“Donot,” I start.
“Ritz-Carlton wants to discuss an endorsement deal. We need you on the phone on the way to the airport.”
I sigh inside.
“You’ve never had an offer this large,” she adds.
This is usually a no-brainer. Get endorsement deals, deposit my paycheck into the foundation I run for my favorite charities, expand it, and do more good in the world.
But I’m freakingtired.
“You’re only young once, Waverly,” Aunt Zinnia adds. “This one won’t come around again.”
I glance at my phone.
I’d rather be talking to Cooper, whether we’re laughing or switching to a video call so he knows all of my attention is fully on him.
But that’s not an option.
His team owns him until the season’s over.
Might as well go do a little more good in the world until I can see him in person next week.
23
Cooper
I play my ass off,go two-for-four at bat, rob three guys of base hits, and help Diego throw out four would-be base-stealers tonight in Boston, thank fuck, but I’m feeling off as I board the bus back to the hotel after the game.
Coach Addie gives me a side eye as I start to walk past her. “Lucky socks go missing again?”
I drop into the open seat next to her instead of heading to the back of the bus where I usually sit. “What are you talking about? I was on fire.”
“Your swing sucked today.”
She’s not wrong. The only reason I hit the ball was because the pitching sucked worse than my swing, which made it easy to hit.
And I’m finally over getting cranky when I’m told I can improve. You go six or seven seasons playing for coaches who care more about sucking up to shitty management than they do about improving the team, you learn to self-motivate. And when you go those seasons self-motivating and being the best because of it, it’s hard to break old habits and trust that the new coaches really do care more about the team than they do about going clubbing later with the owner.
But these coaches care.
And look where we are now.
“Almost missed that throw from Estevez in the fourth too,” Coach Dusty says as he takes the seat across the aisle.
For the record, I still maintain that I played my ass off.
Realizing phone sex with Waverly wouldn’t satisfy me personally and what that means for how hard I’m falling for her when being with her would basically mean I have to quit baseball was quite the smack upside the head.
And the heart.
So playing as well as I did is something I’ll privately commend myself for while still taking the feedback from my coaches. “Hard hotel bed,” I say. “Requested a softer one. Should’ve been switched while we were gone. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
Neither coach buys it, even though we do, in fact, stay at hotels that’ll switch out our mattresses if we go all pampered high-maintenance sportsers on them.
“Someone sick?” Addie asks. She has four older brothers, and I’m convinced Tripp and Lila hired her as much for being able to see through all our bullshit as they did for her baseball skills and knowledge, which are top-notch. I know she wants to manage her own hometown team someday. The Fireballs are a stepping-stone for her.
I consider lying, but I’ve got enough I’m hiding right now and don’t have the brain power to keep it all straight. “Nope.”
