He’s so thoughtful, I could puke.Again.
He points at the camera his twin brother, Logan, is holding.
“What’s up, players? It’s your setup man, Lucas Fischer, here, and today, I’m gonna teach you about control.” This video’shere,in South Carolina, not at the facility near his home inChicago where he’s been filming all winter. When did he film this? I narrow my eyes and spot a sponsor sign on the outfield fence that I know we only set up a few days ago.
A cold chill overtakes me.
He’s on the extended roster for our Major League affiliate. Is he already here to put in more training time before the season starts?
I’m going to lose him before he was ever mine.
“Pitching is all about control,” Lucas is saying. “Controlling the count, controlling the zone, controlling your emotions when you see her posting from a restaurant with her new boyfr—ANYWAY let’s talk about arm slot?—”
My heart squeezes like someone just whipped a slap bracelet around it. He’s so cute and funny, but I can’t laugh, because I don’t get to laugh. I don’t get to squeal that he’s still thinking about me after five weeks. I don’t get to wonder if it’s all for show, anyway, because his videos blew up last season while he was pining for me (and I say “pining” because he told me so. Repeatedly). I don’t get to worry that he’ll be snatched off the market before this ruse ends.
I get to be the girl who looks out for her pseudo-brother, like always.
I’m “with” Jake.
Even commenting on one of Lucas’s videos could risk everything.
My heart cinches tighter and tighter as I watch him coach with the self-deprecating optimism that makes him so impossibly charming. When I can’t take the pain of being squeezed anymore, I save the video, close out of my phone, and clutch it between my hands as I stare at the pressed-tin ceiling and breathing slowly in and out.
He’d just walk away anyway,I tell myself.He’s no better than anyone else who made you feel special for a minute and then forgot to come back for you.
I tell myself a variation of this every other day, when he posts a video.
Prescott Grace Quinn, stop moping and go and do your duty, already.
With a nod, I obey.
When I emerge from the stall, a woman in her early twenties is leaning against the sink counter, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.
I wash my hands until she stumbles and bumps into me. “Sorry,” she slurs.
“No problem,” I say, reaching for a paper towel. I study her in the mirror. “Are you okay?”
She blinks at me slowly. “I’m … I think I’m fine? My friend left, and this cute guy bought me a drink, but...” She sways slightly. “I don’t feel so hot. He offered to drive me home.”
A chill washes over me.
“Did the bartender give you the drink or did he?”
“I … don’t remember.”
“How many did you have before he got there?”
She squeezes her temples. “Just a glass of red.”
“What’s your name?” I ask, deliberately keeping my voice calm.
“Olivia.”
“Olivia, I’m Scottie. Listen, I need you to stay right here with me, okay? Can you do that?” I pull out my phone and text Jake:
Scottie
Need you in the hallway outside the women’s restroom NOW. Bring water.
