“That so?” Logan says, sliding into the chair beside Lucas. “It seemed a lot more serious than that.”
“She had a headache and needed something that wouldn’t make her nauseous,” Lucas says, his cheeks flushing angry.
“Nauseated,” I correct.
Lucas rolls his eyes, like he’s annoyed with me, now, too. But his knee presses against mine under the table. “Great, now I have the breakfast police and the … dictionary police. Word police. This is fun,” he says.
Coop grins and pulls up a chair, angling it at the corner nearest me. The table is definitely too small for four—our knees willallbe touching—but if I jump up, they’ll suspect something. When Logan starts bringing in a fourth chair, Lucas shakes his head.
“Don’t crowd,” Lucas says quickly. “Take my chair. I’m done.”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at me. “Hey, do you have a minute to go over the media grid before we get on the bus?”
The shift is seamless. Professional. Polished.
I shake my head, picking up my fork. “No, sorry. Just text me questions. I need to finish breakfast and make sure the other Flaps all have their agendas for the day.” I look at Logan deliberately. “Like you. You know where you’re going today?”
“Yup,” he says. “I have defensive reps, PFPs, lift, then the afternoon workout.”
“And sponsor activation,” I add.
He groans. “Right.”
“Just smile and sign,” I tell him. “It won’t kill you.” Before I can look back at Lucas, he’s already standing, tray in hand.
“I’ll see you crazy kids later,” he says pointing to us in an over-the-top way.
Like we didn’t just share a fork.
Like we weren’t the only two people in the world five minutes ago.
He tosses his tray and leaves me with Coop and Logan, where I return to my omelet. Take a bite.
And for the next twenty minutes, I laugh with Coop and Logan the way I’m never allowed to laugh with Lucas—out loud, in public, for anyone to see.
Like pretending doesn’t cost me anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lucas
Batting practice is the closest thing to a real game that isn’t one, and I treat it like one.
The batter digs in. I take my sign from the catcher, set, and fire—a four-seam that catches the top of the zone and pops the mitt so hard the catcher shakes his hand out. It wasn’t full gas, but it was close enough.
“There it is,” someone says behind me.
I don’t look. I just reset.
The next batter is left-handed, which means I’m working the back foot, trying to make him uncomfortable in the box. I throw a slider that starts at his hip and breaks back over the corner. He takes it for strike three, jaw tight, not wanting to give me anything.
I take the ball back from the catcher and roll it in my fingers.
I know Doug’s here somewhere. I know Scottie is too—I spotted her when I came out of the dugout, her clipboard inhand, not looking at me, which I’ve learned is its own kind of look.
I don’t glance over.
I just pitch.
