Logan snorts. “Look closer. They’re all wearing yours, Setup Man.”
“Yeah, but they’ll be wearing yours by the end of the season,” I say.
The kids descend on us before Logan can respond.
A girl in braids pushes a Firebirds hat toward me, and I sign it carefully, making my F too big for the rest of the letters, but it’s what the fans like. She beams when she takes it from me.
“Thank you!” she gushes. “I love your videos!”
“I’m glad. But make sure your parents know what you’re watching, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “Old people are so boring,” she mutters to her friend, and Logan and I both give identical snorts.
More and more kids come, and when it gets to the kids in the Flaps jerseys, they ask to take pictures with us, and we gladly oblige.
I love it.
The noise builds in layers—the high-pitched squeal of megaphones announcing players, the crackle of a mic from the radio tent, the hum of a hundred small conversations. Cameras click. Kids yell to their favorite players. Sponsor reps nervously bounce on the balls of their feet.
I finish signing the last ball in my stack and stand, stretching my shoulders like I need to loosen up when I’m really just looking for an opening.
She looks up at the same moment I do, and a spark of awareness jumps between us. I messed up. We both know it. I raise a brow in question, and she tilts her head toward the chaos near the sponsor tent.
I get up when Logan’s preoccupied, weaving through the crowd easily. The second the flap closes behind me, I turn to find her already facing me, arms crossed, nails rapping against her iPad.
“I’m sorry,” I say before she can speak. “The weight room. That was stupid.”
She studies me for a moment. The armor’s up, but there’s something behind it. “Logan saw.”
“I know.”
“Joe saw, Lucas. Your future manager.”
“I know.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Honestly?” I take a breath. “Doug told me you both think I’m holding back, and I walked in and saw you, and something short-circuited.” I stop. “It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
Something shifts in her expression—not quite surprise, but close. Her arms drop slightly.
“Was it good news, at least?” she asks. “The rest of what Doug said?”
“Yeah. It was good news. He thinks I have starter stuff.”
“You do.” She exhales, and the armor comes down another inch. “And for the record—telling Doug you were holding back was my job. That’s all it was.”
“I know,” I say. And then, because I can’t help it: “Were you talking about baseball?”
She goes very still.
“Quinn.”
“Don’t,” she says quietly. Not angry. Just careful.
“I brought you coffee every day for almost a year,” I say. “I’m not sure that qualifies as holding back.”
Something moves across her face. “You did,” she says. “And it was”—she pauses, choosing the word—“sweet. Safe, but sweet.”
