He gets into the water without as much as an intake of breath. He looks at Logan. “I have an ex-NFL buddy who swears by it. I’ll send you some info.”
“Thanks, Fletch.”
Fletch nods, his hair sticking out at wild angles in a way that looks intimidating with him staring me down. “Lukie, don’t ever be late for bullpen again,” he says.
“I know, I’m sorry, Fletch. Scottie missed our PR training yesterday, and Jake told me she was sick. He had to go back to Chicago last night so he asked me to check on her this morning.”
It’s close enough to the truth that I barely feel guilty stretching it, although I hate giving Jake any credit at all. It’s like I’m setting him up for a win he doesn’t even want, but how else can I give a version of events that keeps everyone safe? I have to hold everything steady.
But even with the ice numbing all other sensation, I feel Logan’s eyes on me. There’s no way he buys that I was only visiting Scottie as a favor to Jake.
He just doesn’t know what he doesn’t know—she’s not even dating the guy.
In fact, she likesme.
“Is Scottie doing okay?” Fletch asks.
“Yeah, her fever broke this morning, but she was dehydrated when I saw her. Good thing I had some coconut water on me.” That I bought for her. Yesterday.
But Fletch doesn’t need to know that.
It’s better this way.
“Glad you were able to help.” Fletch stretches out, leans his head on the back of the tub, and closes his eyes. “Don’t be late again. But if you’re gonna be late, make sure you throw like you did today.”
Fletch tilts his head toward Logan without looking at him. “You two know what the front office calls you?”
“The Setup Twins?” I guess, earning an ice cube to the head from Logan.
Fletch doesn’t smile. “Team Fischer.” He doesn’t say it as a compliment but a fact. “They don’t talk about you separately. They draft you together; they develop you together; they’re planning to call you up together if everything goes right. That’s not nothing. That’s rare.”
He closes his eyes again, done with the conversation.
I look at the ice.
Team Fischer.
Logan and I have been a unit our whole lives—same draft class, same bus rides, same everything. But hearing it said out loud by our manager feels different. Heavier.
I think about Scottie. About how long I’ve been carrying this.
About what happens to Logan if I drop it.
***
A half hour later, I’m walking up to Scottie’s front door with another twelve-pack of coconut water and some ingredients for a spinach omelet, because her fridge was bare except for expired condiments and a couple of take-out containers.
The bags weigh heavily in my left hand as I knock on the door.
A garbage truck rumbles down a nearby street, but it hasn’t reached Scottie’s yet.
And Scottie hasn’t reached the door yet. I reach for the handle in case she’s too tired to make it, and instantly the door flies open and Scottie’s standing staring at me with wet hair and wide eyes, the scent of lavender trailing behind her—along with pure accusation.
“YOU.”
I back up. “Me?”
“You … you … YOU!”
