Man of the Year

“I guess ‘Sammy’ comes from a long way back, too.” Jarrett tried to sound politely interested. To his ears, he failed miserably. He was surprised to see Samantha’s cheeks tint lightly in a rosy blush.

“Yes, it does. But you can call me Samantha.”

“Sure,” he muttered under his breath. “For now.”

Coach Cummings rejoined them, forestalling any further retort from Jarrett. “Sorry about that, Ms. James. That was Mr. Elliott. I see you’ve had more than enough time to size up Jarrett.”

“Yes, thanks, Coach. Mr. Corliss and I are finished.”

“He’s the last rat in the pack. Now, you wanted to take a look at the uniforms?”

“Yes, then the stadium.”

“Sure. Follow me.”

Before the coach escorted her away, Jarrett summoned a grin and winked at her. Boomer was gone and that was reason enough to smile. “It’s truly been a pleasure, Samantha. Call me when you need help with your sales pitch. Pitching’s what I do best.”

Her eyes flickered to his, but she looked away before he could catch a hint of her thoughts. She didn’t say another word, just walked out with the coach. Jarrett watched her until she was gone. You may be finished with me, he thought, but I’m not finished with you. Not by a long shot.

SAMANTHA FELT JARRETT’S EYES follow her every step out of the locker room. As the coach showed her the team uniforms, the costume for the mascot—a brown fuzzy suit that was supposed to resemble a marmot, but looked more like a man-sized rug—and gave her a tour of the stadium, she mused over Jarrett Corliss. Like most jocks, he obviously thought of himself as God’s gift to women. With his teasing blue eyes and that dimple, she supposed he had more than his fair share of baseball groupies. He would be popular with the young women who hung around the gates after practice or a game, offering their bodies to anything in a uniform. “Mitt-muffins,” Boomer called them. Jarrett probably took advantage of that willingness on occasion, too. Just like all the other players.

Samantha had yet to meet a baseball jock who would resist what a mitt-muffin offered. She supposed they saw it as their due, a perk of fame and success. But, to her, it was repugnant. She had tried to love a ballplayer once or twice and learned a bitter lesson. Let the boys have their fun: she would find a real man who played the game by the rules.

Which made her own starstruck gawking at Jarrett doubly embarrassing. What had she been thinking? She had acted like a groupie—or nearly as bad. No wonder he had flirted with her so outrageously. He was gorgeous, she admitted, but he was just one piece of her advertising campaign. Nothing more, nothing less. This was business, not some singles club. From now on, she would treat him like all the rest of the team. She would put his offer of cooperation to profitable use—though certainly not the way he intended.

She pushed Jarrett Corliss and his dimples to the back of her mind and concentrated on the tour Coach Cummings was giving her. She took copious notes as they walked to the dugout, stood at home plate and took a quick tour of the concessions area. Every new sight, every detail, added to the ideas swirling in her head. All the while, she peppered the coach with questions. When they completed the tour and the talk, Samantha had a feel for the inner workings of the Rainiers: how they practiced, who made decisions on and off the field, what they hoped to achieve and how, and what the biggest obstacles were to winning. She requested videotapes of recent practices and last year’s games. Cummings promised that he would get them to her office before the week’s end.

By the time they were finished with their tour, the team had dispersed from the locker room. Peter Brinks told her that Boomer had also left for the day. Whatever her brother had to say must not be that important. She bid goodbye to Coach Cummings and slipped through the wire-mesh gate to the parking lot.

The chilly wind and rain cut through her wool suit and she was glad to get inside her red BMW. She turned the heater up full blast and used the wipers to flick away the light mist on the windshield. The typical late-January weather made her long for spring. She skirted Pioneer Square, empty of the tourists that would flock there in summer. She loved this part of Seattle, the buildings all graceful relics of the past. Her car crossed Yesler Avenue, the original “Skid Row” where logs had been skidded down to the water, milled and shipped away to provide lumber for the world. As she drove, she puzzled over her encounter with Jarrett Corliss. Why had she been so taken in? The way he looked in a towel was undeniably sexy. What woman wouldn’t think so? But she ought to know better.

While stopped at a red light, the idea suddenly hit her. Of course! It was the perfect way to get people back into the stadium: sex appeal. She would scatter one or two good photos of the pitcher in tight jeans or a well-tailored Rainiers uniform around town on billboards or in the local magazines. Women would come in droves to see him. Some of his teammates might have the same sex appeal. She knew her little brother would love the idea of strutting his stuff for the camera. Fill the ballpark with women, and the men would quickly follow. The picture of Jarrett wrapped in a towel merged with the players acting like little boys. Pieces of a commercial started to fall into place in her head. The light turned green. Samantha hit the accelerator and sped toward her office.

Chapter Two

Samantha rushed in out of the rain and walked briskly to the elevator. The brass hand in an arch above the doors pointed at the number ten, slowly dropped to nine, then stopped. She waited, staring at the ornate brass curlicues on the door in front of her without actually seeing them. Her mind was still on the commercial for the Rainiers. A few minutes later a soft chime sounded, and the doors opened. An old man in a burgundy uniform with gold braid carefully held the door for her to enter.

“Hello, Ted.”

“Good afternoon, Miss James. A fine day we’ve got, don’t you think?”

Samantha grinned at the elevator operator. “With rain and wind like this, you can say it’s a fine day?”

“Oh, well, it’s Seattle. If this isn’t a fine day, then it’ll be a while before we have one.”

Samantha laughed. He was right. With all the rain in Seattle, they had to appreciate days when it only drizzled. Ted pulled the door closed and shifted the lever to “up.” With a clank and a slight wheeze, the ancient elevator rose slowly to the twelfth floor. The Smith Tower, the oldest high-rise in the city, had its quirks. This elegant brass relic of an elevator was one of them. But Samantha loved the old building. Much taller skyscrapers rose all around, but they seemed like polished, characterless monoliths in comparison. Since 1913, the tower had outlasted both developers that coveted the land it occupied and earthquakes that tried to shake it down. Now, quirks and all, it was an intrinsic part of the Seattle skyline. It was also the perfect home for Samantha’s company.

The car jerked to a halt, a foot above the twelfth floor. Ted patiently shifted the lever up and down, joggling the car closer to the same level as the floor. Samantha waited just as patiently, though she would have been happy to hop down the short distance. The elevator was Ted’s pride and joy, and Samantha respected his need to do his job perfectly. He opened the brass gate and waved Samantha on her way.

“Thanks, Ted.”

“My pleasure, Miss James. You have a good day.”

Walking down the short hall, Samantha opened the door into her corner of the advertising world. On the front end, Emerald Advertising looked like any other business. Muted rose paint on the walls and furniture upholstered in navy and plum greeted the visitor, an image of tasteful yet understated affluence. At the large mahogany reception desk, phones rang quietly and were answered graciously. The lighting was also subdued, soft. Two equally inviting conference rooms, one large and one small, lay directly behind the reception area.

If Samantha knew anything about her business, it was that packaging made the product. Her clients had preconceived ideas of how a successful ad business should look, how it felt, smelled and worked. So, she gave them glass walls, a touch of brass and chairs with ample padding: the plush trappings where deals could be made in comfort. The front office looked spacious and gracious, as Samantha liked to say, with enough room to stretch out your checkbook.

Behind this formal front lurked Emerald Advertising’s messier, creative side. A three-quarter-height wall of frosted glass separated one half from the other. Occasionally, this seamier side of the company slipped over the wall and broke into the respectable realm. While sitting in the waiting area, clients occasionally caught glimpses of objects flying through the air. These strange sights happened so suddenly that they were usually dismissed as figments of the imagination—indoor UFOs. After all, mature adults did not throw things in an office, did they?

Samantha greeted the receptionist. Debbie smoothly put one caller on hold while simultaneously routing another call back to Pam at her desk.

“Brenda pulled your messages when she got back from lunch. I’ve put most of your calls through to her this afternoon.”

Samantha thanked her and walked behind the wall into “Never-Never Land” as her employees called it. Most of the back half of the business had no walls, cubicles or other hindrances to carve up the space. Only Samantha’s corner office was enclosed. The walls were frosted glass for an illusion of privacy, but her door was nearly always open. Illustrators and copywriters were free to toss ideas back and forth—or erasers, spitballs or rubber bands, if the whims of creativity so required it. The front office decor flowed back to this area, but in a more lively fashion. Where the entrance to Emerald Advertising inspired business, the working area inspired creativity. The colors were bolder and brighter, the energy level higher.

The clutter in this creative room was terrible, which was mostly Samantha’s fault. She encouraged her employees to hang personal art, current projects, comic strips on the walls—anything pertinent to their work, and things not so pertinent, whatever generated fresh ideas and imaginative thoughts. It was an idea factory where slogans, logos and images for products from detergent to auto parts were crafted. The waste from this process littered the tables, desks and floor.

One of four walls was entirely devoted to Emerald’s competition. Ads for lingerie, espresso, software, oil-and-lube service and more were plastered one atop another. Comments were scribbled across them. Just above eye level to the left was a small banner that read Worst. To the far right was a similar banner with Best. Under these headings were the ads that had won either award that week. For each ad pinned to the wall, Samantha wanted a critique. Did it succeed in promoting the product? Why did it fail? How could Emerald do it differently? How would they do it better?

Better was always what Samantha wanted from her company, her employees and herself. Because of this, Emerald Advertising had earned a steadily increasing reputation for fresh, offbeat campaigns in the marketing world. It was a reputation that Samantha worked hard to cultivate. Staying on the cutting edge of advertising was a continual challenge. That’s what made the work so interesting. In time, Samantha hoped to turn Emerald into one of the leading advertising firms in the city—and the nation. The contract with the Seattle Rainiers was a critical step toward fulfilling that dream.

She stopped to greet Stuart and Lane, one of her best creative teams.

“How’s it going, guys?”

“Pretty good, Ms. Boss-lady,” Lane answered playfully. “We’ve got the storyboards ready for Big Snot Auto Parts. I think they’ll go for it.”

Samantha laughed at Lane’s irreverence. “Good. When do you meet with them?”

Stuart answered. “Next Tuesday.”

“I’d like to see what you’ve got planned.” Samantha glanced at the clock. “Not this afternoon. How about first thing tomorrow morning?”

The two men agreed, and Samantha moved on to her office. She smiled, thinking about Stuart and Lane. As a creative team, they worked together beautifully, though she sometimes thought that they shared the same mind. Often you’d ask a question of one, and the other would answer. Or one would finish the sentence that the other had started. Nice guys, but odd—perfect for advertising and her company.

As she went through the door to her office, Samantha noticed a short, blond spike of hair peeking over the top of her blue swivel chair. Those pale spikes could only belong to Brenda Miller, Samantha’s right-hand woman. Brenda kept Samantha’s world organized. She followed the progress of current projects, passed on the information she thought needed to be heard, and filed the rest for future use. Samantha was certain Brenda could do at least seven things at once. Besides all that, Brenda was Samantha’s closest friend.

“Hey, what is this? Some sort of coup?” Samantha teased. “I’m gone for two hours, and you’ve already taken over.”

“Samantha!” Brenda spun around in her boss’s chair, ignoring her teasing. “How did everything go? Did you meet the team?”

The question was laced with more excitement and zest than Brenda usually mustered for business. She and her husband, Craig, a lawyer, were dedicated Rainiers fans. She had made Samantha promise that she would get autographs of any new players for Brenda’s collection.

“It was fine.” Samantha dropped her briefcase to the floor and perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through the mail piled on it.

“Come on, Samantha,” Brenda begged. “Fine cannot describe a trip to a locker room full of half-naked, gorgeous hunks of male flesh.”

Samantha laughed. “Why do you think they were half-naked?”

“Wishful thinking.”

Samantha chuckled at Brenda’s wistful look. “Well, I might have noticed one or two that were wearing less than the regulation uniform.” An image of Jarrett Corliss wrapped in a damp towel popped into her mind, as if it were a jack-in-the-box that had wound itself up, springing into her head unannounced. Samantha blinked, pushed the image back into the box and slammed the lid tight.

“What do you mean? Or should I say who do you mean?”

“No one,” Samantha denied firmly.

“Bull. You met someone.”

Samantha shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. What’s happened here at the factory?”

Brenda allowed the subject change without comment. “Running wild and crazy as usual. If there are any problems, everyone seems to be handling them on their own and not sharing them with me.” She levered herself out of Samantha’s chair with some effort. “Boy, that gets harder to do every day.”

Samantha reached out and helped her friend to her feet, steadied her, then patted the protruding stomach. Six months pregnant, Brenda had started to waddle a bit. “Junior giving you problems today?”

“Only when he does a tap dance on my bladder.” She sighed. “Now, the urgent mail is on the left, the not-so-urgent is on the right, the important messages are here, I fielded the rest. You want a cup of coffee?”

“I can get one myself. I thought the smell made you nauseous.” Samantha sat and looked over the piles Brenda had indicated.

“Not anymore,” Brenda said with a grimace. “Now cat food, that makes me green.” Both women laughed at that.

“Then, yes, thank you. I’d love a cup. And if you’ve got time, I’d like to go over the material I picked up at the Rainiers today. I think I have a campaign just about figured out.”

“Jeez, you’re quick. Stuart and Lane will be disappointed. They want to come up with all the brilliant ideas.”

Samantha wiggled her eyebrows and did a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “I had a lot of inspiration while I was there.”

Brenda groaned. “Okay, I’ll get my notepad and the coffee and be right back.”

Samantha pulled a thick file from her briefcase. She took an envelope of photographs from the file and went to the large worktable just outside her office door. Around her, activity buzzed. Stuart and Lane took turns shooting a foam basketball through a hoop over the windows. Samantha didn’t ask what that had to do with auto parts. A printer hummed, spitting out paper. Carol hunched over a computer, composing a layout. Somewhere in the back Pam argued on the phone.

Samantha spread the photographs out before her on the table. Eight-by-ten headshots mingled with the “action” poses that she had always found corny. She pulled out the headshots and lined them across the table. Players were identified by name across the bottom of each photo. Other personal data, vital statistics and averages were listed on the back. None of the official information said much about the individuals. Samantha recalled her conversations with the players: their jokes, their quirks, their stories all came back to her.

“So this is the new team.” Brenda peeked over Samantha’s shoulder. “Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“Not bad.” Brenda picked up a photo. “Hey, this is José Alvendia. He used to play for Houston. Craig and I wondered what had happened to him. He used to be really good.”

“Let’s hope he’s still really good.” Samantha eyed the photo. “Between you and me, Elliott told me that this is the last chance he’s giving the team. If they don’t turn things around, he’s going to sell it.”

“What? I thought the city had a contract with him for two years.”

“No, only one year is guaranteed. The second year depends on this season’s revenues.”

“You think they can do it? Pull the club out of the toilet, I mean?” Brenda knew as much or more about the team as anyone, and the skepticism was evident in her tone.

“I don’t know. Elliott’s put some money into getting players. About half of these guys are new this year.” Samantha waved at the spread of photos with her coffee cup. “But your guess is as good as anyone’s whether they can pull it off.”

“Well, that could either mean new energy, or too many egos to make a team work together.”

“Exactly.” Samantha sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “But for better or worse, we’ve got to shove our personal doubts aside and assume they’ll succeed.”

Brenda eased herself onto a chair at the side of the table. “Maybe we should just stick to auto parts and bookstores.”

Samantha eyed the photos as she pondered Brenda’s words. Not only had the Rainiers been rock-bottom in the league, they’d also managed to bring just about every scandal swirling around the club: drugs, drunk driving, bar fights. One player had even been caught having an affair with the mayor’s wife.

“Well, at least the problem players have either been suspended indefinitely or left the team,” Samantha said, thinking aloud.

“Or they’re in jail.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s been four months since the end of last season. If we hit the public with a whole new image, play up the bright future the team has, I think we can win the fans over.”

“So what’s your big idea, boss?” Brenda sipped the glass of water she held. “How’s the rookie ad-lady going to save the day?”

Samantha perched on the edge of the table, facing Brenda. “Try this one: When I was talking with some of the players, I had this flashback to grade school. Do you remember at recess, the boys would try to outdo one another with jokes and tricks when they were around the girls? They’d do all this silly stuff just to get our attention and we ended up thinking they were just that—silly?”

“Yeah, and the weirdest ones always turned out to be the guys you dated in high school,” Brenda said with a laugh. “So how does this sell a baseball team?”

“What if we play on that image to reintroduce the team to the public? Especially the new ones. Set up a series of commercials with the players shown as boys. Take them through childhood when they’re on the playground to adulthood in the stadium. Each guy would have some particular talent that revealed itself at an early age. Or maybe it’s just a quirk that has followed him through life that makes him good at what he does now.”

“You mean like the naughty boy throwing a rock that breaks a church window?” Brenda asked. “In the next spot, he’s the team’s star pitcher.”

“Exactly. That’s a good one.”

“What about the print ads and the billboards?”

“We could use stills of each player, showing a parody of them as a kid, then as an adult. You know, a photo of a kid breaking the church window, then a still of the actual player winding up for a pitch.” Samantha felt the seed of the idea blossoming in her head. “We can use the new faces on the team. The old ones, too. Introduce all of them so it’s like there’s a completely new ball club. We give the customer the feeling of getting to know the team from day one. How a new era of great baseball got started. Or, at least a new season.” Samantha finished with a shrug.

Brenda sat for a moment sipping her water. “This has promise, boss. You’re good. But I’m still thinking about those half-naked men. What about them?”

“What half-naked men?”

“The half-naked men that gave you that glazed look a little while ago? You said you’d explain later. It’s later now.” Brenda was watching Samantha with wide, guileless eyes.

Samantha was not fooled. “Hmm. Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“That’s why you hired me.”

“I haven’t quite figured out where the half-naked men fit into the picture, but I have my target.”

“Who?”

“Jarrett Corliss.”

“The pitcher with the bum shoulder? Why him?”

Samantha sorted through the photos and pulled one from the mess. “This is why.” She handed it to Brenda.

Brenda took one look at the blond, blue-eyed man and whistled her approval. “My, oh my. He was with Arizona a while ago, wasn’t he? I wondered what happened to him.” Brenda shot an inquiring look at Samantha, then added, “Well, his shoulder may be toast, but the rest of him has sure improved with age.”

“Brenda, I am telling you the complete and honest truth—this man is the best-looking thing in a damp towel that I’ve ever seen in all my twenty-eight years.” Samantha pointed her finger at the other woman. “And that opinion is never to be mentioned outside of this conversation.”

Brenda had a steadily widening grin on her face. “That good, huh? He’s the reason for your glazed, dreamy look?”

Samantha had to smile. “Well, he did kind of…pop into my head unexpectedly.”

The two burst into laughter that had a decidedly wicked ring to it. Others in the office glanced up to see what the joke was, then went back to what they were doing after deciding that it was private.

Samantha wiped the corner of her eyes. “He’s also the…what do I want to say? He’s the smoothest man I’ve ever met.” She felt her blood sizzle from the memory of Jarrett’s bold appraisal. “He’s from somewhere south—”

“Oklahoma,” Brenda supplied, looking at the back of the photo she held.

“Oklahoma, then. He has a drawl and entirely more charm than what’s good for him.”

Brenda laughed. “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for the man in the towel.”

“No way, Bren. No ballplayers. Never again. You know that.”

“It’s been a long time, Samantha.” Brenda looked at her friend directly. “Just because he plays baseball, doesn’t mean he’s going to run around on you.”

“Whether he plays baseball or not, he’s not going to get the chance.”

Brenda shot her an exasperated look. “Those were boys, Sam. These—” she waved a hand at the photos arrayed on the table “—are men who know what mitt-muffins are like and what they want. Not every guy in the league is only interested in empty sex.”

Samantha snorted. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba. The mitt-muffins are just the tip of the iceberg, Bren. It’s the ego I can’t stand. Every player I ever met acted like he’s God’s gift to the universe. That hasn’t changed much from when I was a kid, hanging out at Boomer’s high school games.” Samantha looked at Jarrett’s picture, then turned it so the handsome smile was directed at Brenda. “This guy’s got an ego as big as them all. Maybe bigger.”