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    The Only Game in Town
    The Only Game in Town
    The Only Game in Town
    Ebook400 pages6 hours

    The Only Game in Town

    By Geonn Cannon

    5/5

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    • Friendship

    • Baseball

    • Teamwork

    • Competition

    • Women's Baseball

    • Friends to Lovers

    • Rivals to Friends

    • Forbidden Love

    • Secret Relationship

    • Strong Female Characters

    • Underdog Sports Team

    • Team Spirit

    • Women in Sports

    • Found Family

    • Historical Fiction

    • Sportsmanship

    • Gender Roles

    • Women's Rights

    • Personal Growth

    • Personal Relationships

    About this ebook

    When the men are called to fight, women are called to play.

    1916. Marcy Neal is a shortstop with a barnstorming baseball team called the Lady Yankees when the US joins the Great War. Every able-bodied man is expected to serve, athletes included. A canceled season would be a financial disaster for team owners and morally devastating for the American public, so a plan is devised. The season will go on as planned... with women players.

    Marcy jumps at the opportunity to play professionally. With only a few weeks before the first pitch, she gathers the best players she knows. Rosalind O'Brien, the fastest woman in Illinois. Iona "Moxie" Moccia, a catcher who knows the game better than anyone on a Cracker Jack card. And Caroline Rainy, the best pitcher to ever take the mound. Rainy is also Marcy's lifelong friend, first love, and current heartbreak, but she's willing to put her feelings aside for the greater good.

    The war has given them the chance of a lifetime to prove women can play the game as well as any man, and Marcy has no intention of stopping before the World's Series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSupposed Crimes, LLC
    Release dateJul 1, 2022
    ISBN9781952150869
    The Only Game in Town
    Author

    Geonn Cannon

    Geonn Cannon was born in a barn and raised to know better than that. He was born and raised in Oklahoma where he's been enslaved by a series of cats, dogs, two birds and one unexpected turtle. He's spent his entire life creating stories but only became serious about it when he realized it was a talent that could impress girls. Learning to write well was easier than learning to juggle, so a career was underway. His high school years were spent writing stories among a small group of friends and reading whatever books he could get his hands on. Geonn was inspired to create the fictional Squire's Isle after a 2004 trip to San Juan Island in Washington State. His first novel set on the island, On the Air, was written almost as a side project to another story he wanted to tell. Reception to the story was so strong that the original story was put on the back burner to deal with the world created in On the Air. His second novel set in the same universe, Gemini, was also very well received and went on to win the Golden Crown Literary Society Award for Best Novel, Dramatic/General Fiction. Geonn was the first male author to receive the honor. While some of his novels haven't focused as heavily on Squire's Isle, the vast majority of Geonn's works take place in the same universe and have connections back to the island and its cast of characters (the exception being the Riley Parra series). In addition to writing more novels based on the inhabitants of Squire's Isle, Geonn hopes to one day move to the real-life equivalent to inspire further stories. Geonn is currently working on a tie-in novel to the television series Stargate SG-1, and a script for a webseries version of Riley Parra.

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      Book preview

      The Only Game in Town - Geonn Cannon

      The Only Game in Town

      Geonn Cannon

      Smashwords Edition

      Supposed Crimes LLC

      Matthews, North Carolina

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      All Rights Reserved

      Copyright © 2022 Geonn Cannon

      Published in the United States

      ISBN: 978-1-952150-86-9

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Prologue

      March 1916

      "When you come to the end of a perfect day, and you sit alone with your thought..."

      Marcy Neal wrinkled her nose. The music had been playing for the better part of an hour, the same song drifting down the hall on a seemingly constant loop, but the singing was new. Worse than that, she recognized the voice. It was her savior, but also the man she least wanted to see at the moment. She closed her eyes and braced herself for a lecture.

      She definitely deserved it. Bad girls got lectures, and good girls didn’t find themselves sitting on an upturned bucket in a Podunk police station’s broom closet listening to Carrie Jacobs-Bond echo herself on a Victrola. It would have been an uncomfortable position for anyone to find themselves in, but Marcy was tall for a woman, lanky and lean, and it felt like her knees were uncomfortably lined up with her shoulders. Her hands were limp on her thighs because her arms kept knocking into brooms and mops if she put them anywhere else.

      The doorknob turned and she had to pull her feet back, squeezing in on herself. She squinted one eye closed and looked up at the man framed by the door. He was backlit by the hallway light but she would recognize that silhouette anywhere. David Buckner stuck his hands in his pockets and stuck his gut out, looking at her with a look she assumed was meant to be ‘disappointing father.’ She returned the stare without emotion.

      I suppose he deserved it, he said.

      Don’t they always? She stretched out her hand. If it makes you feel better, I might not have done it if he’d been wearing his uniform.

      David took it and hauled her up. You would have, he said, but you also might have run away faster instead of sticking around for a beer.

      I hadn’t been served yet.

      He sighed and motioned her to follow him toward the source of the music. Marcy squared her shoulders and brushed off the seat of her pants. She dreaded what had to come next.

      All she’d wanted was a beer. A lousy beer after the game, a game she’d helped win. Didn’t she deserve that? And if she hadn’t been carrying her bat, the deputy wouldn’t have had any reason to heckle her. That’s a peculiar looking broom you’ve got there, little lady. It’s missing all the bristles. How do you even sweep up with that thing?

      She knew she should’ve ignored him. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew the whole point was to make her get huffy and red-faced. But when he turned to laugh at his pals, Marcy decided she didn’t feel like being the butt of anyone’s joke. Not tonight. She moved closer and dropped the bat from her shoulder in a smooth, perfect arc until it was pointed at the ground. One of his friends saw her coming and his eyes went wide, but he didn’t have time to utter a warning.

      Marcy gripped the neck of the bat with both hands. She stuck the end under the man’s stool and swept outward. The stool flew. His butt went with it, but his head went straight down and smacked the bar. His friends jumped back and then converged on him to make sure he wasn’t hurt too badly. Marcy had cocked a hip and swung the bat back up onto her shoulder.

      Looks like it sweeps just fine, pally, she said.

      And then she found out the loudmouth was the town deputy. Handcuffs, a quick ride back to the station, and stuck in the broom closet because the sheriff refused to lock her up in the cells with the real criminals, by which he meant men. She hadn’t missed the poetic irony of being shoved in a closet with the brooms and mops, and she definitely caught the deputy’s smile as he shut the door on her. There was a single bare bulb that was dim enough that she was worried it would burn out before she was released.

      Now she stretched her legs with every step. She did it to loosen her muscles but also to keep pace with David, but mostly to make the walk as slow as possible. At the end of the hall, David turned and leaned closer to her.

      Just apologize, and make it sincere.

      She stared at him.

      "Make it sound sincere then, damn it."

      The main room of the police station had two desks facing each other behind a longer, taller desk that separated the work space from the public. The man she’d met in the bar was seated at one of the desks. His hair was mussed and his nose was bandaged, but she could still see the massive, hideous bruise under both of his eyes. Apparently he’d hit the bar harder than she thought. She felt just bad enough that she didn’t choke on her apology.

      I’m sorry, Deputy Dewhurst. I got carried away.

      He pressed his lips together and jutted his chin forward. Marcy looked down at her feet, hoping she came off as contrite. Really she just couldn’t look at him without laughing. She’d seen pouting toddlers make the exact same expression.

      You need to learn how to behave in public, he said.

      Marcy nodded. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop her instinctive response from slipping out.

      You’re lucky your husband here is willing to argue for you. I decided I ain’t gonna press charges, but he’s gonna keep a tighter leash on you. It’ll do you good. Teach you some dang manners. Now go on, get outta here.

      She lifted her head, ignoring the ‘husband’ comment. Whatever David had to tell this twerp to get her released was fine by her. She cleared her throat and tried to look contrite.

      I believe you still have my property.

      He shook his head. Nothing you’re getting back.

      Marcy’s face flushed. She stepped closer to the desk. You have my bat.

      Dewhurst looked up at her. Ma’am...

      Marcy... David warned.

      She spun on him. "David." She could look extremely severe when she wanted. She had a strong jaw, thick eyebrows, and her blue eyes could almost spark when she put enough emotion behind them. Unfortunately David had seen her rage far too often to be cowed by it, and his only reaction was to press his lips tighter together.

      Dewhurst looked past her to David, like she wasn’t even there. I thought you had your wife under control.

      She’s just a little--

      Marcy gave up on David and took a step toward the deputy. Give me my goddamn bat.

      Dewhurst actually leaned away from her. You let her use that language?

      David tried to wedge himself in front of Marcy. We don’t--

      He doesn’t ‘let me’ do anything. Marcy stepped around the desk. Dewhurst scurried away. She spotted her bat leaning against the wall next to the flagpole. She grabbed it around the neck and brought it up in one smooth move, aiming the end at Dewhurst’s face. She was very satisfied to see him cringe.

      "This bat is my property, she said matter-of-factly, and I’m taking it with me."

      You’re a maniac, Dewhurst said.

      Marcy propped the bat on her shoulder. No, sir. I’m a baseball player. Next time you’ll think twice before running your yap at one of us.

      She walked to the door and left the station without looking back.

      David came outside a moment later. Marcy was already halfway down the block and he hustled to catch up with her. She spotted his automobile, a yellow 1912 Garford touring car, and headed toward it as he huffed and puffed. Getting a ride in it would almost be worth all the hubbub she’d just suffered. It was a beauty, big enough to seat seven, with big bug-eyed headlights. It was open-top so everyone would be able to see them and know exactly who they were. A woman could feel like royalty riding around in something like that, even if it was a clunker he’d bought on the cheap when the company folded.

      You really do need to start behaving. He huffed and popped an unlit cigar into his mouth when he caught up with her.

      Did you tell him the same thing? she snapped. I was minding my business. He’s the one who ran his yap and started the whole mess. I just wanted a damn drink.

      He stepped in front of her and forced her to stop. No, I mean you really need to stay in line. You’re about to have a lot of eyes on you.

      Marcy narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. What are you talking about?

      Word just came down from on high. Baseball is officially kaput.

      Marcy’s eyes widened. Spring training starts next month. They can’t do that.

      Can and did. He took the cigar from his mouth, gesturing with it. Wilson’s joined the war.

      He’s running for reelection...

      Against a Republican whose main argument is that the Democrats aren’t doing enough to protect the country. He might lose a few votes from people who wanted America to mind its own business, but he’s going to get a lot of Hughes supporters on his side in return.

      Marcy tried not to let her imagination run away with her. So what does that mean?

      It means the draft. It means every able-bodied man of a certain age is going to be expected to do his part to protect democracy.

      So every man who is fit enough to play baseball is going to be overseas soon.

      Those who haven’t already signed up are going to be drafted soon enough. It means, little lady, that come the first of the month, there’s going to be a baseball drought in the U.S. of A. Unless there’s someone to fill it. Team owners are panicking because they shelled out a ton of money on park maintenance and advertising, and suddenly all their talent is going overseas to play a different sort of game. Some of them could go bankrupt if there aren’t any games to recoup their debts.

      So. Women.

      A lot of people have spent a lot of time in a lot of back rooms fighting for this, Marcy. I was one of them. We just need money and a place to play. We get to use their parks, they get a cut of the ticket and concession sales. It won’t be as much as their usual earnings, but it’s more than an empty park could ever earn. It’s beneficial to both sides. And to the crowds, who just want to see a damn game, they won’t care who is playing.

      Marcy looked back down the street as if she expected to spot a newspaper to confirm what he was saying. She stepped away from him and walked in a circle, putting her free hand on top of her head as the bat bumped against her leg. David waited patiently for her to process the news and took the time to light his cigar.

      Will people come watch women play? she asked.

      He shrugged. If they want to see a baseball game any time soon, they aren’t gonna have a choice. It’s gonna be you, the Negro League, or nothing.

      Are we ready for that?

      Most of you are. We can find replacements for the ones who ain’t ready or don’t want to take the big step. But we’re gonna have to move fast.

      He started walking toward his car again. This time it was Marcy hurrying to catch up.

      Why do we have to move fast?

      "I’m not the only person who reads the Herald, Marcy. Every team owner in those meetings I talked about? They’re all running around putting together their own teams as we speak. The same thing is happening all over the country in the other leagues, no doubt. Women ballplayers are about to become a hot commodity. If you want to replace any duds on your team, you’re going to wanna get to the good ones first."

      Why me?

      This is going to be a team of girls. I think it would go over better if they were dealing with another girl, don’t you?

      Makes sense. Marcy trotted around the front of his car to get in the passenger side. Her hands were shaking with anticipation, her mind racing.

      I’m already working on names, she said. One in particular.

      David raised his eyebrows at her. I’m dying of curiosity.

      Marcy smiled at him. Shrikes. The Chicago Shrikes.

      You want to change the name of the team? What’s wrong with Lady Yankees?

      It’s a whole new world, David. If we want them to remember us, we better make ourselves memorable.

      I.

      SPRING TRAINING

      "FIGHT OR GET BUSY

      SWEEPING EDICT TO IDLERS TO

      MAKE NATION EFFICIENT

      IN WAR.

      IS TO BE IN EFFECT JULY 1

      Order Takes Registrants Out of Deferred

      Class - Ball Players, Golfers, Clerks, Bartenders, and Others,

      Must Find Useful Employment."

      - The Southern Herald (Liberty, Mississippi), May 31, 1918

      Chapter One

      Oswego, Illinois

      You’re pouting.

      Men don’t pout, David said.

      They were standing with their backs to a brick wall outside a bank. It was the first truly hot day of the month. Enough people were taking advantage of the weather that the smell of fresh-cut grass made Marcy’s nose tickle. She tried her best to ignore it and focused on watching the door of the soda shop across the street. There had been a steady stream of customers in and out, but none of them were the person Marcy was waiting for. The same person David was pouting over.

      You’re mad about her.

      David snorted, scoffed, kicked his shoe at the pavement, and then glowered at her. You could choose anyone in the world, and you choose Rosalind O’Brien?

      What’s wrong with her? Marcy smirked, because she knew very well David’s problems with her. She crossed her arms and waited, forcing him to say it out loud.

      He sighed, started to say something twice, then finally gave up. "Rosalind’s a fucking nightmare."

      Marcy laughed. Don’t pull any punches, David. Gee willikers. She looked at her watch. I could stand here and explain to you all the reasons you’re going to want Rosalind on your team. But you already know how good she is. But we’re going to stand here for another thirty seconds or so and wait for my point to be proven by itself.

      It doesn’t matter if--

      The soda shop’s door swung open at such a speed that it stopped him mid-word. The woman who opened it didn’t touch the stoop on her way out, instead landing on the sidewalk and changing direction in a fluid full-body twist that didn’t take away a lick of her speed. She was almost to the end of the block before David realized what he was watching.

      Gadzooks, he muttered.

      You’ve seen her play. But did you know she could do this even when no one’s chasing her?

      I...

      Marcy pointed at Rosalind’s quickly-shrinking back. She’s going that fast just because she wants to, when she knows she’s got a few miles ahead of her. Imagine what she can do when a home run is at stake. Do you want her on another team playing against us?

      David only stared.

      She tugged on his jacket sleeve as she passed him. Come on. The wheels give us an advantage but we’re gonna wanna hurry if we expect to catch up with her.

      He glanced over his shoulder, still disbelieving, as he followed her to the car. It took a minute for the engine to get started up. By the time he was on the road, Rosalind was out of sight. Marcy pointed him to the correct turn, which took them onto a dirt road.

      Rosalind didn’t look back as David closed the distance. She waved them for them to go around her and moved further to the side of the road. David pulled up alongside and slowed to keep pace. She glanced over and shook her head when she recognized the passenger.

      Keep driving, Rosalind said.

      You don’t even know what I’m going to say, Marcy said.

      Someone got hurt or isn’t living up to their potential. She didn’t even sound out of breath. You want me to join up to play while the men are at war. But I ain’t interested. I’m not going to wear a cute little dress. I’m not gonna pitch underhand. I won’t smile and flirt and flutter my eyelashes at the boys in the stands like a damn doll.

      Marcy said, What if I promised you wouldn’t have to do any of that? What if what we’re offering is real baseball, not some exhibition or spectacle? We won’t have a full roster, so you don’t have to worry about warming the bench. We’re going to be using every warm body we’ve got, and we need the best warm bodies we can get.

      Rosalind kept her pace. The road was long enough to keep up this slow pursuit, but Marcy could see they’d have to make a turn in just a few minutes.

      We’re even changing our name. We’re not the Lady Yankees anymore. We’re going to be our own thing. The Shrikes.

      David said, We’re not a hundred percent settled on that name.

      Don’t listen to him, Marcy said. We’ll be the Shrikes. Whatever we’re called, we won’t be riding the coattails of any man’s team. We don’t have to be. For once, we’re not going to be competing with the men for ticket sales or begging for attention. We’re going to be the only game in town. I want to show people what women’s baseball can look like, and I can only do that if I’m playing with the best. That’s you, Ros.

      Rosalind slowed to a walk. David stepped on the brakes and eased to a stop alongside her. She rested her hands on the top of Marcy’s door and looked back the way they’d come. She jutted her chin out, brow furrowed under the fringe of her bangs.

      Shrikes, huh?

      The Chicago Shrikes.

      One eyebrow rose and she drummed her fingers on the door. Let me think about it. Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve probably got enough.

      Sure, David said. There’s probably--

      She took off running again. Marcy laughed, David stared after her.

      Is she really going to run the entire way home?

      It’s only a mile or two. Are you going to start driving any time soon? It’ll be embarrassing if she gets there before us.

      David shook his head and drove after her. Okay, she can run. But I’ve seen her throw. She’s decent at best.

      That’s a lie and you know it, Marcy said. She throws as good as anyone we already got. And she might strike out a few times, sure, who doesn’t. But once she gets a hit, I’d love to see someone try to catch her.

      ***

      Rosalind knew that model of car topped out at three miles an hour, five tops, so she didn’t have to push herself to beat them to her house. Rosalind lived in a farmhouse with a covered porch on an acre of land surrounded by fields of tall grass. It was her oasis, her own little island from which she could see visitors coming from a mile away. There weren’t many and that was the way she liked it. Peace and quiet. A normal, calm life.

      She didn’t need this. She had a good job at the soda shop, where she liked the owner and the other employees. It paid well. She even had a good amount of savings. And... and she wasn’t entirely certain what it was for. She owned her house, and she liked it more than fine. She had no intention of moving. She didn’t need an automobile, since she did her grocery shopping with Mabel and she could just run or walk everywhere else.

      So what the hell was that money doing, just piling up in the bank? What on earth did she plan to spend it on? And what was she waiting for?

      She heard the rumble of the engine and her lip curled in distaste. Whatever it is I’m waiting on, she muttered to herself, it is not coming from Mr. David damn Buckner...

      She filled a glass with water, drained it, refilled it, and went to the window to watch the cloud of dust grow larger as her first visitors in six months got closer. She ran through all the ways she could say no to what Marcy was offering. She didn’t want to be rude, Marcy was a good egg and didn’t deserve that. But maybe rudeness would keep her from coming back and sniffing around some other time. Then again, she didn’t want her to think there was hope of changing her mind...

      The car stopped in front of the house. She could see them through the dirt-shrouded windshield, talking for a good minute before Marcy finally got out of the car and started to the porch.

      Rosalind filled another glass with water. Marcy knocked on the door and let herself in, smiled, and took the glass Rosalind offered.

      No.

      You said you’d think about it over dinner.

      Rosalind shrugged. I thought about it on the run instead. She looked at the door. How come he’s not going overseas with the other boys?

      He has some kind of heart thing, Marcy said. Unfit for duty.

      Rosalind snorted. "That figures. What took him so long to get here, anyway? I’m fast but I’m not that fast."

      He was tempted to just go back to town. He said we had your answer. But I think you’re worth fighting for. I want you on the team, Rosalind. We need you.

      She looked outside and saw him puffing on a cigar. She was glad he stayed outside; she wouldn’t have wanted him stinking up the house with the thing. It was as good an excuse as any to keep him outside without getting into a whole thing with Marcy about him. She had more than enough of David Buckner when she was with the Lady Yankees and he was the manager, and she had no intention of giving him a chance to continue his bad behavior.

      She could’ve told Marcy when she left the team. Hell, she could tell her now. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t, not without being absolutely sure how Marcy would react. The man was her mentor, and now he was offering her a pro-level team. Rosalind didn’t like guessing where she would come out in that debate. Best to just keep quiet.

      She walked to the table where Marcy was waiting. I saw the notice and I know what Buckner wants to do. I’m not going to play some glorified softball exhibition to kill time until the boys come home.

      Marcy shook her head. That’s not at all what it is. And it’s not his idea, it’s mine. He’s just the go-between for the team and the owners. Contracts and rental agreements to make sure we have permission to use the parks. It’s going to be baseball, Rosalind. No skirts. No charm school. No underhand pitching. We don’t have to kowtow to anyone ‘cause they need us as much as we need them. Think about how much money these owners are going to lose if the season gets canceled. With every other player headed overseas, they’re looking down the barrel at a season with no income whatsoever.

      Rosalind leaned back in her chair. The season starts in a month.

      I know that.

      You think there’s gonna be enough teams for a whole league in one month?

      There are enough teams now, Marcy said. I know, I’ve been playing against them. We’ve got our team, but we need to replace the girls who aren’t serious enough to make a job out of it. We need someone like you, Ros. We need someone who cares and who has the talent to get us all the way to the World’s Championship Series.

      Rosalind chuckled. A World’s Series of women.

      Why not? Marcy grinned. And damn that grin. It was enough to make a weaker woman do anything she asked.

      But Rosalind wasn’t weak. She got up and went to the sink. We’re still going to be managed by men. And given our marching orders by men. Men are still going to be in charge of the whole thing. And when the war ends, which could happen any day now, you know we’re going to be shuffled back off to the kitchen.

      Unless we prove that we can hold our own. Marcy stood up. When are we going to have another chance like this, Ros? You said it yourself, the war could end tomorrow. Will you be able to live with yourself knowing you could have taken advantage of this moment in history when we were literally the only option? Women are out there doing jobs we never would’ve been hired for otherwise. Why not ballplayer? And the only way the teams are going to stand out in places like, like, Boston and New York is if we’ve got the best players. We can’t do it with the B-team, Ros. We need you.

      Rosalind’s ears pricked up, and her fingers curled on the counter. Baltimore?

      What?

      Would we have games in Baltimore?

      Marcy was clearly thrown by the specificity. Uh. Yeah, there are rumors about a team being put together there. They got a ballpark, so I’d be shocked if they didn’t have a team we can play in a few weeks. What’s so special about Baltimore?

      The blood was rushing in Rosalind’s ears. She had to struggle to keep her breathing steady. She shook her head because she didn’t want to answer Marcy’s question. Her mind was going too fast for even her to keep up. So instead she pushed all thoughts of Baltimore out of her mind and looked out the window. David was pacing in front of his car, cigar poised next to his face, eyes cast on the ground.

      I don’t want him in charge of me. I don’t want him telling me what to do.

      Fair enough. Hell, I’ll do my best to make sure you never even have to speak to him.

      Rosalind took a deep breath. The things women did to chase their dreams...

      What are the uniform colors gonna be?

      We hadn’t really discussed that, Marcy admitted. Right now we’re just scrambling to get players like you before anyone else can snatch you up.

      Orange, Rosalind said. I like orange.

      Marcy bobbed her head in agreement. Orange is a good color. It’s a great color. We’ll work it into the logo.

      Rosalind took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she held her hand out to Marcy.

      I guess you’ve got center field locked in.

      Marcy grinned and stood up, clapped her hand against Rosalind’s, and squeezed.

      We’re gonna show everybody what we can do.

      Rosalind pumped Marcy’s arm, but she couldn’t help but think about the man outside. She could almost smell the stench of his cigar smoke. She doubted he would be very pleased about her agreeing to be on the team, but maybe it would be a good thing. Maybe the Shrikes needed someone who knew what kind of man he really was, someone who wasn’t scared to step in if he got back up to his old tricks. That was worth more to her than any game.

      She dropped her hand from Marcy’s. So who else you got in mind?

      We’ve got a few gals already who are more than ready for the jump to the big show, Marcy said. But Dave and I are going to hit up a few other people like you. People who got tired of waiting for their chance. We’re going to find them, and we’re going to give the game back to them. Even if it’s just for one season.

      Chapter Two

      Iona Moxie Moccia’s carpetbag smacked the sidewalk directly in front of a man in a trilby. He’d been too involved with his newspaper to pay attention to the world around him and jumped back a step, stared at the bag, then twisted to look up at the same time Moxie leaned out the window to see where her bag had landed. Her hair was done up in a pompadour, and she was dressed in what looked to be her Sunday finery despite it being the middle of the workweek. She wore a pair of glasses thick enough to make her eyes look almost inhuman.

      She flashed her winningest smile at him. Morning, mister. Say, would you mind terribly sliding that trash bin over under the window?

      He looked where she pointed. A silver trash can stood next to the front steps of the building to which her window belonged. The street was empty save for the two of them. He was very clearly torn, unsure if he should mind his own business or help a potential damsel in distress.

      Moxie looked back into the room and lowered her voice. It’ll just take two seconds. I’d be very grateful if you could just move it a skosh closer.

      He made his decision. Tucking the paper under one arm, he marched over to the can. It was light enough that it might have been completely empty, so he had no trouble repositioning it. When it was in place, he took a step back. Moxie climbed up to sit on the windowsill, gathered her skirts, and slung her leg over and out. She had to stretch her foot to find the can, and then she took a second to make sure it remained steady and could hold her weight.

      "Would you

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