He’s the gold standard you’ve held every man to since, my heart replies.
Fuck my heart.
I have a job to do.
Even if it’s right.
“Here we go, gentlemen,” I say. “Gus, line us up, please.”
“With Coach Cooper too!” Derek repeats.
Cool as a cucumber, Cooper makes eye contact for a split second before aiming his self-deprecating grin at Aiden. “You want the picture ruined?”
A chorus ofyeses go up amongst the boys.
He meets my gaze again, and there it is.
Thatzapof history and curiosity and unwelcome attraction.
It passes as I turn my attention to Gus, who’s running the camera and has final instructions for all of us.
Unfortunately, those instructions include me being sandwiched between the two grown men with the team.
Cooper has his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. The denim hugs his long legs, and his black Mountain Lions T-shirt is the right amount of tight enough to emphasize his lean torso. A tattoo peeks out from beneath the sleeve wrapped around his right bicep. And I’m trying—failing—to not notice any part of him.
When Gus tells him to scoot closer to me, he’s still standing far enough away that we’re not touching but close enough that I can smell butterscotch and mountain pine while the hairs on my arms reach for him and fall short.
“Some of them pretend they’re not fans, but that’s because they haven’t had a good enough influence to own it yet,” he murmurs to me while Gus patiently rearranges the kids for the third time. They all clearly don’t know their own height, which isn’t unusual. We see it every day. “You should’ve seen the room when I told them I got tickets. Theyalllove you.”
“I’ve had worse critics.”
He looks at me and for just a moment all of his cockyI’m a baseball godswagger disappears from his lean face. “Yeah, me too. But I wanted you to know.”
My stomach dips.
Cooper Rock thinks about me.
I’m Waverly Fucking Sweet. I sell out arenas and stadiums all over the world. My last record went platinum in a week, and my lead single was certified diamond not long ago. I have a skincare line, a clothing line, a home goods line, and I recently signed a contract to be the new face of a luxury car brand in Europe. The Waverly Sweet Foundation donates over a hundred million dollars to charities around the world every year. I’ve hostedSaturday Night Live, testified before Congress, am probably going to be named a UN Ambassador soon, and I’m about to launch a weekly web series talking with female leaders in all kinds of industries.
On paper, I’m a freakingbadass. I could date anyone I want—and I have.
And here I am, getting a case of teenage nerves because a baseball player that I fell head-over-heels in love with for three whole days nearly a decade ago still thinks about me.
I jerk my attention back to the kids, who arestillrefusing to take Gus’s orders. “They know what they want, Gus,” I say. “Think we should snap the picture?”
“I think they’d win more games if they listened to the grown-ups in charge,” he mutters while the team’s main coach sighs in agreement.
Cooper claps a large hand on top of Aiden’s head and gently tilts it. “The man’s not wrong, slugger. Two steps to your left. Let Sam in. There you go. Eye on the ball. Or the cameraman. Yeah?”
“I don’t want to stand by Bobby,” Aiden says. “He smells like Cheetos, and I puked those up last week.”
“Bob, my man, can you hold your breath while you smile for three seconds?” Cooper asks.
“I can hold it for seven seconds, Coach Cooper!” Bobby replies.
“Good job. Do that.”
We get the picture taken, and as soon as Gus gives us the thumbs-up, the kids turn and fire questions at me again.
