He pulls off his sunglasses. Uh-oh.
“What the hell’s going on with you today?”
“Sorry, Coach,” I say. “Just feeling a little off.”
“No kidding.” He crosses his arms. “You’ve made more errors in one drill than you did all of last week.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You got something going on?” he asks. “Off the field? A girl?”
I hesitate. How does he always know?
“No,” I say finally, shaking my head. “Nothing like that. No girl.”
He gives me a look like he doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. “Well, whatever it is, leave it at home. You’re in the lineup tomorrow night, and if you play like this, it’s not gonna be for long. You’ll be back in Double-A so fast.”
He turns and walks back to the dugout, shouting for the next drill to start.
I linger for a second, my glove hanging loose in my hand.
No girl, I said. Not anymore.
So why the hell does it feel like she’s all I can think about? This is reaching a boiling point.
Chapter Sixteen
CASSIE
A few days pass with me avoiding Logan like the plague. I wake up earlier, make sure to be going on walks, and just generally not around whenever he is.
And then I find the coffee shop by accident, just wandering around the cute little downtown in Riverbend.
Tucked between an antique bookstore and a florist that still does handwritten receipts, it looks like a painting come to life—weathered bricks, a crooked wooden sign, and a porch full of mismatched rocking chairs. The place is called “The Roost.” I don’t even hesitate.
Inside, the ceilings are high and the light is golden, streaming through stained-glass windows like something holy. There are plants everywhere—ferns hanging from hooks, succulents clustered on windowsills, a fiddle-leaf fig that looks like it’s been growing since 1992. The floors creak. The tables don’t match. And yet, somehow, it feels perfect. Better than the last place I went to.
Like it was built for people like me—tired hearts looking for something quiet. Something about it puts me at ease.
I order a cappuccino and a raspberry scone and settle into the corner booth next to a stack of oldNational Geographicmagazines. I pull out my phone to scroll, mostly out of habit, and that’s when I see it.
Logan Wade: Game 1 Highlights
His name is all over the local feed.
Terrific. Just what I need. Surprise surprise—my phone is listening to me and giving me related Reels.
Because I am, apparently, sadistic, I watch.
A clip of him snagging a hard-hit grounder down the line at third. A close-up of his serious game face. An interview after the game where he runs a hand through his hair and says, “Just doing my best to stay ready.” He looks hot. Of course he does. Stupid, talented man.
I shake my head and swipe past it. Not my business. Not my problem.
“Used to be that people’d talk aboutthisplace,” a voice says from behind the counter. “Now it’s all Logan Wade and lattés the size of bathtubs.”
I glance up. The owner is a woman in her forties, maybe early fifties. Sharp jawline, silver-streaked curls piled on her head, and a tattoo of a sunflower peeking out from her shirt sleeve. Her name tag says June.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
