Lucas
This is fun.
No, really.
Sun overhead, kids knowing my name—cheering for me, even. I go live on ReelTime with Coop and Logan, get pulled for an interview that Scottie’s boss approves, joke more, sign more, smile more.
My whole life, I’ve dreamed about showing up to Spring Training, playing with big leaguers with my brother by my side, and here I am.
What’s not fun about this?
So what if my secret girlfriend is with her fake-but-public boyfriend? Who cares if that dude gets to touch her in public and I don’t?
I’m fine.
It’s fine.
Everything is freaking fine.
“You look like the clown fromIt,” Logan says.
“What are you talking about?” I ask as we hand our Sharpies back to the clubhouse assistant and duck under the rope line. “And his name’s Pennywise.”
“That’s good of you to remember the name of the guy whose smile you stole.”
I elbow him in the ribs. Hard.
“Told you.”
“Setup Man!” a girl of around eight or nine in a Flaps jersey yells. She has big brown curls and is tugging on the hand of a pretty twenty-something woman with blonde hair that goes almost to her waist. The pair stops on the other side of the rope line. Up close, I see that the girl’s jersey isn’t one of ours; it’s a limited-edition branded Kayla Carville-O’Shannan jersey with shimmery powder-blue fabric that probably set her parents back three hundred bucks.
“Which one are you?” the girl asks Logan.
He crouches down. “I’m the handsome one.”
She gives him a stressed laugh, her eyes bouncing between us. The woman behind her—her babysitter? Older sister?—stands behind her with a soft, indulgent smile. “What do you mean? You’re the exact same!”
“Not quite.” Logan stands, grinning at the girl. “He’s the Setup Man.”
“Good.” She tries to hand Logan a hot pink Sharpie. “Could you sign my jersey?”
Logan tilts his head and points his thumb at me. “No, silly,he’sthe Setup Man. The guy on social media.”
“I know,” she says, holding the Sharpie out to him. “I likeyou.”
“Me?”
“You’re Logan Fischer, aren’t you?” she asks. She has a Southern accent similar to the ones in Mullet Ridge, but milder. “You’re my favorite!”
Logan is still processing this when the little girl turns around for him to sign her back. He looks up at the blonde woman she dragged over here. “Is she sure about this?”
The woman smiles, and a dimple pops out as she looks at my brother. She’s holding a book, has artsy patches safety pinned to her beat up Chuck Taylors, and looks sweet as sugar.
Logan’s gotta be half gone for her already.
“You’re her favorite player,” she says, reddening in a way that makes me think the little girl’s not the only one.
“He’s yours, too, Aunt Georgie,” the younger girl says as Logan starts signing his name on the back of the jersey.
