No. You’re an idiot to not immediately kidnap him away from there, take him back to your place, strip both of you naked, and enjoy the hell out of playing hooky in a more grown-up way than hanging out with a bunch of kids.
I shiver.
Thatdoessound good.
What would happen if I marched onto the diamond, signed a few autographs, then told Cooper to let the rest of the professional ballplayers handle the kids, and dragged him out of there?
You’d disappoint the children, Waverly. You would disappoint the children.
And that’s what has me sighing as I climb out of the SUV between Kiva and Scott Two.
You’d get bad press and be labeled a sex-crazed ball of hormoneswouldn’t bother me, because it’s what they say if I even talk to a manwrong. I will never escape that kind of judgmental headline, and I should quit worrying over it.
Your aunt would have a coronary. Meh. Whatever.
The kids who came here to see Cooper Rock would be very disappointed.
And that’s the one that will get me every time.
He made a promise to be here, and he’s one of the highest-profile players in the league, thanks to being the hometown hero who not only stuck with his team because he believed in their bad years, but who’s historically been one of the best players in the league to boot.
Even during his off days.
It doesn’t matter that we’re in LA and not Copper Valley.
There will be kids who are herebecauseof him.
There are three diamonds on the field, and we make it to the closest one to the parking lot before I’m spotted, and even then, it’s clear that the parents who notice me are questioning if they’re seeing what they think they’re seeing. Sunglasses, jeans, and a hat over a ponytail really do wonders for anonymity when you’re not expected.
No one’s pointing their phones in my direction yet.
Most of them are paying attention to the pro ball players and the kids on the field, which is exactly what I want to do as well.
Especially when I realize why I didn’t spot Cooper right away.
He’s basically hiding, kneeling at home plate, a black baseball hat turned backward covering his dark hair, his face dusted with the start of what promises to be a thick beard in another week or two, in jeans and aLittle Sluggers – Team Sea Cowst-shirt, helping a little girl in an oversized helmet position her bat.
Unlike when he helped me bat, he’s in front of her, tapping her shoes to indicate that she needs to reposition her feet and holding the top of the bat to show her where to hold it.
She’s giggling at whatever he’s saying, and he’s grinning right back at her like his entire life’s purpose is being here to help her learn everything he can teach her about baseball.
He goes back on his heels, gestures for her to swing, and when she chops the bat awkwardly, he falls back into the dirt with a dramatic flair. “Holy smokes, Leandra! Look at that swing! The wind off it blew me over! You’re gonna take the skin right off that ball!”
She giggles harder.
“Is there anything hotter than a man who’s good with kids?” a woman near me murmurs, fanning herself with her left hand.
No ring.
Single mom.
Back off, lady. He’s mine.
“I’m reserving judgment until I see if he’s full of shit or if he can actually help her hit the ball,” the woman next to her mutters.
I almost gasp in outrage, but Kiva pushes me closer to the baseline. “Are you going all the way out there or not?” she murmurs.
We are so going out there, my vagina votes.
