He followed Susan Carol and the other writers out, relieved-for this one night-that Kelleher wanted him to go to the losing clubhouse. He had no interest in seeing Norbert Doyle celebrating with tonight’s winners. Not yet, anyway.

AS IT TURNED OUT, Mike Lowell did speak to the press, although he did so while holding an ice pack to his face, which was already swelling and had turned several different colors. He had heard of Tony Kubek.

“The good news is that this wasn’t game seven,” he said. “We still only have to win two more games, and the last two are in Boston. I’ll take those odds.”

He insisted he would play the next night even if he had to have some stitches taken in his lip, which appeared likely.

The only other person in the Boston locker room Stevie could find who had heard of Tony Kubek was Terry Francona. “My dad was playing in those days,” he said. “I watched a lot of games. I remember Tony working for NBC in the late sixties and early seventies. Whenever someone hit a bad-hop grounder, the other announcer would say, ‘Hey, Tony, does that remind you of the ’60 series?’”

Standing in the middle of the clubhouse, Ortiz said he thought Jason Bay was going to catch Boone’s home run. He shook his head. “Dude always seems to get us.”

Stevie had gotten about three steps outside the clubhouse door when he heard a voice calling his name. He looked up to see Morra Doyle. He might have turned and run, but she was smiling.

She rushed up to him, threw her arms around him, and said, “David told me that you and Mr. Kelleher aren’t going to pursue the story. Thank you!” Before Stevie could say anything, she gave him a firm kiss on the lips, which, if nothing else, was a good deal more pleasant than getting slapped.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Bobby has the final word on all this.”

He liked the answer because he hadn’t really lied. Clearly, Susan Carol had carried off her part in the misdirection perfectly.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re doing the right thing. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

She turned and walked down the hall, leaving Stevie just a bit dizzy.

“That was a touching scene,” a voice said behind him. He turned and saw Susan Carol, who had just come from the Nationals clubhouse and had apparently seen the kiss.

“Well, I guess I have you to thank for it,” he said, giving her his best smile. “She’s thrilled that we’re backing off the story.”

“Good,” Susan Carol said. “Let’s hope that means we won’t be bothered tomorrow in Lynchburg.”

They walked down the hall in the direction of the elevators.

“Pretty girl,” Susan Carol said while they waited.

“Don’t even go there, Scarlett,” Stevie said. “My loyalty has never been at issue this week.”

She moved closer to him so she could speak softly and said, “Neither was mine, really. I hope you know that.”

He said nothing, and she slid her arm through his as they pushed onto the elevator to go back up to the press box and write. It had been, Stevie thought, quite a day.

Stevie called Miles Hoy on the way to the train station the next morning and was relieved when he answered right away. He explained that he needed to talk to Joe Molloy again and that he was coming back to town with a friend.

“Let me find out if he’s working or at home today,” Miles said. “I’ll pick you and your friend up at the train station.”

“I’d rather he didn’t know we were coming,” Stevie said.

“Gotcha,” Miles said. “I’ll handle it.”

Stevie told him what time the train got in-12:40-and he said he’d call back if there was any sort of problem.

As soon as they got on the train, Susan Carol started to work on a paper for school. Stevie grabbed the Sports section of the Post. Stevie always enjoyed comparing Tom Boswell’s columns in the Post with Kelleher’s. Boswell saw wonder and beauty in everything that took place on a baseball field; Kelleher was skeptical about the teenage choral group that sang the national anthem.

The trip passed fairly quickly. Stevie finished off the two Sports sections and then quickly fell asleep-again-while trying to wrestle The Great Gatsby to the ground.

Stevie noticed a chill in the air and an overcast sky when they got off the train. “Wonder what it will be like for the game tonight,” he said as they walked through the small station.

“Supposed to be cold and maybe rainy,” Susan Carol said. “Great football weather.”

“Well, when you play the World Series the last week in October, that’s bound to happen.”

Miles Hoy was waiting with his cab as promised. Stevie introduced him to Susan Carol.

“Wow, a budding Erin James,” he said, shaking hands with Susan Carol.

“What’s that mean?” Susan Carol said as they slid into the backseat of the cab.

“She’s very tall,” Stevie said. “I guess I didn’t get a chance to tell you that.”

“How tall?”

“She said six three.”

Susan Carol winced. “Ooh God, I hope I’m not that tall. Five eleven is plenty for me.”

“Me too,” Stevie said, and saw the Smile-which made him smile.

Hoy jumped behind the wheel. “So, here’s the deal,” he said. “Our timing should be perfect. Joe’s on call today, but he’s not at the station. He and his family go to church in the morning and then out to brunch. But they should be home by now.”

“You didn’t tell him we were coming, did you?” Stevie asked.

“Absolutely not,” Hoy said. “One of the guys who works for me driving one of my other cabs lives down the street from Joe. He gave me the info.”

“Miles, you should have been a reporter,” Susan Carol said in her best Scarlett O’Hara voice.

Stevie saw Miles smile in the rearview mirror.

It started to rain en route to the Molloy house. “I hope this isn’t a harbinger,” Susan Carol said.

“I think you and I working together again is a harbinger of good things,” Stevie said.

“Why, Stevie, you do say the sweetest thangs.”

“Stop it, Scarlett,” he said, a wide grin on his face.

They pulled up to a brick two-story house at the far end of a quiet cul-de-sac.

“Do we have a plan here?” Stevie asked as they pulled up.

“Do we ever have a plan?” Susan Carol answered.

She had a point.

“I’ll be right here,” Miles Hoy said.

They jumped out and hustled up to the front porch to get out of the rain.

“Ready?” Susan Carol said.

Stevie nodded. She rang the doorbell. They waited. Several seconds went by. Stevie heard a dog bark. Oh please, he thought, not another dog. Finally the door was opened by an attractive woman of about forty wearing what was no doubt her Sunday go-to-church dress.

“Hi,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Mrs. Molloy?” Stevie said, just to be sure.

“Yes?” she said.

Susan Carol, as usual, took over from there. “Mrs. Molloy, my name is Susan Carol Anderson, and this is Steve Thomas. We’re reporters covering-”

“Kidsports!” Mrs. Molloy said. “I recognize you both! Hey, come in. The kids will be thrilled to meet you!”

Stevie had been uncertain what kind of reception they might get at the Molloys’, but a hero’s welcome was not on the list he had made in his head.

“Well, we really don’t want to bother you…,” Susan Carol said.

“No, no, please come in, it’s starting to rain hard out there.”

She ushered them into the front hallway. “Joe, Joey, Denise, come out here, we’ve got surprise visitors,” she called toward the back of the house.

Joe Molloy, still wearing a white shirt and tie, and two neatly dressed kids, maybe eleven and nine, Stevie guessed, appeared in the hall.

“Steve?” Joe Molloy said. “Is that you? What brings you back here?”

Before Stevie could attempt an answer, his wife was introducing her two kids. “This is Joey, he’s a seventh grader,” she said. “And Denise is in fifth. They both used to love your show.”