My heart pinches. I’ve been waiting for that sigh since the first time I offered to bring Scottie coffee and she refused to tell me her order.
“Good luck,” she said. “No one’s ever guessed it.”
She had no problem turning other players down—I’d heard it more than once—so the fact that she didn’t say no outright was all the confirmation I needed. I showed up the next morning, set a cup on her desk, and left without a word. She didn’t throw it out. A week and two road trips later, I came back with something that had caramel in it, and she called it “not bad.”
I was a goner.
But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s dating someone else.
I breathe in like I need all the oxygen available for what’s to come. When I get on the elevator and exhale, though, everything bunches up inside me. Like my organs are huddling together.
Trying to protect my heart.
CHAPTER THREE
Scottie
My phone buzzes with a ReelTime notification, and I make the mistake of looking at it.
@KiaraKenny has tagged @MudflapsBaseball and @TheSetupMan in a moment.
The photo loads before I can stop it: a girl in a tank top bodysuit and short shorts—in late January, in South Carolina, with visibly purple skin—standing outside the stadium, doing a pouty smile at the camera like she’s auditioning for something. The caption says:
ran into my fave at camp pickup he’s even cuter in person.
I click on it before I can stop myself. There, just visible in the background, is Lucas giving the most infuriatingly casual little wave.
My lungs tighten with irritation—and something more pointed. A prickle of jealousy that makes heat flare in my chest.
Take it easy, Crazy Pants,I tell myself.You’re not dating Lucas. You’re not even thinking about Lucas, remember?
Oh, shut up.
I spend the next hour furiously juggling emails, vendor contracts, and logistics for the Mudflaps’ operations. When I’m done, instead of going home, I move on to travel arrangements for Spring Training, my fingers flying like if they can go fast enough, the knot in my chest will loosen.
I keep at it until I hear a knock at my door.
“You planning to sleep over?”
I look up and give my boss a breathy chuckle. I finish the last few words of an email and then push back from my computer. “Maybe. Your napping couch is nicer than my bed at home.”
My boss is billionaire Kayla Carville O’Shannan—you know, the one who broke off her engagement with her famous (cheater) ex and moved to Mullet Ridge after her dad bought her a minor league baseball team. It was all the tabloids could talk about when she married the local hometown-hockey-hero-slash-bartender after only a couple of weeks. I’m the only one who knew it was a literal marriage of convenience to get around a town ordinance about only residents being able to own businesses—listen, it’s a whole thing, and it was delightful, dang it.
Kayla puts a hand on her stomach, stroking her baby bump lovingly. With her long auburn curls and big Julia Roberts smile, she looks like she could be the Greek Goddess of Motherhood. With a Birkin bag.
“When you develop restless leg syndrome in your second trimester, I’ll buy you a napping couch,” she says.
I feel a soft pang at the way she holds her belly—a longing for something I worry I’ll never feel secure enough to have.
But I don’t let her see that. I scoff, instead. “‘First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage,’ remember? No love, no baby.”
Kayla’s eyebrows tell a story her mouth doesn’t, thankfully. “If only a dogged dedication to work could get you there.”
“No kidding.” I laugh darkly. “What are you doing here so late, anyway?”
“I’m the owner.”
“Yeah, but most owners sit in the luxury suite and write checks. You’re down here counting the stitches on the baseballs. You’re still acting as your own GM and head of Baseball Ops, Kayla.”
