Jake sits at the table while Coop gets mic’d up and the reporters come in exactly as Scottie predicted. I watch her watching him—arms folded, thumbnail against her teeth—nodding with each answer.
Then a reporter asks a question Scottie didn’t prep Jake for. “Jake, what’s it like watching your girlfriend work so closely with other players?”
Jake’s face reddens. “I don’t know, Josh, what’s it like watching your wife—” Scottie clears her throat loudly, and I’m not sure if Jake hears it or if he’s actually growing as a person, but he presses his lips together and then huffs.
“Is that a sign you don’t like it?” the reporter—Josh—presses.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, man. She’s great at her job, and I’m proud of her. Look how much less you guys hate me after a single offseason.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and I’m not alone. The media is roaring with laughter. It was the perfect answer, and even Jake chuckles seeing them respond. The approval doesn’t seem familiar to him, though. He’s almost blushing.
He gets through the rest of the questions quickly, staying small, like he’s worried he’s going to mess it up. The second histime’s up, he gives them a polite nod and gets away from the table as quickly as he can.
“Perfect,” Scottie says, throwing her arms around him when he gets back. “You were funny and real and not quite apologetic, which is great. Yougetto be you. Perfect, Jake!”
The hug is relief more than romance, but something about how Jake’s hand presses into her back for a second longer than the moment requires causes a spike of panic in me.
I’m positive Jake doesn’t like her romantically …
But is he going to be willing to let her go?
Worry takes root in me, making my stomach churn.
Jake heads off to the locker room, and Coop takes his turn, charming everyone the way he always does. Scottie grabs a mic pack from the folding table where Gabriela’s laid them out in a neat row and comes over to get me media ready.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, focusing on clipping the mic on my collar.
“That would probably be easier without the glasses,” I say.
She shoots me a glare. “I love these glasses.”
“They’re for show.”
“I never said they weren’t,” she says. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love them.”
I huff. “You’re so good at this.”
“At what, managing media?”
“Managing images,” I say. “I don’t want you managing mine.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” she says, looking me over like she’s inspecting me for flaws, not checking me out.
“So what questions should I be on the lookout for?”
She pauses, adjusting her glasses. “They’ll ask about your first major league outing, obviously.”
“It’s still Spring Training, but I’m pinching myself that I get to have a shot at earning a roster spot on my favorite team.”
“Good.” She nods. “They’ll ask about Jake, what’s he like as a teammate.”
“He’s a good guy. It’s an honor to be on a team with him.”
“They’ll ask about your family—baseball legacy, remember? It’s a good story.”
“I’ve been answering those all my life.”
The right side of her mouth quirks up. I don’t let myself think about her lips often, but if I were allowed to?—
