Change-up Read Online Free PDF Page B

had just whipped him.
    On the media shuttle back to the hotel, Kelleher asked Susan Carol how it had gone with Buckner.
    “You’ll have to read about it in the
Post,”
Mearns said with a smile. “She wrote a great story.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” Kelleher said. “Did your genius editors find some extra space?”
    “Uh-huh,” Mearns answered. “They put her on the front. They actually put a Redskins feature inside.”
    “Whoa,” Kelleher said, turning again to Susan Carol. “You must have had great stuff to knock a Redskins story off the front.”
    “I think it was a story about the backup quarterback,” Susan Carol said, stealing a glance at Stevie, who was pretending to look out the window. “It wasn’t
that
big a deal.”
    “A hangnail is a big deal in Washington when it comes to the Redskins, you know that,” Kelleher said. “So what’d he say?”
    “He said it was really nice of the Red Sox to invite him back, but he still didn’t feel completely comfortable in Boston,” she said. “It still bothers him when people ask him what it felt like to cost the Red Sox the ’86 series. And get this, he said he kind of hopes the Nationals win, because Boston has been winning so much recently. The Nationals are the underdogs now. Washington could use a championship, and Boston’s had two World Series, three Super Bowls, and an NBA title the last few years.”
    “You’ll make a few headlines in Boston with that story,” Kelleher said.
    Stevie stared out the window. Susan Carol had written a story that everyone would be talking about the next day. He had written a story that his parents would read.
    Maybe.
    The World Series hadn’t started a whole lot better for him than it had for the Nationals.
    Stevie and Susan Carol had agreed to meet at 9:30 for a prebreakfast before they met with the Doyles, but Stevie woke up early and went downstairs by himself. He needed a little time alone to pout. He sat at a window table, staring at the harbor and wolfing down some French toast and coffee.
    He was halfway through Bob Ryan’s column in the
Globe
when Susan Carol walked in, looking around the room until she found him.
    “Couldn’t wait for me?” she said, glancing at his empty plate.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I woke up early and I was hungry.”
    She slid into the chair across from him, took the pot of coffee that was on the table, and poured a cup for herself. He kept reading.
    “Are you mad at me or something?” she said after several seconds of silence.
    “Me? Angry? Why would I be angry?”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Steven Richman Thomas, other than your parents—
maybe
—is there anyone who knows you better than I do?” she said.
    He didn’t answer for a moment, trying to think of something clever to say.
    “No,” he said finally.
    “Okay then, let me take a stab at what’s going on here,” she said, taking a long sip of her coffee. A waitress came up and Susan Carol ordered fried eggs, orange juice, bacon, and toast.
    “Is that part of your swimmer’s diet?” he asked.
    “Don’t change the subject,” she said. “I can eat pretty much what I want as long as I’m working out.”
    “And you’re always working out,” he said.
    She flashed him the smile he had seen charm so many people. “True. Now, as I was saying …”
    He put up a hand. “Do we really have to start the day with you psychoanalyzing me?”
    “Yes, we do,” she said. “Because that’s the only way to clear the air.”
    He sighed, knowing that nothing could deter her.
    “Okay, okay, go ahead,” he said.
    She leaned forward. “You’re upset because you feel like you blew it with Norbert Doyle after the seventh game of the playoff series,” she said.
    He started to respond but she put up a hand. “Wait till I finish,” she said. “So, you beat yourself up about that, and then he makes the series roster. You get an interview with him and his kids,
but
the boy asks that I come along, so that upsets you