“Cool,” I say. I don’t want to connect with Jake over anything. Not my sister’s boyfriend. Not his girlfriend. Nothing. “Good meeting you, Jake. See you around, Scottie.”
“Bye, Lucas. Oh, and I’m emailing you three clips of player interviews from last season. I want a one-page breakdown on my desk Monday morning of every time they diverted a question about their personal life.” She holds my eye. “If you want to be a big leaguer, you need to learn to play the media like they do.”
I look at Jake, wondering if she’s ever seen the guy in interviews.
I nod anyway. “Whatever you say, Quinn.”
CHAPTER NINE
Lucas
“Come on, Lukie, those glutes aren’t going to squat themselves,” Logan taunts in the weight room Monday morning.
“Your face isn’t going to punch itself, either,” I say, holding a loaded barbell across my shoulders, the cold metal biting through my shirt as my legs tremble under the weight.
Logan grins as he finishes a clean rep and lets the bar thud back onto the rubber mat, rolling his shoulders like every set is rejuvenating him. He’s in an uncharacteristically good mood this morning. I hate it.
He spent all weekend in a good mood, buzzing like he was on a caffeine high when he rarely touches the stuff. I had a terrible weekend. Not only did Jake post a dozen pictures of him and Scottie, Kayla’s husband’s team came back into town Friday, and they had a home game Saturday in Augusta, so she invited us to watch it in her box.
Scottie was there. So was Jake.
And the worst part is that he wasn’t the worst. Don’t get me wrong, they’re terrible for each other—she was smiling and laughing like her face was broken the whole time, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of her, which made me want to throw him onto the ice in the middle of a brawl.
But he wasn’t a total tool. I don’t know if the media has just played up his most horrible moments or what, but the guy was just … a guy.
A completely clueless guy. He said “bless you” the first time Scottie sneezed, but when she sneezed three times in a row a few minutes later, he didn’t say a thing. It was as if the first “bless you” did the trick for the whole night. And she was always getting up to grab him things—another Mountain Dew, ribs, nachos. All he did was share his churro with her.
Theworstworst part, though, is when they were sending short videos back and forth with her brother and his baby, Mateo. The kid is only a couple of months old, but he was making these cooing, bubble sounds that were cute enough to steal the attention of half the people in the box. They kept sending videos back where they were practically cheek to cheek, both of them smiling and being silly for him like they were a team.
I can interpret her smiles as wooden and her laughs as overrehearsed all I want. But they have history and family and everything on their side.
And I’ve got coffee.
I’ve cracked the code to the exact drink she wants based on her mood in real time.
Woop-dee-doo.
“That’s more like it,” Logan says, and I realize I’m standing at the bottom of a squat, having stalled out mid-rep while my brain spiraled. I grunt my way back up, rack the bar, and drop onto the bench, sweat running down my spine as I grab my water bottleand drain half of it in one go, my hands shaking harder than they should.
I finish the workout on autopilot—core work, a short stretch, the bare minimum—then hit the locker room for a fast shower and a change. I’ve got a meeting with Scottie mid-morning and then more all week. PR Boot Camp, according to the color-coded calendar she gave me.
When I get to her office, the lights are off, though. Her chair is pushed in. Her tumbler isn’t here, and there’s no jacket slung over the back of her chair or half drunk cup of coffee on the desk (and no, I didn’t bring her one when her freaking boyfriend’s in town. I’m notthatgood a friend).
I text her. Wait a couple of minutes. Nothing. The “delivered” checkmark just sits there, mocking me.
Kayla’s out this week—what with her husband in town, and all—so there’s no one to triangulate through. I wander the concourse, pretending I’m not looking for her, until I spot a flash of yellow in the players’ lot.
Jake.
He’s in joggers and a hoodie, earbuds hanging loose around his neck, sneakers untied, like he’s not sure how willing he is to commit to working out.
“Hey,” I say, nodding. “Didn’t know you were still in town.”
“Yeah. Flight’s tonight. Figured I’d get a lift in.”
I hesitate. “Have you seen Scottie?”
“Yeah. She’s pretty sick,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather. “I think it’s the flu, or something. She said she has a crazy fever.”
