We’re okay for the moment. I’ll text my boss and let him know I might be late.
She switches to Jimmy Santiago’s contact info and types out a quickstuck in an elevatorupdate.
His near-instant response ofI told you to move into a building with backup generatorsmakes her snort. She gives it a thumbs-up emoji, then closes her text messages.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, just the sound of our breathing filling the dimly lit space between us.
My skin is starting to itch from being wet. Hers can’t feel too good either.
“I’m debating withdrawing my name for the manager position,” she whispers.
I lift my head and look at her. “What? Why?”
“I got into coaching baseball because I love it. I love the game. I love the weather. I love living every day in the presence of the idols I had when I was growing up, playing baseball with my brothers and going to games with them and teaching myself to read with the sports pages.”
She’s playing with her hands. “I lovecoachingthe men I would’ve idolized as a girl, even knowing that my idolatry was likely misplaced. It’s about the player, not about the man, and believe me, that’s a lesson I learned the hardest of hard ways. I love being part of an organization that believes in growth and that believes in putting resources into continuously getting better as a team. I don’t love that I have to be better and stronger and more professional than everyone else on the coaching staff, but I do love that Iam. No one can take that knowledge from me.”
Her clothes have to be itching like mine, but she doesn’t so much as twitch as she keeps talking. “My job is hard. It’s demanding. But it’s so damn fulfilling to watch the growth and see this team that used to suck donkey eggsbesomething. I want to keep being a part of the Fireballs being something no matter my own title. And I want to keep being better than everyone else at the same time.”
That.
That right there is why Addie Bloom is fucking irresistible.
Her passion. Her belief. Her drive. Her acknowledgement of why things are harder and her refusal to let it stand in her way.
There’s this fire inside her that makes her shine brighter than every other person I’ve ever met. She tears down roadblocks and she makes her own path. I wonder if she realizes the impact she has on the world is so much bigger than the lives she touches directly with all of her volunteer work on top of her job.
“You’re fucking incredible, you know that?” My voice is husky, and her shiver in response to it is nearly instantaneous.
“I’m just a girl with a dream.”
“And the determination to get it. That’s hot as hell.You’rehot as hell.”
“I’m a pain in the ass.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Addie. I don’t want your job. I don’t want your connections. I don’t want your championship rings. I just wantyou.”
“You wouldn’t if we weren’t stuck here.”
“I’ve never stopped wanting you. Not when you told me we weren’t serious. Not when I was a massive dumbass who blew up over it instead of listening to what you were saying. Not when I thought of you every time I played a set onstage the past few years. Not when I saw the footage of you celebrating all of your wins with the team. Not when I saw your tattoo in the dress shop. Not when I watched you walk onto that stage at the auction. Not when I see you being a mentor to the next generation of coaches and players. Not when I watch you encourage other women who are doing the scary things. I haven’t ever stopped wanting you.”
“You scare me.” Her voice is so soft, I wouldn’t be able to hear her if the elevator were running. “Theideaof you scares me. The idea ofusscares me.”
The Addie she shows the world isn’t afraid of anything.
But I know better.
“I fucking hate blacked-out, stuck elevators, but I’m okay. Because I’m with you. If you want to face your fears with me too, I’m here. Ready and willing to be your lifeline.”
“You are so damn infuriating.”
I suppress a smile.
She’s not mad at me.
She’s mad at herself for liking me. And maybe she’s mad at me for getting past her fences.
But I don’t care if she’s mad. Why she’s mad. Who she’s mad at.
