Rules of the Game Read Free Page A

circles?”
    â€œIf I’m not mistaken,” Billings said slowly, “there’s a bit more to it than that.”
    â€œSure, RBIs and ERAs and putouts and shutouts.” Brooke heaved a long breath. “What the hell is a squeeze play?”
    â€œI’m sure I have no idea.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter.” Brooke shrugged and gulped down some Perrier. “Claire has it in her head that watching this guy in action will give me some inspiration.” She ran a fingertip down a shocking-orange ginger jar. “What I really need is a meal.”
    â€œYou can get a hot dog and some beer in the park,” Claire announced from the doorway.
    Glancing up, Brooke gave a hoot of laughter. Claire was immaculately dressed in buff-colored linen slacks and tailored print blouse with low alligator pumps. “You’re going to a ball game,” Brooke reminded her, “not a museum. And I hate beer.”
    â€œA pity.” Opening her alligator bag, Claire checked the contents before snapping it shut again. “Let’s be on our way, then, we don’t want to miss anything. Good night, Billings.”
    Gulping down the rest of her drink, Brooke bolted to her feet and raced after Claire. “Let’s stop to eat on the way,” she suggested. “It’s not like missing the first act of the opera, and I had to skip lunch.” She tried her forlorn orphan’s look. “You know how cranky I get if I miss a meal.”
    â€œWe’re going to have to start putting you in front of the camera, Brooke; you’re getting better all the time.” With a slight frown at the low-slung Datsun, Claire maneuvered herself inside. She also knew Brooke’s obsession with regular meals sprang from her lean adolescence. “Two hot dogs,” she suggested, wisely buckling her seat belt. “It takes forty-five minutes to get to the stadium.” Claire fluffed her silver-frosted brunette hair. “That means you should get us there in about twenty-five.”
    Brooke swore and rammed the car into first. In just over thirty minutes, she was hunting for a parking space outside of Kings Stadium. “. . . and the kid got it perfect on the first take,” Brooke continued blithely, swerving around cars with a bullfighter’s determination. “The two adult actors messed up, and the table collapsed so that it took fourteen takes, but the kid had it cold every time.” She gave a loud war whoop as she spotted an empty space, swung into it, barely nosing out another car, then stopped with a jaw-snapping jerk. “I want you to take a look at the film before it’s edited.”
    â€œWhat have you got in mind?” With some difficulty, Claire climbed out of the door, squeezing herself between the Datsun and the car parked inches beside it.
    â€œYou’re casting for that TV movie,
Family in Decline.
” Brooke slammed her door then leaned over the hood. “I don’t think you’re going to want to look any further for the part of Buddy. The kid’s good, really, really good.”
    â€œI’ll take a look.”
    Together, they followed the crowd swarming toward the stadium. There was a scent of heated asphalt, heavy air and damp humanity—Los Angeles in August. Above them the sky was darkening so that the stadium lights sent up a white misty glow. Inside, they walked past the stands that hawked pennants and pictures and programs. Brooke could smell popcorn and grilled meat, the tang of beer. Her stomach responded accordingly.
    â€œDo you know where you’re going?” she demanded.
    â€œI always know where I’m going,” Claire replied, turning into an aisle that sloped downward.
    They emerged to find the stadium bright as daylight and crammed with bodies. There was the continual buzz of thousands of voices over piped-in, soft-rock music. Walking vendors carried trays of food and drink strapped over their