Page 62 of The Devil In Denim
“Tom said no?” Alex sounded surprised.
“My birthday’s the start of the season. Mr. Lee—he was the head of the groundskeepers back then—would’ve murdered someone if something had happened to the pitch. Every year I asked, and every year I ended up either on one of the training fields or whatever other brilliant idea someone came up with.” She smiled suddenly. “Until my eighteenth. That year Dad surprised me. Built a dance floor over half the diamond and paid the groundskeepers a massive bonus to fix all the damage before the first game. It was a great party. Everybody came. All the players and their families—even the ones who weren’t at the Saints anymore. All my friends.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It was. That was the cool part, there was always someone to hang out with. After—” She hesitated, unsure why she was even telling him this. Maybe it was just that no one at the Saints asked her about this stuff … after all, they knew the history.
“After your mom died?” he said gently after the silence stretched.
“Yes. After that, everyone just sort of made sure I was taken care of.” And now, she had to take care of them. She looked up at Alex, reminded of exactly why she’d made a deal with the devil. And, as he smiled down at her, looking ridiculously hot, reminded of exactly how dangerous dancing with the devil could be, no matter how easy he was to talk to. Time to steer the conversation to safer waters. “You said you had something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I do.” He leaned back in his seat, gazed out over the field. “So how do you feel about football?”
“Nice seats,” Maggie said dryly as they settled into them. The brown leather chairs were supple and welcoming. Much like the attendant who had materialized and was waiting to take their drinks order.
“The guy who owns the suite is a friend,” Alex said.
“Why does that not surprise me?”
“Says the girl who grew up sitting in the owner’s box,” Alex retorted. “Don’t throw stones in your shiny glass house there.”
This suite was a lot nicer than what the Saints provided. Of course, it helped that the stadium was practically brand-new and the Giants had, you know, money. “Actually I used to sneak out and try to get to the bullpen or the front rows somewhere. I like to be close to the action,” Maggie said.
Not to mention that away from the box she didn’t have to listen to all the boring business talk that had made her want to beg to be let out as a kid. She’d always loved the game but hadn’t developed her fascination with what went on behind it until she’d been about fifteen.
“Now that I do believe,” Alex said with a grin. “Next time I’ll see what I can do. But for now, we’re here. Where it’s warm,” he pointed out. “And there’s good booze.” He accepted the single malt he’d ordered from the attendant.
“There is that,” Maggie agreed, taking her own drink. She leaned forward, peering out of the window of the box at the crowd below. Then she saw someone who made her duck back quickly
“Crap,” she muttered.
“What?” Alex asked, looking concerned.
“Will Sutter,” Maggie said. “With Ramona Clarke.”
“I know Ramona,” Alex said. “She reps Brett, right? But who’s Sutter?”
“You didn’t meet Will at the party?” Maggie asked. She tried to remember if she’d introduced them at any stage. She’d tried to steer clear of Will and Ramona, so maybe not.
Alex’s brows drew together as if he was trying to place Will. “Sutter. Why do I know that name?”
“His dad was Jack Sutter. Oil. Owned a good chunk of Texas. I guess Will does now.”
Alex leaned forward to peer out the window. “That’s Jack Sutter’s son? The crew cut with Ramona?”
“Yes,” Maggie hissed. She grabbed his arm, urging him back. “Don’t let him see you, he’ll come smarming around.”
“You don’t like him?”
“He worked for the Saints for a while when I was still in high school, wanted to learn about baseball management. But he didn’t want to start at the bottom.”
“Says the owner’s daughter.”
“Hey, I used to file stuff and run the mail around when I started. That’s about as bottom as you can get.”
Alex held up his hands. “Okay. So he’s the impatient type.
“Yeah. Spoiled, I guess.” She didn’t mention the flirting or the fact that the WAGs had labeled him grabby.
