The Grumpy Player Next Door: Copper Valley Fireballs #3

by Grant, Pippa

  At least, in my experience.

  And right now, his biceps are bulging under a faded gray T-shirt that says Pet My Rock, which feels weird given that I am a Rock, but really, there are more important things at play here.

  Like the fact that he’s now squatting two inches from my face so that we’re nearly nose-to-nose, and he smells like Luca Rossi, but better, like the patchouli and sage in the shampoo they both use blend in better with Max’s natural heady scent.

  I swallow hard and try to not lean in to sniff him more.

  He didn’t smell this good last night. Which means he took a shower. And now I’m picturing him naked behind that shower curtain with my face on it, and I wonder if seeing my face turned him on.

  He leans even closer and lowers his voice. “I had a panic attack that put me in the hospital after my first no-hitter for the Fireballs. Cooper took me to the ER. Helped me find a doc. Someone to talk to with a prescription pad. Never judged. Always has my back. I’m not fucking that up. Ever. No matter how much I might want to. Okay?”

  Oh, shit.

  My heart squeezes. Was not expecting that.

  So I slowly nod. “Okay. Got it.”

  He nods back, then rises, puts a hand to my forehead, gives me a shove, and the next thing I know, I’m staring at the glass.

  And I don’t like it.

  I don’t want a damn barrier between me and Max. Not when I feel like he just hit a button to open a secret door and let me in.

  He doesn’t want to ruin his friendship with Cooper.

  I get it.

  And there’s the whole don’t fuck with the team element too.

  Also get that.

  But who doesn’t need one more friend? I can be a friend. I can be the best damn friend he’s ever had.

  I knock on the glass one more time. “You can still prank me,” I call. “I’m still your little sister. And I give good prank back.”

  There you go, Max.

  I caught your pitch. I lobbed it back.

  Let’s see what you want to do with it now.

  13

  Max

  Fucking snow.

  Fucking snow on a fucking holiday in a fucking town that’s fucking perfect.

  Except it’s not, Max, Tillie Jean’s voice whispers in my head. Come to dinner. It’s just dinner. Just people. Except more food and more people.

  And that’s exactly why I need to go to the city.

  Lots and lots more people, but none of them will give a shit if I don’t show up for someone else’s idea of a good time.

  For the record—there’s no snow in the city.

  Copper Valley is lovely today. A little chilly, but not snowy. Or even wet.

  But can I get there?

  Not until I shovel ten damn inches off my driveway. And even then, there’s no telling if or when the streets will get plowed.

  But I’m still out on my driveway, shoveling snow, at seven AM.

  Just in case.

  Maybe I can shovel the street too.

  If I can’t get out of town, I’ll have to explain to Mr. and Mrs. Rock why I don’t want to join them for the Thanksgiving thing they’ve been making such a big fuss over, and I don’t want to look Tillie Jean in the eye after everything I confessed to her Saturday afternoon won’t cut it.

  Holidays suck, thanks for asking isn’t something you say to people who’ve been nothing but kind to you for years.

  Don’t want to bring you down when I inevitably get stuck obsessing over how it’s all just for show probably won’t go over so well with the Rocks either. They seem legitimately tight without a lot of dysfunction, and knowing Tillie Jean’s talked to at least one professional too?

  They might be the real deal.

  They might be the one normal, healthy family in the world. The anomaly.

  The fucking perfect example for the rest of us.

  Trevor left yesterday.

  Robinson flew out Sunday.

  Elliott and Rossi and their ladies didn’t stick around past the weekend either.

  I should’ve left last night, but I was tired after pushing myself too hard at the gym. Plus, I kept telling myself I’d go talk to Tillie Jean and ask her to not say anything about everything I told her, when really, it would’ve been an excuse to see if she looked at me any differently, and I know it.

  And on top of my physical and mental issues, we were only supposed to get half an inch of snow.

  “Not to tell you how to shovel, but most people wear clothes while they’re doing it,” Tillie Jean herself calls.

  I straighten and glare at her even though she’s fucking gorgeous leaning out her own window this morning and the mere sight of her makes me want to drop my shovel and dive into her house with her.

  Reason number forty thousand this woman gets under my skin. “It’s hot.”

  “You’re hot.” She grins, then stops and sighs. “Sorry. Habit. I’m stopping, I swear. But seriously, you can’t expect a woman to not react to a guy in his boxers shoveling three feet of snow.”

  It’s not three feet, but it’s the heavy, thick, wet kind of snow that sticks together, as opposed to the light and fluffy, airy stuff that you could sweep away with a broom, so I don’t correct her.

  Mostly. “I’m wearing boots too.”

  “Ooh, I love boots. Are they lined?”

  I grunt and start counting shovels of snow by the fours, which is a pretty decent indication that I should be inside, accepting my fate of being stuck here for the weekend and finding something more productive to do with my time instead of being out here, counting by fours.

  Like maybe calling my doc and asking if it’s okay to double up on anxiety meds through the holidays.

  The next step in shoveling snow this morning is getting upset that she interrupts me at—

  “Cooper’s stuck up on the mountain. We’re probably pushing the progressive dinner to tonight,” Tillie Jean continues. “Or at least later this afternoon. Gotta have time to digest before bed and the world opening up again tomorrow, right? Not that I’m telling you that because I don’t respect your decision about whether or not you want to come. It’s more that I know you guys are tight and if you wanted someone to commiserate with about interrupted plans, he’ll have extra time today. And I think Uncle Homer probably has snowshoes in your basement if you want to hike the mountain. Not like he’ll be using them.”

  Three.

  I didn’t make it all the way to four.

  Go inside, Max. Go. Inside.

  I hate holidays.

  I hate holidays more than I hate knowing that Tillie Jean talked me out of my darkest secrets. I hate holidays more than I’ve ever hated Tillie Jean. And I hate holidays more than I hate knowing that I don’t hate Tillie Jean, not even close, but she’s still fucking off-limits, which might be what I hate most of all.

  Right behind she somehow isn’t making me feel like a loser-failure for having a meltdown on the driveway over not being able to leave town for Thanksgiving when all I really need to do is barricade myself inside the house.

  How does she do that?

  How does she talk and talk and talk and then say the exact right thing that should be the wrong thing, since she’s the one saying it, but it isn’t?

  There’s another noise next door, and I slide my eyes just enough that way to see a leg come out a window.

  It’s dressed, albeit in bright pants that are most likely pajama pants.

  In a boot of its own.

  And it’s followed by the woman who haunts my sleep now shimmying out of her window in a coat.

  I stop shoveling. “What are you doing?”

  She reaches back inside the house and pulls out a shovel. “My front door won’t open. I’m gonna go free it.”

  “I’ll get your door.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet of you to offer, but I love shoveling snow. The first time it snows, anyway. I manage to forget over the summer how much I hated it the last time I did it last winter.”<
br />
  She’s completely serious.

  And she very much needs to be none of my business, so I go back to my own shoveling.

  One scoop. Two scoops. Three scoops. Four scoops.

  One scoop. Two scoops. Three—

  “Did it snow a lot where you grew up? I forgot where that was.”

  “Some.” One scoop. Two—

  “Like Alaska some, or like you lived in Texas and occasionally had weather that shut the whole state down?”

  I straighten and start to glare at her, but she’s not wiggling her eyebrows at me, tugging up her pants to show me her ankles, winking, making duck lips, or doing anything beyond attempting to walk through snow that almost reaches halfway up her calf.

  Actually, the snow’s deep enough that she’s taking comically large steps, her arms extended, one holding the shovel, balancing so she’s not dragging her boots through it.

  She’s only leaving footprints.

  No shuffle marks.

  The other thing she’s not doing?

  Shooting me covert looks to see if I’m mentally stable today.

  Of all the days to check, today would be that day.

  Fuck, I like her.

  And I can’t.

  “What do the goats do when it snows?” I ask.

  “Pop has a barn that he opens up so they can hide in there. Plus, everyone donates to the wild goat fund at the Pirate Festival every summer, so there’s goat food stocked in there year-round too.”

  I lean on my shovel. Wind’s not so great when you’re in nothing but boxers and boots and standing still. Didn’t notice while I was shoveling. But I’d still rather be out here without any more layers. My body runs hot enough as it is. “So they don’t need everyone in town to feed them.”

  “Nope, but if it makes your heart happy to take care of an animal, then take care of an animal. You could adopt one like Grady did. Goatstradamus really seems to like you. And if he’s anything like Grady’s goat, once you let him inside, he’s yours forever.”

  “I’m not taking a goat back to the city. Who the fuck would feed him while I’m—”

  She smiles, and it’s a warm, crinkly-eyed, tooth-showing, pretty kind of smile that reminds me exactly why Cooper feels the need to tell the rookies and new guys every year that his sister’s off-limits.

  She’s fun. She’s smart without being a know-it-all. She’s entertaining without being a ham. And she’s gorgeous.

  Cocky too, but I hurl fastballs near a hundred miles an hour for a living and know I’m a god on the mound. I’m not one to judge cocky. And if I’d grown up knowing I fit, that I was where I belonged, and that people around me loved me enough for me to be myself, yeah, I’d be the Rock kind of cocky as well.

  I shake my head. “Right. You’re joking.”

  “That, I won’t promise anyone I won’t do. Sorry, Mr. Cole. There’s only so much of my personality I’ll suppress for any one person.”

  Mr. Cole usually makes me twitch. Mr. Cole is my father, and I abhor being called Mr. Cole.

  But when Tillie Jean says it, I get images of her in leather and lace, offering me handcuffs in that pink and black bedroom of hers, and telling me it’s time to punish her for being a very, very bad girl.

  I grunt and go back to shoveling. If I don’t, I’ll have a very visible problem here very soon, and it’ll be a much bigger problem than counting to fours.

  My shovel scrapes the concrete driveway, and then another scrape joins it in the cloudy morning.

  Tillie Jean’s shoveling too.

  I slide another glance at her. The temperature’s right at freezing, and she’s in a light coat over her pajamas.

  I wonder if she’s wearing a bra, then promptly give myself a mental head slap.

  Bad enough I’m also wondering how much she can lift. She’s slender, but curvy, and I know she has solid definition in her arms and legs.

  She glances over and catches me watching her, so I duck my head and shovel another scoop.

  But I’m not counting anymore.

  “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?” she calls.

  “Whatever I want.”

  “Such as?”

  “Eat. Scratch myself. Sleep. Whatever.”

  “Don’t lie, Max Cole. I know you’re perusing those shopping ads and hitting the stores as soon as they open to buy presents for orphans and widows.”

  I jolt and whip my face up to look at her as my entire body flushes, and it’s not like I can hide that in this weather.

  Her mouth goes round. “Oh my god. You do.”

  “Incorrect.”

  “Which part’s incorrect? The part where you send presents to people in need, or the part where you shop for good sales to do it?”

  My agent sent me a proposed four-year contract extension with the Fireballs yesterday. It starts with a bigger number than I could count to the first time I held a baseball, and ends with enough zeroes to guarantee I never have to lift a finger again in my lifetime once my career’s over.

  My current contract is nothing to shake a stick at, and I could live on the few endorsement deals I have alone. I’d have to live somewhere like Shipwreck, but still.

  I could do it.

  I don’t need to look for good sales on anything, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “Do the weathermen always get it this wrong out here?”

  “Avoiding the question. So you do shop for sales, but it’s only habit because your neighbor Mrs. Bradford used to pay you a penny for every dollar you saved her when you shopped for her groceries using the weekly coupons?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s best to just answer the questions, or I’ll make up my own version of the truth. Ask Aunt Glory sometime about her broken ankle. Hint: it wasn’t broken, but people came out to help fix her porch in droves anyway. Also, everyone knew it wasn’t really broken, but that she wouldn’t ask for help on her own, and we very much wanted her to not fall through the porch.”

  She smiles.

  Dammit.

  We can be semi-friendly, but not today, and not if she smiles at me.

  She goes back to shoveling her own porch in front of her door. “I know, it’s a little messed up, but if you knew Aunt Glory when she was younger, you’d understand. People are weird sometimes.”

  “People are weird all the time.”

  She laughs. “Also true.”

  Tillie Jean’s being nice to me, and I don’t know if it’s because of this weekend, or if it’s that we’ve gotten more used to each other since I came to Shipwreck for the winter, or if it—if it’s—

  Fuck.

  I don’t care, and I’m tired of fighting this, and I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to lob a snowball at her.

  I’m bending over and packing snow into a ball before I let myself stop and think, and then I lob it in the air, and in that moment, I’m about six years old again, playing in the yard, with no cares, no worries, and no idea what the rest of my childhood would bring.

  I miss that kid.

  I miss being that kid.

  And when my snowball lands directly on its intended target—the door three inches to the left of Tillie Jean’s face—I smile as broadly as I would if she were Cooper.

  But that is not Cooper swiveling to face me.

  Nope.

  It’s his sister. His off-limits, unfortunately sexy, even when she’s talking—possibly especially when she’s talking—sister.

  Not my sister, no matter how much I’ve tried to convince myself she could be.

  “Did you just throw a snowball at me?”

  “If I threw a snowball at you, it would’ve hit you.”

  “Are you supposed to be throwing right now? I thought you had to take a couple months off to let your arm recover from the season.”

  I bend, pack another snowball, and lob this one straight at her.

  She shrieks and dives, and comes up with a snowball of her own.

  I prob
ably should’ve put clothes on.

  But then, I didn’t expect to be dodging snowballs and flinging them right back when I got too hot shoveling and stripped out of my shirt.

  Also, it’s probably a sign I shouldn’t be out here at all that I didn’t stop to put on pants before heading out to shovel snow.

  That’s the kind of get the hell out of here as fast as possible fog I was in when I woke up to the sun reflecting off of ten inches of snow on Thanksgiving morning.

  I lob another snowball at her, and it lands square on her chest.

  She fires one back that splatters hard against my chest. I stare down at the snow, still packed over my left nipple. “Holy hell.”

  She smirks. “Cooper’s not the only one in the family with an arm. Do you surrender, or are we doing this to the death?”

  “I will never surrender.”

  I’m smiling.

  It’s Thanksgiving, I’m trapped here, and I’m smiling, just like I smiled when I decided to put those garden gnomes from the basement out along her property line and like I was smiling after I got over the initial jolt of terror of seeing her gigantic face on my shower curtain.

  “You’ve sealed your fate, Captain Cole! Prepare to die!”

  We both dive for the snow again, packing and flinging snowballs at each other until she gets me in the face.

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

  I sputter and wipe it off, and when I blink my eyes open again, Tillie Jean’s right in front of me. She attacks my face too, wiping more snow away from my cheeks. “Are you okay? Can you see? Do I need to call Doc? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

  I don’t know who I am today, but the question makes me crack up. “My ears are fine, Trouble Jean.”

  “Thank god. I know they’re what you throw with.”

  She’s so completely serious that I laugh again.

  She doesn’t.

  Instead, her eyes go dark, her lips part, and her tongue darts out to swipe at her lower lip.

  And suddenly all I can think of is her lying in Chance Schwartz’s bed, her bare breasts peeking out from beneath the sheet, head thrown back in ecstasy, very clearly pleasuring herself.