It’ll be much safer to let him lead this conversation. My feelings are already messy enough. The last thing I need is to tripover my words and expose something I’m not ready to put out there.
“I can’t really think of anything specific, but I did ask him to show you the ropes. I guess I was just hoping you two would get along and spend more time together.”
My eyes go wide. “Really? Why would you want that?”
“Why do you look so surprised?” he asks, thankfully looking more amused than concerned. “I just figured you two are the pros when it comes to all this social media stuff. Doesn’t he tend to go viral with every video he posts? And that stunt you two pulled?” he asks, leaning forward, the excitement practically radiating off him. “It gave us our first-ever sold out game. I just assumed after that it’d only make sense for you to put your heads together and create more special moments like that.”
“Oh yeah. Well, we’ve filmed some content,” I say, my knee gaining even more momentum under the desk. “But I guess I’ve been focusing more on content that lets the whole team shine. Plus, he was pretty busy most of the day.”
It’s mostly true. Okay, fine. So maybe I’m slightly stretching the truth and I could’ve gotten more content with Fletch. But in my defense, would it really be a good idea to fill my dad in on why I’ve practically turned avoiding a certain shortstop into an Olympic sport? Pretty sure if they were handing out medals for this, I’d be the undisputed gold medalist.
His brows furrow. “You know you’re allowed to pull the guys away at any time. I already told the coaches how important it is that—”
I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just didn’t want to pull him away for too long. It had nothing to do with him or the coaches,” I assure him, feeling an odd sense of protectiveness over my new work family.
“Okay good,” he nods as his shoulders relax. “Your job is instrumental to the success of this league. Our first game provedthat. And most importantly,” he continues, leaning in, “they better be treating my baby girl with the respect she deserves.”
And there it is. My worst fucking nightmare.
He may be joking, but that doesn’t stop it from striking a nerve.
“Remember our deal when I agreed to come on?” I ask, giving him ‘the look.’“No special treatment. I’m serious, Dad.”
He holds up his hands. “I know. I remember. Sorry,” he offers, at least having the decency to look sincere. “But the truth is, that’s how I’d want them to treat anybody in this role. Not that we’d want anybody else after how well you’ve done. You sure I can’t somehow convince you to stay on for another season, or hell, permanently?”
“Dad…” I warn, not in the mood to have this conversation... again.
“Okay” he gives in with a resigned sigh. “And I suppose I'll take this as my cue that it's time for me to get back to work.” He plants both hands on my desk and pushes himself up before turning to leave. “But Hollis,” he says, stopping as his hand lands on the doorknob. “Please think about what I said about Fletcher. I really think you two could create some magic together.”
If he only knew.
“I will. Promise.”
The second the door clicks behind him, I let my forehead drop onto my desk with a soft thud.
Why are parents always right? It’s so fucking annoying! Because, of course,he’s right. Fletch is social media gold. The numbers don’t lie and I’d be an idiot not to take advantage of that. Pretty sure this means it’s officially time for me to suck it up, be a professional, and do the damn thing.
So I guess my next order of business is mastering my poker face, because it’s getting harder and harder to keep pretending like I’m not falling head over heels.
The problem now? I suck at poker. Yep, I’m screwed.
I can’t say I expected to end my shift loitering outside the Honky Tonk locker room, yet here I am.
I’ve got my big girl pants on, and I’m doing this. Sure, I could’ve waited until tomorrow, but that would mean another night obsessing as I lose even more sleep. I love my sleep too much for that and there’s no way I’m letting that infuriating handsome shortstop steal that too.
“If it isn’t Baby Clemmins,” Easten says, lifting his bag onto his shoulder as he exits first. “I hope you weren’t waiting for me.” He winks.
I arch a playful brow. “And what if I was?”
At least when I banter with him, I know it’s just silly, harmless fun, unlike with certain other players on the team. It’s also why I don’t mind the ridiculous nickname.
“Then I’d say you’re about to get my ass kicked,” he smirks, glancing over his shoulder, as I do the same, but at least for now, the coast is clear.
“Oh, come on, Fletcher’s not that scary,” I counter. Sure, he’s got a couple inches on Easten, but if that mustache and hairstyle are any indication, I’d say he’s scrappy as hell and could easily hold his own.
“You say that, but if any of us guys so much as breathed wrong in your direction, he’d be ready to throw hands. Which,” hepauses, tilting his head in thought, “is honestly kind of wild. I’ve never seen him go this hard for a woman before.”
“Ah, so I’m the lucky chosen one, then, huh?” I ask, feigning annoyance while the butterflies in my stomach decide it’s the perfect time for a flight.
