“You really think she would have liked me?” I ask, glad the guys are talking with the gym coach.
“You’re so much like her,” he says. “You wear yourself out helping others.”
Something in me wants to push that away before it can settle—to dismiss it as something nice, not something true. But I let it sit for a moment instead. Think about what he’s really saying—both the compliment and the … not.
“I’m not sure that’s always a good thing,” I say.
“Not always,” he says. “But it’s not a bad thing, either. It’s a boundary thing.”
“A boundary, huh? Like, say, knowing where the line is?”
He smiles at me. His brother is in the room—probably staring right at us—and he smiles. “Or moving it back,” he says.
My heart skips.
He’s smiling, but I know without a doubt he’s not joking. Only, he’s been clear:I’min charge of moving the line.
He made the mistake of crossing it yesterday at the worst possible time and place.
He won’t do that again.
“What’s moving back?” Logan says when we get to him.
“Your hairline,” Lucas says.
Logan slaps his shoulder with the back of his hand. “Mirror image twins, bro. What you see is whatyouget.”
Lucas grins but slaps Logan’s gut.
And for a minute, I think they’re about to start a slap fight, but I put a hand on both of their arms and look at them. “You guys—what you did for Matt—” I swallow. “That was special,” I say. I’m not sure what comes over me, but the next thing I know, I’m pulling them both into a one-armed hug. “You guys are so special.”
“Uh, this is a little much,” Logan says, patting me awkwardly.
“Shut up,” Lucas says. “It’s nice.”
I let go of both of them, smiling. “You guys did good today.”
“Good enough to cancel Mel’s bullpen circuit this afternoon?” Lucas says hopefully.
I pat their cheeks. “No one’s that good. Buckle up, bros.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lucas
Walk-up music thunders through the stadium on game day, rattling the bullpen fence, and I lean against the rail with my glove tucked under my arm. From here, I can see the dugout and watch every cocky step Jake takes toward the batter’s box. He adjusts his batting gloves like he’s about to perform surgery instead of hit a baseball.
Behind home plate, in the reserved section near Doug, Scottie’s on her feet. Wearing Jake’s jersey.
It’s all for image. Optics.
It bugs the living daylights out of me.
Jake’s agent is a few seats down from Doug, leaning forward in conversation like he’s already deep into some negotiation or another. Scottie isn’t looking at either of them. She’s watching the field, focused, composed, the way she always is when she’s working.
Jake digs into the box. The opposing pitcher starts him with a first-pitch slider that nicks the outside corner for strikeone. Jake steps out, resets, spits to the side. The next pitch is a fastball, middle-in, ninety-nine with just enough tail to be dangerous.
Jake turns on it.
