Until her stupid brother’s stupid best friend had to swoop in and steal her.
The server saves me from my thoughts just in time.
“Two black cherry shakes, extra whipped cream, no cherries,” she says as I sit up straight. They’re in heavy fluted glasses frosted from the freezer with extra-long spoons sticking out from the whipped cream. She places them in front of us and drops a couple of long straws on the table. Her eyes jump between us for only a second, and then she gives me a smile. “Enjoy.”
“We will,” I say after her. “Thank you!”
Scottie rolls her eyes at me.
“Oh, are we not being polite to waitstaff?” I ask, ripping the paper off the straw.
“No, we’re not indulging in the Setup Man fan club tonight.”
I chuckle, jam the straw in, and suck—or try to, at any rate. The shake is so thick, nothing comes out. So I pull the straw out like it’s a spoon and stick it in my mouth. The flavor explodes on my tongue. It’s not just sweet; it’s got that deep, slightly tart bite of real fruit, and the malt makes it creamy enough to coat my tongue. Scottie was right, no surprise there—it’s delicious.
She stirs hers with the spoon, like she’s softening it enough to drink.
Normal enough. But what strikes me is how with every bite I take, she looks at the level in my cup.
Huh.
A hunch forms, so I lean back from the shake and drink some water, giving her time to finally start drinking.
Time for her to catch up.
Baseball players are all about reading signs and looking for subconscious tells, and I’m having a hard time not doing that now. I watch her take a slow sip of her shake. Look at my cup.
Could just be coincidence.
But if it’s a coincidence, why are her shoulders dropping from around her ears with every sip she takes?
Oh, screw it.
She wants me to wait for her to catch up! I can see it in her body language. This is the first time all night she’s looked like she could take a full breath.
I was right when I told Logan she’s trying to kill me.
“So,” I say, tapping the side of my glass. “What’s your plan for me?”
Why does her neck redden above the collar of her white button-up? “For player coordinating? This week, filming you and the kids in camp for socials and reducing risk.”
“What risk?”
“You’ve got kids crossing behind the bullpen when your groups rotate.”
“For thirty seconds.”
“Behind a live lane with early-report guys throwing upper nineties.”
I chuckle. “But they’re not touching a hundred.” I clear my throat. “Okay, I get your point. The problem is if we start rerouting kids around the dugout in pieces, we lose five minutes every rotation. They get restless, stop listening, and that’s when little risks turn into bigger ones.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, staring at her milkshake. “But if a kid gets hit by a pitch, you’re in massive trouble.”
“They’re walkingbehindthe pitchers.”
“They’re walking through active bullpens,” she counters, sharper now. “That’s not nothing.”
I roll the straw between my fingers, thinking. “What if we don’t split them up at all?”
