“When are you going to give up this whole social media ruse and finally go to culinary school?”
Zona crosses her arms over her oversized sweatshirt. “I’ve told you. Cooking is for fun. I don’t want to ruin it by making it my job.”
“I don’t know,” I say, reaching past her to steal a sip of her coffee. “Having your passion as your job works out for some people. Just look at me.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Zona snatches her mug back before shoving me toward my side of the couch. “You got lucky.”
“Thousands of hours of hard work and dedication would call you a liar,” I tease, even though I do feel incredibly lucky.
There isn’t a day I don’t wake up bursting with gratitude that I was able to make my favorite sport my career.
My sister rolls her eyes. “My latest video is trending.”
“That’s good. Was it the line dancing one we filmed the other day?”
For as much as I love being social with people in real life, I hate using social media. I don’t even manage my own account; Friedrich does. I have no idea what the password is, though I’m sure it’s in an efficiently organized spreadsheet somewhere. For as curt as he is in person, it’s eerie how accurately he captures my tone in posts.
Even though it isn’t for me, I’m always game to help Zona build her following, since she genuinely enjoys it. She keeps pestering me about also managing my account, but each time,I gently remind her to focus on her studies. We can discuss the matter after she graduates.
Zona scrolls through her phone before holding it out to me. I watch her fainting in two different rooms due to the shocking cleanliness of the house before powering it down mid-video.
“Hardy har har. Very funny.” I toss the phone in her lap.
“What?” My sister is all giddy delight. She’s even steepled her fingers like the mini villainess she is. “I’m genuinely enthralled by this new development. When do I get to meet Rory?”
It was a stroke of genius that I used Rory—the name I’d used for Alex in college—instead of her real name when Momma and I chatted a few weeks ago. I knew spilling about the amazing date would trickle down to Zona, and then she’d plaster it all over the internet without asking me. Now the thousands of people following Zona’s account won’t put two and two together and get Alex fired.
Logistically, I’m going to have to figure out how to date the woman who reports on my team without damaging her career, but that’s after Alex decides if she wants to move beyond our sizzling banter.
“Never,” I tell Zona, picking up the remote and changing the channel from her cooking competition show to the MLB network. “It’ll be easy to remember because it’s the same timeline for when you can start dating.”
“Hey! I was watching that.” She yanks the remote back, switching the channel. “And you need to calm down about me never dating. I’m almost twenty-one.”
“You’re my tiny baby sister and always will be,” I say, poking her in the cheek.
She bats my hand away, repulsed. “I’m a grown woman who can make my own decisions. If you don’t stop scaring away the guys I date, I’ll be forced to hide them from you. Is that what you want? We all know you hate being the last to know anything.”
I huff, slouching in the cushions until I kick her bare foot with mine.
“Ten-ny, knock it off.”
It’s work to suppress my smile. There’s nothing I love more than messing around with Zona, especially when she elongates my name into twodistinctsyllables.
Georgia and I had to be mature beyond our young ages growing up—to the point where we never had a chance for a playful sibling relationship. When our lives relaxed after the divorce, I got to be the annoying older brother for Zona. I love both my sisters fiercely, and the bond I share with Georgia is unbreakable, but it’s fun to be a goofball with Zona.
I also love that none of the women in my life have to worry about money ever again. The first thing I did after signing my contract was pay off Momma’s house, buy Georgia the quaintgarden cottage she’d been eyeing for years, pay Zona’s tuition in full, and set aside trusts for all three of them.
A happy sigh escapes me.
There’s something deeply satisfying about taking care of those I love.
Then my mind skips down a path it absolutely shouldn’t be on, filled with vibrant images of Alex never having to be uncomfortable at home games, thanks to the new chairs I purchased for the Waves press box. When Alex asked about it, I balked, saying they must have changed them at all the MLB stadiums. Though realistically, that’s out of my scope.
The corner of my mouth tips up, thinking about things Icouldchange.
I’d replace the busted-up Honda I saw her driving to the stadium the other day, get her those sparkle shoes she likes in Waves blue…
“What’s that smile for?”
