“Okay, Peter.” I pressed the record button for the umpteenth time today. “How do you take your coffee?”
“I don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”
“There’s no wrong answer," I encouraged. "This is just for fun. Something to share on the Roasters’ Tiktok.”
“Dude, we all did it,” Jared Pink said from behind me. His voice was by far the most recognizable on the team . . . mostly because the guy rarely stopped talking.
“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” Roman told him.
I looked over my shoulder to find that a small crowd of players had gathered to watch our interview. Peter Diaz was one of the last players I needed to film. For someone who loved movies so much—at least, that was what the other players had told me—he sure hated being in front of the camera. The rascal had done his best to avoid me all day.
That was nothing compared to Soren. I hadn’t heard a peep from him for going on a week now. Ever since our great shower debacle—the second one.
Ever since he’d almost kissed me. Ever since I’d (stupidly) almost let him.
What was it about that man that fried my brains like bacon grease? What was it about him that made me want to throw caution to the wind and smash my body against his, sweat and grass stains be damned?
“This guy giving you trouble?” Matty Miller asked. His unmistakable drawl made me smile. Leaving almost everything and everyone I knew behind had taken a toll on me these last few weeks. Regardless of how bad the circumstances were, making a clean getaway was easier said than done. Even though Matty and I had next to nothing in common except the region we came from, I still took comfort in the way he elongated his vowels.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I told him.
I turned back toward Diaz. His arms were still crossed over his chest, his eyes combing the dirt on his shoes. He wasn’t the first obstinate man I’d dealt with—he wasn’t even the first one this week—but I knew exactly how to handle him. “I apologize, sugar,” I said to him, turning my twang up to an eleven.
“I know this might seem silly to you, and you know what? It is. But you know who loves silly? Your fans. All two-hundred thousand of them.” I racked my brain for the mental file on Peter Diaz. “They love it when you post movie reviews. They love your rock-climbing videos. Heck, your most-liked Tiktok is from that event y’all do every Monday night.”
“By the way,” Pink interrupted while also raising his hand. He did it for attention, not permission. “Who do I submit my movie requests to? Because my self-esteem drops dramatically whenever we watch a Chris Evans movie. The dude is too handsome.”
Matty slugged Pink’s arm. Everybody else ignored him entirely.
“My point is, your fanslovethe silly side of you.” Diaz’s arms lowered to his sides. It was time to play my final card. The queen of diamonds—baseball diamonds—if you will. “Besides, you know who else people adore because he’s silly? Because he’s so confidently sexy, but also hilarious? Chris Evans.”
And just like a scoop of peanut brittle swirl by the beach on the Fourth of July, he melted.
“Roll the tape,” Diaz said.
I smirked. If there was ever something to thank my mother for, this was it.Thiswas my superpower. For years, I’d been well-schooled in the art of observance and manipulation, though Melanie Lynn Myers wouldnevercall it that. That’d be uncouth. You didn’t give your opinion unless you were asked for it, and nobody asked for your opinion when you were Pat Myers’s daughter. Not when they could go straight to the source.
So, I listened. I observed and absorbed. I studied social media profiles and wedding announcements. I attended ribbon cuttings and yacht parties. Most importantly, I built a metaphorical catalog of profiles—for every senator and socialite south of the Smoky Mountains—to have at my disposal, as needed. Every person had their stressors, their buttons just waiting to be pressed.Butthey also had to be pressed in specific ways.
It was clear to me that unlike many people, Diaz didn’t operate out of fear or insecurities. No, his button was idolatry. And if he worshiped at the altar of Chris Evans—an excellent choice of a deity, if you asked me—then by golly, I was going to exploit that.
I lifted the phone and pressed the record button again. “Alright, Peter. How do you take your coffee?”
He smiled, wider than I’d even seen before. “To be honest, I take it right back to the counter because clearly, I’ve takensomebody else’s drink.” He shrugged. “I much prefer tea. Earl Grey, one cream, two sugars. I don’t know, maybe I was British in my last life?”
His sideways smile perfectly punctuated the message, like icing on a cake. “Perfect!” I told him as soon as I turned off the camera. “Was that so bad?”
He kicked the dirt. “No,” he said softly, like an embarrassed child.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My confidence waned. I’d know that voice anywhere. I pivoted to face my neighbor and just about swallowed my tongue when I spied him leaning against the left-field wall, his gloved hand tucked under his armpit, his hat backwards on his head. An image flashed quickly across my brain of him fucking me wearing nothing but that hat.
Gulp.
“That worked?” he asked, stalking toward us. “Diaz, she manipulated you.”
“I didn’t manipulate him,” I said, looking up at him when we were nearly toe to toe. “I . . . encouraged him using the resources at my disposal.”
