I grab him by the shoulders and spin him too.
“What the?—”
“It’s a great day, Coop!” I say, clapping him hard on the back and forcing a big fake grin. “A great day.”
He looks at me like I have a head injury. “You okay?”
“Fantastic,” I say and walk back to my station.
I look at Scottie in the reflection, see her watching me.
“That was sweaty and disgusting,” she says.
The smile on my face makes me feel nauseous. Nauseated. “That one was free,” I say, grabbing the lightest set of dumbbells on the rack. “The next one’ll cost you.”
“It’ll cost you a lot more when I slap you with a restraining order,” she grumbles. A couple of the guys laugh. And just like that, I’m back to doing my reps, keeping a smile on my face that’s even dumber than my normal one.
My form is clean. My breathing is controlled. Every outward signal says nothing happened.
But I can still feel the exact place on her waist where my hands were.
And I can feel Logan watching.
And I know—with the certainty of someone who just jumped out of an airplane without a parachute—that I didn’t spin her because I forgot where I was.
I spun her because she told Doug I was holding back, and standing there looking at her, I couldn’t figure out if she was talking about baseball.
Or us.
Or about the guy on the bench press who just watched me do something breathtakingly stupid.
Stop throwing ninety-eight.
But Doug said something else, too, something I keep circling back to:
I’ve had enough of liabilities and headlines.
How do I tell Doug he can’t have it both ways?
***
The field smells different when it’s not game time: less grass and dirt, more sunscreen and sweat.
The staff has set up folding tables down the first-base line, navy tablecloths stamped with the Firebirds logo, and thesponsor’s bright red lettering. A vinyl branded backdrop flaps at the edge of the concourse, anchored by sandbags.
Parents hover behind their kids with phones already recording. Somewhere near the dugout, a local radio station is doing a live broadcast—music pumping through a speaker so loud, we may as well be in a nightclub.
The sun is high, but with the breeze, it’s a perfect day for baseball.
I grab a Sharpie from the equipment guy and step behind my assigned table. Logan drops into the seat next to me and nudges my knee.
“Check it,” he says, nodding toward a group of kids in their jerseys.
“What am I looking for?” I ask.
Among the sea of navy, red, orange, and white, I spot three kids wearing powder-blue-and-rust-red uniforms.
“They’re wearing our jerseys?”
