Part 3

Games People Play

Peter Davis walked down the hill towards the driving range, his metal spikes clacking on the concrete of the cart path. He was running a little late and hoped he hadn't missed all of Laura Kasdan's warm-up. One of the cart boys had told him that she had walked out to the practice tee a little before six, and that everything was ready for her, just like they planned yesterday. Peter hoped all of the day's plans would fall as neatly into place.

There was still a little fog but he could see the tall figure swinging a club loosely and hear the sound of solid contact with the ball. He stepped onto the grass, which muffled the sound of the spikes and approached from behind, marveling at the clean elegance of her swing. Dressed in a white sleeveless polo shirt and khaki shorts, her skin had the red gold tan that spoke of hours spent in the sun. A tan cap covered the dark hair and a ponytail was pulled through the opening in the back. Stepping up to the slight rise he noticed that she was barefoot, white feet contrasting with the bronze of her legs. It was a little surprising, and he felt a smile spread involuntarily across his face.

Her concentration broken, Laura stepped back and looked over at the handsome golf pro. "Morning." She stepped over to her bag and picked up a towel, carefully wiping off the club head and then the grip. "Looks like we'll have a pretty good day. A little putting practice and I'll be good to go." She sat down on a plastic chair that one of the cart boys had gotten for her earlier and started to pull on her socks.

"Why practice barefoot?" The pro asked.

"Spikes will give you traction when you're playing, but I've found that if I practice some barefoot, it helps my balance." She clapped the soles of her shoes together a couple of times to remove the grass clippings clumped on them, then slid her feet in, tying double knots.

"No soft spikes?"

"Can't stand 'em." She answered, referring to the plastic spikes that had been developed to save wear and tear on the greens. "If I could wear two inch cleats, I would. With my swing, using soft spikes would probably cost me about two or three strokes a round." Laura hoisted the black nylon golf bag over her right shoulder, bouncing a little to settle it and they started walking up to the putting green. "Besides, I like the way they sound on pavement."

Dropping the bag on the side of the practice area, Laura unzipped a side pocket and fished out several balls, tossing them to the still wet grass. "Give me about ten minutes...You said you dug up some caddies?" Peter nodded. "Real caddies or just two bodies to hump the bags?"

He smiled, "We do a men's Nike tournament here and these guys are usually part of the caddy pool, so they know what they're doing."

"Well, with everyone going to carts, it's a dying art." Pulling out her putter, she knocked the balls toward the closest hole, then arranged them in a straight line about two feet away. Twirling the putter flexed her wrist, and she leaned over the first of the balls. "It makes me nervous when people watch me practice, " She said dryly, "I'll meet you up at the clubhouse."

"Sure," Peter said without taking offense. "I was just curious about the routine."

Six golf balls found their way to the bottom of the cup in rapid succession. Straightening, Laura used the short flag to flip them out and started to arrange them again, this time about four feet from the hole. "It's a new course for me, I don't have a routine yet."

"So it's different every time?"

Laura paused to think about the question. "Yeah, I guess it is. Sometimes I can't wait to just swing the driver and hit it as hard as I can...without warming up on the shorter clubs...I know that's a no-no." She putted two balls into the hole. "Other times I just want to hit the course cold...maybe just a little putting first. It depends on my mood, I guess." Four more balls went in, and she retrieved them, throwing them out about twelve feet.

"Okay then. I'll see you in a bit."

Peter got a short grunt in reply, so he left to make sure that the caddies were ready. Reaching the clubhouse, he found the two young men standing outside smoking, both of them with hats pulled low and towels slung over their shoulders. They grinned as he approached. "How's she hitting 'em?" The shorter of the two asked.

"Didn't really see much, but we'll find out soon enough. You guys ready?" At their nod, Peter checked his watch. "Jeremy, why don't you take her bag since you have more experience...That okay with you, Brett?"

"Fine by me. What's she like anyway?"

The scrape of metal spikes on the cart path interrupted them and they turned to see the subject of their discussion walking toward them. Peter hid a smile as he observed the caddies' reaction to the woman. Not at all what you were expecting, huh guys? She set her bag on its end and introduced herself; "I'm Kaz, thanks for coming out."

Jeremy couldn't believe his luck. She didn't look like any lady golfer he'd ever seen...a body to die for, and eyes he couldn't get enough of. He stammered a bit when he told her his name and grinned at Brett's look of envy as he took possession of her bag. It was already worth it to get up early on a Saturday, and he was glad that Peter had talked him into it.

The four of them made their way to the first tee, stopping at the blues, the longer tees that presented the course at its most challenging. Usually only the men with low handicaps hit from there, and Laura expected it from Peter. He apparently didn't expect it from her. He handed her a yardage book and she looked at it briefly before stuffing it in her back pocket. "Which tees?" he asked.

"These will do."

"Makes it kinda long for a woman doesn't it?"

She smirked, "Long is not a problem."

One of the caddies coughed to cover a laugh, and Peter waved her up to the box. "Ladies first." Then stood back, crossing his arms over his chest, ego smugly in place.

Laura stepped up to the marker assessing the hole. 510 yard par 5, slight dogleg right, the turn starts at about 225. Jeremy handed her the driver and she pulled a ball out of her pocket, leaned over and teed it up only about an inch. Stepping back she mentally pictured the flight of the ball and where she wished it to land. Taking a practice swing, she made one adjustment. Finally she addressed the ball and in that moment of quiet, Laura was at perfect peace.

Then the swing uncoiled in a perfect balance of power and speed built over years and maintained with hours of long practice, resulting in the ball exploding off the tee to fly down the middle of the fairway moving slightly from left to right, conquering the dogleg and landing some 275 yards from where it was struck.

"Oh my god," Jeremy breathed, and Laura smiled with satisfaction. Handing him her club, she gave a low laugh. "Didn't get all of it."

Not to be outdone, Peter stepped up, and after several practice swings he sent a ball in the same direction as Laura's, landing some ten yards behind hers. Hiding his chagrin he said, "That'll play." Jeremy and Brett shouldered the bags and the four of them started down the fairway, the green of the grass muted by the ground fog, which had yet to burn off.

They walked along in silence, both enjoying the early stillness. They arrived at Peter's ball first, and while he was preparing to hit, Laura drank from a water bottle she pulled from her bag. She looked up at the sound of contact, it was a decent shot, but short of the green. He's not getting enough extension, she thought.

Walking up to her ball, she figured she was about 235 yards out. Flipping out the yardage book she walked forward to where a sprinkler head was marked with 230. Pacing back to the ball she congratulated herself on her accuracy. "Gimme the 3 wood Jeremy." The caddy was already pulling the club, stripping off the cover and handing it to her. She took aim and swung. This time she got it all, and the ball bounced on the front of the green finishing its journey about twelve feet below the hole. Pleased, she gave the club back to the caddy, and without looking back at any of the three men she strode toward the green, stripping off the glove as she went and tucking it in the waistband at the back of her shorts.

Beautiful course, and it suits your game...you can probably get in thirty six holes today and the same tomorrow. Wait, you told Chris you might go to the softball game. She stopped, waiting for Peter's chip to the green. "Good shot," she told him as it landed within four feet of the hole. What's more important, this or softball?

This is, Laura told herself as Jeremy passed her putter over. Marking the ball placement, she flipped it to the caddy to clean. You didn't promise. Crouching behind her marker, she checked the line of the putt looking for any possible break. Thoughtfully she walked around to check from the other side. Nice to start off with an eagle if you could. Ahh, you know better than to count your chickens... She replaced the ball and took a few practice strokes trying to even out the rhythm of the motion, and finally lined up the putt, imagining its path. A smooth tap sent the ball on its way, but it was too far right, the break never happened, and it stopped less than a foot past the hole. Time to lay off the caffeine. With a tight smile, Laura tapped it in for a birdie 4.

Peter nodded, and his eyes narrowed over his own putt. His familiarity with the green worked to his advantage and the ball dove into the cup after a strong confident putt. The birdie put Peter in a better mood and they left the green, caddies scurrying behind them. Writing on her scorecard as she walked, Laura found herself considering the softball game again, and she could almost see the disappointment in the green eyes. Yeah, she'll be disappointed, so what? She can learn to live with it like the rest of us. But I don't want her to be disappointed. With an impatient sigh, Laura decided on a compromise. If you get thirty-six in today, you can come out early for eighteen holes tomorrow, do the softball game and then hit the driving range...now that sounds like a plan. With that Laura shook off the last thoughts that might interfere with her golf game, and set her mind to extracting the lowest possible score from the course and beating the club pro in the process.

**********

Christine Hanson loved baseball in all its incarnations. Tee ball, little league, slow and fast pitch softball, major and minor league. It didn't matter, she loved them all. Saturday afternoon found her working as the plate umpire in a 13-15 little league scoring fest. The parents were into it as much as the twelve-year-olds and Chris cheerfully let the comments about her eyesight, or the complete lack thereof, roll off her back.

God, what are they feeding these kids? She thought, as one boy strolled to the plate. He was as tall as she was and probably outweighed her by twenty pounds. She set her mask and leaned in behind the catcher. The boy swung at the first pitch popping it up to the outfield, and with a groan of frustration, ran to first base as hard as he could, legs churning beneath him.

The leftfielder bobbled the ball and dropped the sure out. By the time he had recovered, two runners had scored and the third was on his way home. The play at the plate wasn't even close, and the Auto Mart Red Sox had a fabulous 16-15 come from behind win.

Chris stripped off the cap and mask, running her hand through her hair to fluff it, then left the field. Her bag was stashed behind the fence and she liberated a bottle of Gatorade. After drinking deeply she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, enjoying the warmth of the spring afternoon.

"Good job, just one questionable call." Her friend Kate, who also happened to be the producer of the Six O'clock newscast, joined her at the fence.

"Yeah?"

"Josh was not out at home in the sixth." She crossed her arms indignantly, referring to her nephew.

"I was right on top of it and he was out."

"Well, they won anyway. They're off to Chuckie Cheese's...I'd rather have splinters shoved under my fingernails than go there...Can I interest you in some Mexican at Lupe's?"

Chris took off the blue button down shirt that marked her as an official for the parks and recreation department, tossed it into her duffel, leaving her clad in a white T-shirt and navy shorts. "Sure, just let me go to the ladies room and get cleaned up a bit." Picking up her bag, the two women started walking to the restrooms. Before they reached their destination, a group of teens stopped them. "You're Christine Hanson, I see you on TV!" one of the girls squealed. They surrounded Chris asking about her job and commenting on her appearance. She rolled her eyes at some of the things they said, and after much ooooing and ahhhing, escaped to the restroom to clean up.

"You handle that so well, I think it'd freak me out," Kate said as Chris went into a stall and shut the door.

"What else can you do? They always say I'm shorter and prettier in person than I am on TV." Laughing, she stripped off the sweaty T-shirt, and put on a clean one, then off came the shoes and socks to be replaced by sandals. "Anyway, those kids will be filling out Nielson diaries someday...A little PR now could go a long way." Coming out she buckled her belt and smoothed the front of her shorts. "Besides, it tickles the hell out of me. Ready for chips and salsa?"

*************

"So spill it, Chris." Kate smiled at the other woman. They were in a booth at Lupe's, a popular Mexican restaurant, where the never-ending supply of flour tortillas, chips, and free ice cream made it one of Chris' favorite haunts.

"Spill what?"

"Oh, come on. You can barely sit still, you're so wired. You know something, so spill it."

Chris groaned, "Kate, I promised..."

"Ah! So there is something. If I guess, will you tell me?" Kate leaned forward, eyes shining. Movement caught her eye and she sat back. "Man, she didn't waste any time...She's been here what, a week? Look at the guy she's with...what a hunk."

"Who?" Chris turned to look. Damn! What are the chances? At this point she probably thinks I'm stalking her. Laura Kasdan and her date were being seated at a table across the restaurant, and Chris had to admit that he was indeed a hunk. So? A woman like that isn't alone unless she wants to be.

"Should we go over and say something?" Kate asked.

"Not unless she sees us." Chris answered, hunkering down in the booth.

"I thought you liked her?"

Chris made a face, "I do. It's just...I just seem to babble whenever I'm around her... she gave me a ride home last night, and I think I said too much..." She left the sentence hanging.

"Great. When you screw up, you do it royally."

Their food arrived, distracting them. "Mexican Platter for you, Miz Hanson, and Chicken Fajita salad for you," he said, depositing a huge bowl in front of Kate. "Is there anything else you would like?"

Chris eyed the feast in front of her, taking inventory. "This looks fabulous, Mario. Could I have a side of guacamole too?" She gave her most charming smile to the waiter and he hurried off.

"How can you possibly eat all of that?" Kate shook her head at Chris as she dug into her sensible salad; jealous of the other woman's complete disregard of the calories she was about to consume.

"I exercise like a dog." Chris started in on her chicken enchiladas, the cheese stringing from her fork to the plate. She smiled as she chewed, appreciating the blend of spices, chicken, and peppers. "Besides, I don't have any other vices...I just like to eat." The guacamole arrived, and she added a dollop to one of the tacos on the platter.

Across the room, Laura looked over the menu, deciding on fajitas and a bowl of tortilla soup. She agreed to go to dinner with the golf instructor because the thought of her sparse apartment was suddenly not very appealing. He was trying for more than dinner though, and she was beginning to regret taking him up on his offer.

"How'd you do on your second round this afternoon?" Peter's question interrupted her train of thought.

"Four under...put one in the lake. I noticed there's a little fungus on a couple of the greens." She ran her thumbs over the calluses in the palms of her hand, thinking that for thirty-six holes, they had held up pretty well.

"Yeah, the grounds crew is really fighting that...it's supposed to be under control." He coated a chip liberally with salsa and bit into it, crunching contentedly. "If that's how you play after a two week layoff, you should have a real chance at the qualifier in Austin."

Laura was pleased with the way she'd played...though a few mental errors, and a couple of misses had irritated her. Plus she knew it was time to get off the caffeine. Boy, that's gonna smart. Work wasn't too stressful; maybe the big market grind had gotten to her. Laura was so busy considering that thought that she almost missed what Peter was saying.

"...Go back to my place and watch a movie or something."

Damn, damn, damn. "Ah, sorry, Peter." A rueful smile. "I'm on call this weekend, and I really need to check in at the station."

Peter hid his disappointment. "S'okay, some other time. Will you try for thirty-six tomorrow?" Neatly he segued back to the one topic he felt comfortable talking to her about. For someone with those looks, he thought, she had as much warmth as an ice pack. "Jeremy says he's all yours, every weekend for the rest of your life," he said, noting that she had paid more attention to the caddy that day than she had to him.

"He could caddy for a living, he asked for some names and I told him I'd help him make some contacts." She sat back as the waiter flipped out a tray holder and prepared to serve their dinner. The sizzling fajitas reminded her that she was really hungry, and she smiled in anticipation, blue eyes lighting up and fixing on...

Her new Six O'clock anchor, who was strolling toward her.

"Hey, isn't that Christine Hanson? She's one of yours isn't she?" One of mine? The waiter finished distributing the plates as Chris and Kate walked up.

"We were on our way out when we saw you," Kate lied, glancing sideways at Chris. Peter scrambled to his feet, motioning to Laura for an introduction.

"Sorry, Chris...Kate, Peter Davis. Peter...this is Chris Hanson and one of my producers, Kate Madison."

Peter turned on the charm. Well, he wasn't getting anywhere with Kaz, and opportunity was knocking. "Won't you join us?" He asked waving his hand at the table. The opportunity to eat with not one, but three attractive women, was too appealing to pass up.

"Uh, no." Chris looked at Laura expecting to see annoyance at Peter's obvious flirting, what she got was a wink and an eye roll, which spoke volumes about the way the "date" was progressing.

"We've already stuffed ourselves. Nice to meet you, Peter." Giving Kate a gentle shove in the back, they continued down the aisle and out into the lobby.

"Whoa," Chris gave a soft chuckle. "I don't think that was going very well." She held the door open for Kate and inhaled as the warm spring air greeted them, smelling faintly of freshly mown grass.

***********

Laura unlocked the door to her apartment, tossed her keys on the low table next to the door and flopped down on the old sofa, letting her hands dangle between her knees. Dinner had gone downhill after Chris and Kate left, Peter really needed someone to stroke his ego, and she wasn't the type. Just as well, hope it doesn't screw up my weekend tee times. Laura gave a self-mocking snort. You are some piece of work. Good-looking guy, he's interested, and all you can think about is how it could mess up your golf game. How shallow can you get? Her sense of relief at seeing Chris and Kate was all out of proportion. You're a coward, plain and simple.

Scrubbing her hand through her bangs, she considered the next day's activities. Golf first, then softball. Now where was her gear? Laura went to the little hall closet and began to rummage through the articles stored there. Ice chests, boxes of books and suitcases were pulled out into the hall as she searched for the red bag that housed her softball equipment. With a cry of triumph, she tugged it free from the confines of the closet. Unzipping it, she checked the contents...two bats and a glove. The glove could use some work, she thought, pounding her hand into the pocket while she walked to the bathroom in search of some baby oil.

The sweet smell of oil filled the enclosed space as Laura worked it into the leather. Satisfied with the way the glove was coated, she put a ball in the pocket and wrapped it securely with a rubber band.

Isn't that nice...you can break in a baseball glove, regrip your golf clubs, and run a live truck. But you can't flirt, and you can't sustain a conversation over dinner. Socially inept, yep, that's me. She washed the oil off her hands and dropped the glove into the bag. Another early Saturday night, bath, book, and bed. God what a life you lead.

*********

Chris pushed the door of the Volvo closed with her hip and slung the softball duffel over her shoulder, the bat sticking up behind her head. She started down the path that ran along the fence of Northridge Park Field #2, keeping an eye on the game in progress. The team from the Chronicle appeared to be running roughshod over one of the country western radio stations, WKIX. She glanced at her watch, just past one, should be some of ours here.

"Hey, K Bob, how're your knees?" dropping her bag she clambered up to where he was sitting. A low smile spread across her face when she saw who was next to him.

Laura Kasdan was leaning back, impossibly long legs stretched out in front and crossed at the ankles, hands laced behind her head. A white tank top showed tanned muscular arms, but Oakley sunglasses covered up the amazing eyes that Chris knew looked out from under the bill of the red Texas Rangers hat that she wore.

"Glad you could make it. No golf today?"

A lazy smile, "Already played, this is my cool down." She sat up, popping the joints in her shoulders.

"Yow, that sounds painful," Keith said, opening his scorer's book, "Okay Kaz, where can you play? Chris is on second, I'll be on third, Trip'll play first and Rendally will play short. Can you handle right field?"

Right field, that's where you stick the newbie and hope that it doesn't screw you too bad. "Sure, wherever." The rest of their team filled up the bleachers, the conversation light and cheerful. Laura watched with a smile as Chris uncapped a tube of eye black and dashed it across her cheeks. "Interesting look for you."

"Don't knock it...I can't wear sunglasses, they get in the way. Besides this is old school."

"Did you play in college?"

"Yep, fastpitch though. Thank God for Title IX. I even got an invitation to try out for the '96 Olympic team...wasn't near good enough, but it was a great experience." Chris shrugged away the accomplishment as she double knotted her shoes. "How was your dinner? It didn't look like things were going so well."

"Food was good." Laura wryly commented, "The company was..." she waggled her hand to show that it was so-so. She sighed. Actually, it was an unmitigated disaster.

"He seemed nice, you play golf with him?" Laura nodded. "Did you beat him?"

"You bet."

"Well if it isn't the Kazmanian Devil herself, out for a little softball with her motley crew. Well, Kaz, word of your fall from grace was very big in certain circles. How does it feel to give up big D to be a medium market manger with delusions of grandeur?" Laura would have known that voice anywhere. She tilted her head to look up into some old history encompassed in the sneering face of the News Director from Channel 4.

"Lance. Wish I could say it's a pleasure...but I can't."

"You can't imagine how much I enjoyed watching your decrepit excuse for a live truck get blown to smithereens...if I were the insurance investigators, I'd look for cause."

"Nice to know your coverage sucked so bad, you were watching us."

Chris ran her tongue across her teeth, watching the exchange as everyone fell silent around them. This could get interesting.

"See, what I don't get is why they didn't fire your ass...anybody else pulls that shit, and they're the overnight tape editor in Brownsville. But not you, no, you're still a News Director, like some kind of cat you always land on your feet."

Laura leaned back on her elbows. "Brian didn't look twice at your resume huh, sport?"

He gave a humorless laugh, "I'll whip your ass this afternoon, then I'll do it again in the May book, just like we did in February. Chris, you're looking nice and blonde today...just get your roots done?"

Keith snarled and jumped up, "Dickhead!" Lance skipped away and headed for the other dugout, his laugh ringing behind him.

"What a prick!" Chris spat at his retreating back. Laura bent over to pick up her bag, "Yeah, well don't let him get to you...he's just not worth it." Silently figuring if that was the worst poison that came out of Lance's mouth today, they got off lucky. "C'mon, we have a game to play."

"Here," Keith tossed a white mesh jersey to Laura, "Double deuce." Laura smiled at the red and black twenty-two on the back. "Emmitt Smith, thanks."

"Don't mention it. Guess you have some history with Mr. Barker." He opened the gate for her.

"Yeah, we were in Austin together...he thought he should've been the one to get the call to Dallas as an EP. It pissed him off pretty bad, but he was never in the running. He's probably got a pretty nice setup over at 4, and he'll make it to a major market someday, his type always do."

"He's not so hot."

"Don't underestimate him. He is a nasty piece of work." She flashed a hundred-watt smile at the managing editor, "We'll kick his ass today, and take the rest as it comes. Right, Chris?" Knowing that the reporter had heard every word and hoping she had heard the warning as well.

They were the home team, so they took the field first, the red clay infield dragged smooth, dust puffing up with the steps of the players as they took their positions. Laura jogged through the bright green grass to the solitude of right field, not expecting to see much action since the majority of the batters would be right-handed and would hit to left field. Probably a good choice to stick me here. She had doubts about her arm, and intramural softball seemed a long time ago.

The first out was a grounder fielded cleanly by Rendally and sent over to Trip, the first baseman and one of the weekend sports anchors. Lance was up next and he hit the ball soundly over Keith's head. The leftfielder was ready, and got it in to Chris before Lance was committed to second.

That was the end of the friendly softball game. What came next could only be called a war.

"Let's turn two." Keith called, looking for a double play. "One away."

The next man up hit a grounder sharply to Rendally at short, who fired the ball to Chris for the force out at second. Lance accepted that he was out, but the little bitch on second was not going to turn the double play, so he went in for a high slide, aiming his cleats for somewhere on her upper chest. Chris got the ball out of her glove, and had almost released it toward the first baseman when the impact on her collarbone spun her around, knocking her down, and leaving her scrambling for the ball.

"Out at second, safe at first." The umpire decreed.

"You sorry son of a..." Chris hissed, grabbing her shoulder.

"Part of the game, Chrissy. Toughen up." Lance sprung to his feet and jogged to the Channel 4 dugout, part of his mission as goon and chief intimidator, accomplished.

"You okay?" Rendally asked, giving her a hand up.

"Yeah, he came in high," Wincing she rubbed the area between her neck and shoulder. "Spiked me."

Keith was getting madder by the minute. This was supposed to be friendly. "One more out and we'll do some damage." A quick glance at the outfield told him that his boss was not taking the attacks on her staff lightly at all. Arms crossed, her stance oozed hostility.

The final out was a pop fly to center, and the side was retired with the only damage being three holes in the second baseman's jersey. Chris was fuming as she flung down her mitt in the dugout. "You could've gotten out of the way, you idiot," berating herself she plopped down on the end of the bench, crossed her arms and glanced over at Laura. "You weren't kidding when you said nasty."

Laura poked her fingers through the chain link fence between the team and the field. Looking out, she started to make plans. You underestimated me once before, Lance. Bet I can count on you to do it again. Oh, this is too good...you're the pitcher. A low evil chuckle started in her throat, and worked its way out as a grin.

Rendally was up first and singled sharply down the third base line. Trip was acting as first base coach, and Chris scooted out of the dugout to coach third. Kurt, the meteorologist/pitcher batted next and neatly singled as well. That brought up Keith, whose forearms looked like Popeye's as he grasped the toothpick-like bat in ham sized hands. Lance showed his concern by throwing three straight balls but Keith's ego would not allow him to be walked in a game of slow pitch, so he swung to miss on the forth pitch.

"Oh, please, Mr. News Director," he taunted, "You're not afraid of me, are you?"

"K Bob, you're an ass."

The dig had its desired effect, and Lance served up a decent pitch, although it was a little low. With a flourish worthy of Mark McGwire, the stocky young man stepped in and swung, solid contact sending the grapefruit sized ball sailing over the leftfield fence.

Channel 8 was on top 3-0, and the swing of momentum had them celebrating with high fives and forearm bashes. Trip was up next, then he too was standing on first with a single. There were still no outs when Laura picked up her bat.

Eyes narrowed, she walked to the plate idly twirling the bat to flex her right wrist and shoulder, ready for the duel that was about to take place. She changed hands to give her left equal time, concentrating on the rhythm of the rotation, then stopped the movement settling into the batter's box and comfortably taking a couple of practice swings.

It's not the same swing, she reminded herself sternly, don't treat it that way. One of the Kathys was behind the plate acting as catcher. Acting is right. She was plainly afraid of the ball, which meant that Lance would have to cover home if that's where the play was. She filed the information away and set her mind to the task at hand. Time to do a little headhunting.

The first pitch came in low, without the high arch that is the signature of slow-pitch softball. Laura decided that it was adequate for her purposes and lashed out, launching the ball right at the pitcher's head. Lance barely had time to duck; landing face down in the red clay, spewing curses like a fountain. By the time the ball was retrieved, Laura had rounded first, with ideas of going to second, and Trip was headed home.

Wisely, they didn't try to stop him by throwing to the Kathy behind the plate, since heaven only knew where the ball would end up. Laura stood at first with a mocking smile as Lance stormed over. "You did that on purpose!"

"Don't be silly, If I'd been trying to hit you, I would have. You had time to duck."

"You asexual frigid bitch..."

"C'mon Lance, let's play." The first baseman tried to calm the irate News Director.

"Hey, blue," he said to the second base umpire, "You gonna let her get away with that?"

He smirked, "Part of the game...toughen up."

Chris was up next, hoping to cash in on Lance's loss of control. The short reporter presented a small strike zone, so she worked the count full, and worked Lance into a lather. Finally she got the pitch she wanted and stroked it down the right field line, past the diving first baseman and into no man's land next to the fence. Laura never hesitated or looked at the third base coach, she just turned on the burners, past second and around third barreling toward home.

The ball and Laura arrived at virtually the same time. Lance was blocking the plate, but the throw was high and Laura dove in low, bowling him over as she scrambled to touch home. No tag and she was safe. She heard the umpire say it as she rolled clear of stomping cleats.

"You're a fucking moron! I was blocking the plate!" Lance screamed, a vein bulging at his temple.

"No tag, she's safe."

No one had called time so Chris was still moving around the bases. Lance still had the ball, making no attempt to hold the runner on any base. The other fielders were busy watching their pitcher self-destruct, and by the time it occurred to them that the play was still alive, with a fierce growl, Chris was past third and streaking toward home.

"Lance! She's coming home!"

With a roar Lance launched himself away from the ump and across the plate as Chris executed a perfect slide, or it would have been if Lance hadn't abandoned the softball game in exchange for tackle football. His greater mass stopped her forward motion abruptly in a cloud of dust short of home plate.

"She's out!" The umpire's verdict rang out clearly, and Lance jumped up, slamming the ball to the ground just inches from Chris' head.

"Damn straight the bitch is out!" He bellowed, good sportsmanship forgotten.

"And you're outta this game!" The umpire yelled, jerking his thumb toward the dugout.

"WHAT!" Lance spun to face the ump. "You can't do that! She was out!" Chris scrambled to her feet, and Lance shoved her for good measure.

Now wait a minute..." Laura started to move forward to get Chris out of the line of fire just in time to see Keith tear out of the dugout and launch himself at the belligerent News Director.

At that point it became a free for all, with the rest of the Channel 8 bench joining the fielders from Channel 4 in a pushing, shoving, screaming grudge match. The Kathy was standing to the side with her hands over her mouth, watching the carnage with horrified fascination. Chris had no such inhibition about joining in and was pummeling Lance with all the force she could muster as he and Keith grappled in the dirt.

Oh this is just great, I'm supposed to be the one with the violent temper and no self-control. Laura blew out a breath, and shrugged at the two umpires before she waded in to separate the combatants.

Grabbing Chris by her collar, Laura held the furious woman away from her body while she turned her attention to Lance. With a display of super human strength, she plucked Lance from his struggles with Keith and tossed him half way down the third base line to his team's dugout, and roared loud enough to rival the Concorde SST,

"STOP IT NOW! OR I WILL BEAT THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF EVERY ONE OF YOU!"

They froze, and the silence was deafening. "Channel 8, get to your dugout! Channel 4, get to yours. NOW!" She was snarling and didn't care, blue eyes were almost white with barely controlled rage, and the players, feeling it, began to move to their respective benches.

Gritting he teeth, Laura turned to the umpires, "Game over? Both teams forfeit?"

"Oh, yeah." Came their reply in unison.

"Fine. You wanna tell them?" She waved toward the grumbling group from Channel 4, then gave a lopsided smile. "See you next week." She made her way to their dugout where her sullen team sat with varied degrees of bruising flesh. My team, for better or worse. She knelt down in front of Keith, tilting his head to get a better look at his shiner. "Gotta tell ya, you sure know how to show a girl a good time."

"He started it." Keith assigned the blame from his perspective.

"No, I started it, and I shouldn't have. We lose and they lose. Go home and put some ice on it...go on."

"You should see the other guys." Rendally muttered, throwing his glove into his bag.

Standing, she watched them gather their things and file out, everyone but Chris who was slumped in the corner, face buried in her hands. Laura walked over and plopped down next to her, removing her hat and the Oakleys, she leaned over and put her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. What do I say? "Chris, It's not the end of the world...jeez, it's just a game that went bad." Shoulders began to shake and Laura was at a total loss, not knowing how to comfort, then Chris moved her hands and Laura could see that she was laughing.

Laughing!

Laura sputtered, "You..."

"Oh, come on, you gotta admit, it was priceless! Keith, defending our honor, Rendally grabbing that guy by the hair, the hysterical Kathy...god, I wish we had it on tape!" She went into another peal of laughter. "And you! Tossing bodies around like firewood. What'd you have for breakfast, She-Ra, Princess of Power?"

"Me? What about you pounding on Lance? I thought you lost your mind." Laura leaned back with a look of disgust, propping her elbows on the back of the bench while she waited for the laughter to subside. The humor was infectious though, and Laura couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"Okay, I'm much better now." Chris said, wiping her eyes.

"You split your lip again."

"What can I say? I lead with my head."

"That's kinda dangerous for someone in your line of work." Laura leaned forward to touch it lightly with her thumb, blue eyes concerned. Chris smiled ruefully and looked into them, swallowing as her breathing became shallow.

Before I saw your eyes

I was in control

Of my soul,

On the whole.

Jerking away, Chris faked a pain she didn't feel. "Ouch. Guess some ice would be in order for me too." Tell me what am I gonna do, about you. Her subconscious completed the song lyric.

Uncomfortable with the direction her thoughts were headed, Chris stood and gathered her equipment. Boss, boss, boss. Those are very dangerous waters, Quick, say something witty and charming to diffuse the situation. "Have you seen my other shoe?" Wow, now you know why you get the big money. Looking around briefly, Laura dug it out from under the bench and handed it to her.

"Look, we're just a little ways from my club, we'll go over, get some ice for your lip...Hey, you can even soak in the hot tub while I hit some balls." Laura made the decision and offered the invitation before she had time to think about it. "I'll even throw in dinner at the Grill. What do you say?"

Chris blinked. Yeah, she wanted to go, wanted to be with her, and wanted to get something to eat. She wouldn't offer if she didn't want to, would she? "Okay, I have a swimsuit in the car."

"Good, you can just follow me over." They both left the field, the gate clinking shut behind them, "I guess it's too much to hope that this won't get out?"

"What, the game?" At Laura's nod, Chris threw back her head and laughed. "Oh, hell no. The Umpires? I guess no one told you that we take turns so we don't have to pay anyone. Those guys are from Channel 12...Everyone in the league probably already knows."

"Which means Art knows."

"I think that's a safe bet."

"Great."

***************

Swank.

That was the first word that Chris thought of to describe the clubhouse. Oak floors and a chandelier lent an old fashioned air to the entryway, and even on a Sunday there was a receptionist.

"Good afternoon Miss Kasdan...A guest today?"

"Yes Marcia, This is Chris Hanson."

"Welcome to Northridge Miss Hanson, I enjoy watching you at noon. Could you sign in please?"

"Thanks. They let you watch TV at work?" Chris bent over to sign the guestbook and Laura marveled again at the easy way that the young woman drew people out. By the time they left the front desk, Chris knew Marcia's favorite soap opera, the names of her two children, all about her husband's job, and the special in the Grill for dinner.

"How do you do that?" Laura asked, pushing the door open to the ladies' locker room. "I mean, everyone thinks they know you and they want a part of you. I know other well established on-air personalities that don't handle it as well as you do."

Chris shrugged, "It's like you said, they already know me, I'm already a fixture, so you just connect with a part of their lives...a show, or a story I've done usually provides the spark."

"It's going to get worse, you know. When you move to the Six you'll have a bigger audience. I told you before that you'll pay a pretty steep price in the way of privacy."

"It won't bother me the way it would bother you."

"Me?"

"Sure, You're a much more private person than I am. The classic introvert. Whoa, this is nice!"

A wet bar took up one wall of the sitting room, leading to a large carpeted locker area. From there the room opened up into a tiled enclosure where an enormous hot tub bubbled merrily. Past that, there were showers, restrooms, and message tables.

While Chris poked around, Laura opened her locker and pulled out her clubs and shoes. Swinging the bag over her shoulder, she started for the door. "Chris, there's some ice in the bar, stay in the hot tub as long as you like, and just come down to the driving range when you're ready for dinner."

"You're not gonna soak in the tub?" Chris tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

"No, I need the practice. See you in a bit."

Chris watched the door swing shut behind the tall woman. Now I understand what they mean when they say 'golf widow.'

***********************

Sunday afternoon practice always reminded Laura of her mother, and she smiled as she walked down the slope to the driving range. Sweetie, you'll never have a game if you don't put in the practice time. Her mother's Texas accent thick and low always made Laura think of hot summer days and hitting bucket after bucket of balls, sometimes until her hands cracked and bled, always trying to find that elusive game her mother spoke so lovingly about. If she closed her eyes she could almost see the two of them practicing side by side under the watchful eye of her mother's teacher.

Louis was one of the first black teaching pros in the south, and her mother's game was almost solely his creation. Something clicked between the two of them and as far as Laura knew, her mother never took lessons from anyone else, not even from Harvey Penick across town at the trendy Austin Country Club. Louis carried Sarah Kasdan's bag in ten U.S. Amateur Tournaments and five U.S. Opens. So, when it was time to learn, Laura wanted Louis to teach her.

It was Louis who told her it was okay when Arizona State showed no interest in the gangly teenager, that the University of Texas had a fine women's golf team, and she was better off staying in Texas anyway; all the great golfers were from Texas and they should stay close to home.

So Laura went to UT.

Her father had never understood. In a complete reversal of the jock-parent role, it was Sarah who wanted her daughter to be the athlete, and her husband David who had wanted her to be the scholar. She majored in journalism to please him, but it wasn't enough. There wasn't any nobility in golf as a profession and in the end she made the deal with her father, and bitterly resented them both for making her choose, always suspecting that she had made the wrong decision and too stubborn to back out of a no win situation. Nothing changes. Not seven years ago and not two weeks ago. God, has it only been two weeks?

Dumping her bag on the ground next to a pyramid of balls, Laura pulled out her seven iron and a glove. Twirling the club absently, she checked to make sure the distance markers were accurate. Twirling faster she moved it in a figure eight in front of her, rolling her wrist and flexing it. All Texans can twirl, although this is less baton and more sword. With a sigh she stopped, thumping the clubhead on the ground, then started drawing the balls to her. Sweetie, you'll never have a game if...

***********

Chris lounged in the whirlpool, wishing for a tall glass of iced tea. When the adrenaline high from the brawl wore off, she was a lot sorer than she originally thought. Groaning, she shifted her position, certain that some muscles would be screaming tomorrow.

Monday morning's news meeting was going to be interesting. In addition to the fallout from the game, Laura was going to announce the anchor changes and Chris could finally talk about it to someone other than her family. Keith and Kate'll be happy...Tom probably won't be, too much change takes the spotlight off of him. She hadn't really thought about it, but it was a big risk for Laura too. If Chris was a bust, one of their most profitable news casts was going to lose revenue, and Art would tear the hide off the one who came up with that brilliant idea...Guess that's why she's the News Director and I'm not.

Okay, what have we found out about the enigmatic Miss Kasdan? Chris ran down a checklist of the things she had learned about the puzzle that was her boss. She does not like to be called Laura. She drives an older jeep but belongs to a fabulously expensive country club, where she plays golf very well. She drinks tequila and has the strength of ten men, plus an incredibly high tolerance for pain. Chris remembered the injury during the live truck episode, and noted that Laura never said another word about it. And it must've hurt like hell when she started throwing those bodies around. She and Lance Barker have a history, apparently founded on mutual dislike, but Peter, the golf pro looks to be out of the picture.

With an impatient snort, Chris realized that she didn't know much about the woman at all. But Lisa does. She made a mental note to pick the director's brain about her former roomie, and there was always dinner, even if Laura wasn't much of a talker.

Resolved, Chris got out of the tub, wrapped a towel around herself, and wandered over to the showers to wash the chlorine off of her skin, the cooler water contrasting with the heat of the whirlpool. You're a reporter you know, just do the research. A trip to the vanity turned up a myriad of moisturizers and lotions. Chris uncapped one bottle and took an experimental sniff, shrugged and began rubbing it onto her legs.

A clean polo shirt and shorts made her feel better, and when she glanced at her watch, she was surprised to see that almost an hour had passed and she was very, very hungry. Stuffing her dirty uniform into her carry bag, she left it next to the locker she thought she'd seen Laura go into earlier. With a last look at her reflection, she headed out of the locker room and out to the reception area. Marcia was happy to give directions to the driving range, and after snagging a mint from the desk, went to find her boss.

There didn't seem to be too many people around for a Sunday afternoon. A television was on in the bar, and she could hear loud male voices debating the merits of NASCAR racing as the next great American sport. Pushing open the door to the outside, Chris stepped out to the landing that overlooked the 18th green. The honeysuckle was in full bloom, filling the afternoon air with its sweet aroma. She went quickly down the stairs, and started along the path to the practice range, several golf carts buzzed by, their occupants enjoying the last golf of the weekend.

The path rounded a bend, and she spotted her quarry. Stepping into the grass, she approached cautiously, not sure about the etiquette in such a situation. Laura was focused only on the ball she was swinging at and the target in front of her, launching ball after ball at the 150-yard marker.

Whootick! As the club made contact and bap as it hit the plastic sign, over and over again. Chris knew it couldn't possibly be as easy as the tall woman made it look, and couldn't help but smile at the display.

"You ready to get something to eat?" Laura asked, turning to look back at the smaller woman, aware of her the moment she stepped off the cart path.

"Always. So this is what you do on your off time?" Chris approached, noticing the fine sheen of sweat on the smoothly muscled arms and legs. The Oakleys were gone and the blue eyes were relaxed and friendly, not the ice-white of her earlier rage. Interesting, Chris thought, chameleon eyes.

"Pretty much every day if I can."

"Why?"

Laura pondered the question that for some odd reason, no one had ever asked. "Because the mechanics of my swing have to be maintained through constant repetition."

"Uh huh." Chris said, as though she had a clue what her boss was talking about. "I'm sure that explains the technical reason for practicing everyday, but why dedicate that much time to what is essentially a hobby?"

It won't always be a hobby. Laura gave a half smile as she slid the club into the bag, and draped a towel around her neck. "Why umpire little league games on the weekends if you don't have kids?"

"That's different." How did she know? Chris wondered.

"Why? I'm good at golf and I love it." A careless shrug, "I'm going to try to qualify for the Open in a few weeks, plus I'd like another shot at the U.S. Amateur." Laura didn't know why, but it was important that Chris understood this one thing about her. "For a number of reasons, WBFC is one of them, I cannot be a full time golfer, so I will compete where I can, when I can."

"Lisa Tyler thinks you should be playing golf for a living."

Laura hoisted the bag to her shoulder. "Lisa and I've had that conversation too many times to count. It's the ritual and the discipline and the patience and the planning. It helps me in every aspect of my life...including running a newsroom. Why do you do the little league umpire thing?"

Chris smiled, green eyes lighting up her face. "Because I love baseball, and I'm good at it."

"There you have it. Let's get some dinner."

The Grill wasn't too crowded and they were shown quickly to a table. Chris was surprised at the number of people who stopped by their table to say something to Laura, and she smiled through a multitude of introductions. Boy, for someone who's only been in town for a week, she sure knows a lot of people. "You're kind of a celebrity here, aren't you?" To her surprise the dark woman blushed.

"Yeah, it's a little freaky sometimes. I think they're having a lottery to see who gets paired with me next weekend when I play."

"So how much do you play?"

"Well yesterday I played 36 holes, that's two rounds. I played the first with Peter who you met last night, then I picked up two guys after lunch. This morning I played a round with Jim Thompson and Randy Mercer over there. I'll probably try to get nine holes in at least twice this week."

"And you'll practice."

"Yeah, I'll practice."

"That's a lot of golf."

"Not enough if I was doing it for a living."

The waitress interrupted them to take their order. Laura chose chicken, while Chris ordered the special, a marinated ribeye that Marcia recommended, and a large glass of ice tea.

"What, no Coke?"

Laura grimaced, "I'm trying to cut down...the caffeine messes up my putting."

"I see." She sipped her tea, considering. "He called you an asexual frigid bitch."

"Excuse me?" Blue eyes looked startled and just a little angry.

"Lance called you that. Pretty inventive insult for a guy like him, wouldn't you say?" Chris slipped into her curious reporter mode.

"We never really got along."

"That's not just bad blood, Laura, that's poison."

"It's Kaz," she said automatically, continuing their game. "And he wouldn't take no for an answer."

"So then what happened?"

One slim eyebrow raised, "I'm sure, given my reputation, you can fill in the blanks."

Chris leaned back and gave her boss a smirk, "Ah...this is no time to be coy, besides, I have other sources and you're just forcing me to dig deeper until I uncover all of your secrets."

Laura returned the smirk, "Dig away. You'll just find a bad tempered News Director with a whole lotta enemies." She sipped at her water, crunching the crushed ice with her front teeth. "What about you? You're from Nashville, hmm? Probably the youngest child because you seem used to getting your way, Yeah a big family, and they spoiled you rotten."

Chris laughed. "Oh, you're right on all counts. I have four brothers and a sister, Mom's a teacher, and my Dad's an electrician. I'm the youngest and you're absolutely right, I was spoiled rotten."

"Are you close?"

"Yeah, we still are, and it was a nice way to grow up. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope. No brothers, no sisters, and both my parents are dead." Laura narrowed her eyes at the reporter, daring her to ask the next question. You started this, she told herself.

It was the opening Chris had been waiting for and she took advantage of it, saying gently, "I remember your Dad giving a lecture when I was in school...are you a lot like him?"

It wasn't at all what Laura expected. You're supposed to ask how he died, or how I felt seeing his brains splattered all over the ground again and again on every network feed for a week! She could feel her mouth go a little slack and a tightness in her chest that made it next to impossible to breathe. She swallowed hard and clenched her jaw against the pain of remembering.

"I have his eyes." It was out before she could stop herself. Looking down, Laura started to rearrange the silverware around her napkin. Chris didn't say anything, she just waited. "And his height." She gave a bitter laugh, "Certainly not his patience or persistence."

They were interrupted by dinner and after serving them the waitress beat a hasty retreat, feeling the tension pouring from the dark woman. Laura had completely lost her appetite, the succulent chicken no longer having any appeal. That was not the case with Chris, who eyed her steak appreciatively and dug in with relish. "Did you get along?"

"Not terribly well." Laura made a decision and pushed her chair away from the table. "As much as I have enjoyed the display of your interview technique, and it is quite impressive, I need some air. Enjoy the rest of your meal, and I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Wait, I'm sorry..."

"No apologies necessary. It was a very...entertaining afternoon." With a mock bow, Laura turned and left the Grill, stopping long enough to sign the chit the waitress offered as she walked by. She went out the back door, past the rows of carts being returned and cleaned after a day of golf. Spotting her bag at the drop, Laura picked it up and started toward the parking lot and the jeep. Just go. It was a setup, her opinion doesn't matter. But it did. Cursing herself for all her real and imagined weaknesses, Laura threw the clubs in the back of the Jeep, settling them with a shake. Leaning on the spare tire, she grabbed a fistful of dark bangs and went over the conversation again, trying to figure out where she lost control. Face it, you were playing a game and you lost...you wanted to see how far she'd go and if you could take it. You can't. And Lance's pet name...jeez, they'd all laugh their asses off if they knew where that came from.

With one more curse she climbed into the jeep, the engine coming to life with a twist of her wrist, running as well as it did the day her father brought it home and tossed her the keys. It suits you, he'd said. One spontaneous gift in a lifetime of never-there. Angrily, Laura threw the stick into gear and drove off.

Chris just sat at the table, appalled at her miscalculation. I pressed too hard, this wasn't a story about public corruption, this was obviously an open wound that wasn't ready for serious probing. She let out a frustrated breath just as the waitress came up to the table.

"What happened to Miz Kasdan? Didn't she want her dinner?"

"No, we just had a little disagreement. Listen, can you box this up? I'll drop it by her house and it won't go to waste."

"Sure," the waitress replied, "I hope everything'll be all right."

"Yeah," Chris said glumly, "I hope so too."

*********************

Laura was sitting on the steps outside her apartment drinking root beer when the dark red Volvo pulled up. Chris climbed out and reached back for the plastic bag that held the go-boxes full of food from the abbreviated dinner. From the base of the stairs she regarded the dark woman looking down at her. "Were you waiting for me to show up?" When all she got was a shrug in return, Chris started up the stairs. "Thought you were laying off the caffeine?"

"Root beer doesn't have any."

"Oh. Listen, I'm..."

"Don't." Laura looked at Chris, and without saying anything else, moved over to make room for her on the step.

"How did you know I'd come?"

A snort, "Because you have stalker tendencies? No, because in a lot of ways you're just like him...pick, pick, pick...until you get what you want...do they put something in the water at Mizzou?"

"Only if you major in Journalism. Why didn't you go to Missouri? Nope, forget I asked, I'm prying." Chris sat down next to Laura, still holding the plastic bag, and crossed her legs at the ankles.

"You can't help it, it's what you are." She watched as the blonde woman flushed a dull red. "Don't believe I've ever seen you blush before...I didn't go because he wanted me to." She finished her drink and crushed the aluminum can between strong hands with a satisfying crunch. "What else do you want to know?"

"Why the sudden desire to answer my questions?"

"Because you will drive me insane with your need to know. Let's see if I can get you started...My mother was one of the winningest amateur golfers in history and she died of breast cancer a little over three years ago. My father was devastated. He...went to Bosnia right after that. Then...well, you know." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "They fought all the time, you'd never guess that he couldn't live without her."

Chris didn't say anything for a minute, and Laura couldn't begin to guess what was going on in the reporter's head...anything was possible.

"Why are you so angry at him?" The question when it came was soft, and not really meant to intrude. Chris genuinely wanted to understand, and Laura didn't know how to answer.

"A shrink would say that I haven't gotten over my feelings of abandonment."

"My guess is that you were pretty mad at him before he died."

Laura nodded, "I didn't want to be what he wanted me to be. I ended up making all of us, my mother included, pretty miserable. Then they both went and died before I could make it right."

"So there's guilt too."

"Of course there's guilt...I'm Catholic."

Chris laughed a little at that and it eased the tension a bit. "So where do you stand now?"

"I have promises to keep...and miles to go before I sleep." Laura smirked as she quoted the familiar poem. "Enough angst for one day. I'm sorry that I ran out on you earlier, didja bring me dinner?"

Chris knew the value of a strategic retreat and allowed her to change the subject as she passed the Styrofoam box containing the chicken dinner. "What have you done to the people at your club? Two of those guys were really mad that I ran you off...they were talking about some kind of drills you were supposed to do together and Marcia would barely speak to me...talk about loyalty."

"And you thought I had no people skills."

"No, I never thought that. No tact maybe..."

"Uh, you are the tactless one, my friend."

Green eyes narrowed at the casual turn of phrase and Chris smiled thoughtfully. My friend, well, it's a start.

Continued..Part 4

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