?”

  “Will—”

  “Besides, wouldn’t it really be more surprising if it weren’t true?”

  Kevin did a double take. “You think it would be more surprising if we weren’t about to encounter the biggest scandal in baseball since 1919?”

  “Yes.” Will nodded and remained resolute, though he couldn’t help but realize that maybe he’d overshot somewhat. “Surprising” was difficult to defend. But he hadn’t come this far to not even try. “We’ve been hearing the stories coming down the pipeline for years, Kev. And then the stories have magically disappeared. And if they’re magically disappearing, someone must be making them magically disappear.”

  “Sure. Yes. You bet.” Kevin lifted his giant frame from the chair at the head of the conference table and began pacing the room. “I’m with you on all of that. I guess what I don’t understand is why you’re so sure they aren’t going to magically disappear this time.”

  “Because . . .” Will took a deep breath and glanced around the room cautiously. No one else was present and the door was shut, but it still didn’t feel secure enough. He walked to the windows and drew the blinds before facing his boss and saying, “Because my source is the Magician.”

  A proud, surreal disposition overtook Will as he reflected on how perfectly he had managed that moment. He felt like Kevin Costner confronting James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams, and Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman taking on Nixon in All the President’s Men—all at once.