Page 1 of The Catcher

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“Now, Emrys, I know you don’t do this kind of shit anymore,” my old boss said. “But we are talking about alotof money.”

“Why is a major league baseball team this desperate for a Public Relations flunky?” I asked, juggling my phone so I could finish packing up my art therapy classroom for the summer.

“It’s a special case,” Jeff said.

“What kind of special case?” I asked suspiciously.

“You wouldn’t be doing PR for the whole team,” he said. “Just one of the players.”

Shit,I thought. I knew what that meant.

The team was desperate. That was why Jeff was calling me. AndIwas desperate. That’s the only reason I was still on the phone.

Five years ago, when I was fresh out of college, I had been an energetic, hardworking Public Relations professional, spinning recalled dog food, secret mistresses, and placebo herbs for a variety of soulless employers. I was good at it, but the work had begun to depress me, so two years ago I went back to school for an art therapy degree.

It had left me with a mountain of debt, but summers off, and it was on one warm July morning when my old boss Jeff, now a powerful corporate headhunter, called me.

“It’s just for a few months,” he said. “You’re off for the summer anyway. Maybe you won’t be needed by the time school starts again. And it would pay off all your loans. . .”

I bit my lip as my hands moved on autopilot, putting the crayons, glue, markers, scissors, and paper away in their proper spaces.

“You know I don’t do the PR stuff anymore,” I said. “I don’t have that shark personality.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Emrys Finnegan,” Jeff said. “You were good. Damn good.”

I sighed.

With that money I wouldn’t have to rent shitty apartments anymore. The only downside to my job as an art therapist at Oak Parks Elementary School was that it didn’t pay very well, and with this money I could put a down payment on a house.

“What’s the client done?” I asked suspiciously.

“I’m not going to bullshit you, Em,” Jeff said, bullshittingly. “It’s the Phoenixes’ superstar catcher Tanner Courtenay. Last year he tested positive for steroids for the second time in his career, which meant he spent the entire last season in suspension. One more positive test, apparently, means a lifetime ban from baseball.”

“That seems easy enough,” I said. “Put him in front of the camera. He says he’s really sorry. He got too stressed. He made a mistake. He is going to focus on a better work-life balance. Big donation to carefully-selected charities. Elementary school circuit so he can warn the kids about the dangers of steroids. You don’t needmeto do this. People will give a major-league star a lot of leeway.”

There was a short silence on the other end as Jeff hemmed and hawed. Well, it turned out that Mr. Courtenay could be a bit difficult. Mr. Courtenay didn’t seem to want to do an apology tour.

“You’ve worked with difficult clients before,” Jeff said.

Yeah.

You always gave me the most difficult clients because I’m such a doormat.

I didn’t know the first thing about baseball.

But that much money was tempting.

“You won’t let me down, will you, Emrys?” Jeff asked.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, but I heard the triumphant crow in his voice.

“I’m doing it for the money,” I added. “And I expect to be back by the time school starts at the end of September.”

The first thing I did when I got back to my apartment was google Tanner Courtenay to find out that he was currently in prison for a few days on a drunk and disorderly charge. Apparently he had gotten drunk and pissed at a hotel bar and smashed up the elevator, rendering it inoperable.

Great. My new client.

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