But underneath it, quieter and colder, lands the thing I never say to Logan, the thing we’re both dancing around every day.
Stop throwing ninety-eightdoesn’t just mean pitch better.
It means stop waiting. Even if that means leaving Logan behind.
Doug turns and starts walking us back in the direction we came.
“Scottie speaks highly of your makeup. Says you’re consistent, handle people well, show up the same way every single day.” The corner of his mouth moves. “But she agrees that you’re holding back.”
I have to force myself to keep walking.
“I like people who handle people well,” he continues, like he didn’t just detonate something in my chest. “I’ve had enough of liabilities and headlines.”
He gives me a gentle push into the weight room and keeps walking down the hall while I turn in.
Stop throwing ninety-eight. I’m calling up a reliever with starter stuff.
I’m still mulling that over when the other thing lands.
She agrees that you’re holding back.
Doug thinks I have starter potential. Scottie’s been talking me up to him.
And apparently talking me down at the same time.
The noise of the weight room hits me in pieces—the clank of plates, the hiss of breath, the low thud of someone’s playlist through a speaker. Logan’s at the bench press across the room. Joe Scarpetta’s at the cooler with one of his coaches.
And Scottie’s by the medicine ball rack with her iPad clutched to her chest, talking to Diego.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
I look at her for a moment—the professional set of her shoulders, the slight furrow between her brows at whatever they’re saying, the way she clicks her nails on the back of the iPad case. She told Doug I was holding back. She’s beenwatching me closely enough to say that to my GM and saw something I thought I was doing a better job of hiding.
Maybe they both did.
I don’t know if it’s all that or if it’s just seeing her after having my heart exposed, but something shifts in my chest, and my feet are moving before my brain can catch up.
Scottie looks up when she hears me coming, and her expression cycles through surprise, caution, and something warm that she barely manages to put away in time.
I take her by the waist and spin her once.
She gasps, her free hand flying to my shoulder, her iPad nearly going airborne.
Her body stiffens at the exact moment that I register the room.
Logan, mid-rep on the bench, staring.
Scarpetta, cup halfway to his mouth, watching.
I set her down.
“Scottie Quinn!” I say, trying to cover for my idiotic, unforgivable lapse in judgment.
She’s looking at me with wide eyes and slightly parted lips—too shocked to be angry—and before she can say anything, beforeanyonecan say anything, I’ve already turned toward the nearest person.
Coop.
He’s racking a barbell at the squat station, eyebrows raised to his hairline.
