We eat the rest of lunch in silence.
I’ve spent twenty-six years being able to read my brother’s face fluently.
Right now, there’s something I don’t recognize, though.
And that’s the problem.
***
When three hits, I technically have a half-hour break after defensive reps, but I don’t need it. After a quick stretch, I find Scottie exactly where I expect her to be: in the courtyard, makingsure she knows the lay of the land for sponsor activation so she can best keep me and the other Flaps out of trouble.
Emphasis on me.
The courtyard looks nothing like the back fields at Triple-A. There are towering sponsor tents in glossy team colors, inflatable drink cans the size of small cars, and a team-logo backdrop already flashing under camera tests. A DJ booth hums near the fountain, playing something aggressively upbeat while a production crew adjusts a ring light beside a folding table stacked with merch boxes and branded baseballs. Kids in oversized jerseys and baseball caps press against temporary barricades while corporate reps in polo shirts and headsets hustle around like air traffic control.
In Mullet Ridge, this would’ve been a card table, a Sharpie, and mosquitoes.
Here, it feels like a minor movie premiere with sunflower seeds.
I spot Scottie near the check-in table, sunglasses on, iPad in hand, hair loose in the breeze like she’s walked off the set of a baseball movie. She’s taken off her blazer and has tucked her fitted white tank into her high-waisted jeans.
“Quinn,” I say, slow-jogging over when I have her attention.
With her sunglasses on, I can’t see if her eyes are flinty, but the way she’s crossing her arms makes me wonder if I’m jogging to my demise.
“You’re early,” she says.
“Try not to be impressed.”
“I’d be more impressed if you had another one of those flat whites. It’s been a day,” she grumbles. When I cock my head to the side, she hands me her phone without my even asking.
It’s the Quinn family thread.
Mom
Jake, honey, just saw that you were tagged in that nasty post. What happened?
Hudson
What post? Send the link, Mom.
Jake, you okay?
Scottie’s Boyfriend
they twisted what I said—it wasn’t that bad
Seeing Jake called “Scottie’s Boyfriend” in her phone is like a stab to the gut. I know it’s fake, but seeing that still hurts.
I look at the link Scottie’s mom sent. “Should I click it?” I ask Scottie.
“Only if you want the full experience.”
“I really don’t,” I tell her. Because I don’t want any more of Jake anywhere, especially when I’m with her.
She scans the courtyard. Two rookies are already lining up at the autograph table. A cameraman tweaks his lens ten feet away. A sponsor rep fusses with a nearby table. Scottie steps closer, using the tent wall as cover.
“In a nutshell, someone asked him how it feels to be six weeks into the longest relationship of his lifetime, and he said, ‘how does it feel to be the stupidest person at a charity event?’ He thought the guy was a reporter, but it was a dad. With his kid. Jake couldn’t see the kid, because there were so many people there.”
