It does, anyway.
Gabriela walks with Jake and Coop toward the interview setup, going over timing and reminding them to keep answers tight.
Scottie falls into step beside me, then Logan pulls up on my other side, and for a moment the three of us are walking in a line through the tunnel—player coordinator, setup man, closer—a perfectly professional arrangement.
Logan’s jaw is tight. He’s been quiet since Scottie called our names at the dugout steps, and I recognize the particular quality of his silence. It’s not watchful. It’s inward. He’s already running the gauntlet in his head—every question they might ask, every answer that could go wrong.
“You closed a perfect ninth,” I tell him.
“Media’s different,” he says, like that explains everything.
It doesn’t for me, but I get why it does for him.
Scottie glances past me at him. “Logan. You’re going to be fine. Answer what they ask, nothing more. If you don’t like a question, look at the floor for half a second and then answer a different one. They’ll think you’re being thoughtful.”
He processes this. Nods once.
“Okay,” he says.
And then, because Logan in a spiral needs a fixed point, he drops his eyes to the floor and focuses on walking—and stops watching anything else entirely.
Which is how Scottie’s hand finds the sleeve of my jersey.
Her fingers curl around the fabric for one second as we walk—barely there yet completely there—and then let go before I can react.
I don’t look at her.
She doesn’t look at me.
Logan doesn’t look at either of us.
But my pulse is in my throat for the rest of the walk to the media room, and when she peels off toward Jake the second we arrive, I stand there for a moment with the ghost of her fingers still grazing my skin.
She’s killing me, all right.
The media room is just off the clubhouse, with fluorescent lights humming overhead, rows of folding chairs filled tight. A long table sits at the front with Firebirds logos stamped across the navy backdrop behind it. Four microphones are lined up like sentries.
About two dozen reporters are crammed inside—the usual beat writers Scottie warned me about, plus a couple of national guys from ESPN and Bleacher Report who look like they’re already writing tomorrow’s headline in their heads.
Scarpetta is finishing up at the table, answering questions about “unfinished business” and “October focus.” The room feels charged.
Gabriela hovers to the side with her clipboard tucked beneath her arm and a stopwatch app, keeping us all on task.
Scottie spots Jake before I do, and he looks stiff and nervous.
“That’s my cue,” she whispers to me, walking toward him. He looks more comfortable immediately.
“How we doing?” she asks, adjusting his mic clip at his collar. I’m close enough to hear them, boxed in behind the table and backdrop with nowhere to go that wouldn’t look obvious.
“They’re gonna harp on how I struck out looking,” Jake says, like it’s something to be ashamed of instead of something that happens to everyone.
“Yup,” Scottie says, looking up at him. “But you also hit a homer.” She walks him through how to answer both, impressive as always. “You can be humbleandcocky. When they ask about us, that’s when you get to wink. Got it?”
“Got it. Thanks, Scot,” he says.
She smiles. Slaps his butt like one of the guys. “You got this.”
When Jake goes to the table, I force myself not to take his place next to her. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I can see the symbolism in that one.
