by Pippa Grant
Not when that would make me responsible for whatever happened to his game next.
I take the phone back from Sarah, and I type out a message in the text string with Brooks.
I lift it for her to read.
She nods.
Hugs me again.
And then sits there with me while I hit send.
My heart hurts, but I know it’s the right thing to do. And I need to start doing the right thing, because I can’t live with myself anymore knowing that I’m trying to cheat the superstition system.
18
Brooks
I’m beating the shit out of the ball in batting practice before the game while Cooper and Luca look on. And by beating the shit out of the ball, I mean I’m taking mean hacks and hitting the damn thing about four feet in choppy bounces like I’m eight years old again and don’t know how to hit a ball, because nothing about my swing is smooth tonight.
I’m surrendering. Sleep with whoever you want. It’s none of my business, and I’m sorry for interfering in your love life.
Who do I have to blame for Mackenzie Montana bailing on me?
Me, myself, and I.
I’ll own that.
So who do I blame for how shitty I feel about being given permission to go screw my brains out with whoever I want?
And by someone whose permission I don’t even need? Who is she to dictate who I bang?
“Girl trouble?” Rossi calls after I completely whiff on a pitch.
Girl trouble.
Jesus.
What the hell was I thinking, going to her apartment to ask for bacon? I find out about her dads, dream up this elaborate story about how she was picked on and tormented her whole life and now is crazypants obsessed with baseball because it’s the closest thing she has to normal, and decide I have to see her.
Have to save her.
Have to be her fucking hero.
Except she didn’t want to see me.
And now she has burn marks all over her hand from grabbing that cookie sheet.
And she’s broken up with me.
Over text message.
We weren’t even dating, and she broke up with me.
Cooper slaps a hand on the bar at the edge of the batting cage. “You need to pet Grady’s goat. It’s good luck. Plus, Sue’s the cutest damn goat you’ve ever seen. For a boy goat.”
Rossi looks up from tugging on his batting glove. “Sue’s a boy?”
“Grady tried to name him everything from Goat to Assmuffin to Frederick von Baatzalmittens. Only thing he’d answer to was Sue. He’s a special kind of goat. I got him a goat house for Christmas.”
“High-class, man. High-class.”
They bump fists.
I take one more swing, tip it foul, and if it weren’t for the cage, I would’ve taken Cooper’s head off.
“Sue’s also good at redecorating.” He points to the dugout, where several members of his family—including a goat in a Fireballs jersey who keeps trying to pick his own nose with his tongue—are talking with the coaching staff and Tripp and Lila.
“Is that a hint?” I ask him.
“Just saying. My goat-nephew could improve your digs. Unless you like that place. You like that place, let us know, and we’ll re-do your locker to match. Anything for a teammate, man. Anything.”
Mackenzie should be here.
Not because she’d help insult my apartment, but because the goat’s here to take part in a de-cursing ceremony.
She should be involved with de-cursing. Not hard to picture her on the field in tight jeans, a Fireballs jersey, a Fireballs jacket, and those Fireballs shoes.
After seeing her apartment, I’m convinced she has Fireballs leggings in her drawers.
Probably Fireballs lingerie too.
My dick twitches behind my cup at the image of Mackenzie in skimpy Fireballs panties and a matching lace Fireballs bra, like we didn’t have happy fist time in the shower right before heading to the ballpark.
While imagining myself licking her all over to apologize for this morning.
“Holy shit, you do like it,” Rossi says.
It takes me a second to remember we’re talking about my ugly-as-fuck apartment. “Lava lamps are making a comeback.”
“Dude. You’re getting those confused with llama lamps.” Cooper jerks a thumb toward his family again while I pull my gloves off and step out of the cage. “But what you really need is a goat lamp. Sue’s right over there, man. Go talk to him. But don’t say a word to my sister or I’ll have to put itch powder in your shampoo. You can hit on my brother’s fiancé though. She’ll have you in a headlock so fast, your neck’ll pop. Make sure the cameras are watching first.”
Rossi blocks me as I head out. “Elliott.”
“What?”
“Somebody in your family sick or hurt?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No.”
He slaps my shoulder. “Then think about Coco Puff and get the fuck over yourself today.”
Great advice.
Especially since my puppysitter is here with the whole Rock family. Naturally. Since she’s related to them.
Lila glances my way and gives me the come here finger.
I look behind me to make sure she’s talking to me. She calls my name, so I jog over. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Don’t start that with me. Parker texted. Do you know what this means?”
She flips her phone around and flashes me the message from my sister.
Dingo Bazookarooka hey macarena.
I pull my helmet off and scratch my head. “Yep.”
She lifts her brows.
Like I’m going to tell her Parker says my game’s in the shitter.
Not that my game is in the shitter. I’m hitting stupidly well for letting a woman stick her hand down my pants a month ago, which I assume means either my curse is lifted, or I was so not attracted to Ainsley that the universe figures letting her touch my pee-pee was punishment enough.
Also, I don’t honestly have any idea what Parker’s text was supposed to say—her phone’s gone from interpretable to complete gibberish—but she’s definitely talking about me, and what else would she say?
I clap Lila on the shoulder. “Watch good from that comfy owners’ suite.”
“Go pet the goat.”
“Shouldn’t we be petting ducks instead? Wasn’t it ducks that were in the guest dugout all winter bringing luck?”
I get the eyeball of doom.
Probably because she knows I know the story about how those lucky ducks on the field attacked her with rabid duck penis. Parker can’t keep a secret for anything.
I’m almost smiling as I back away from the team’s owner. “You know it’s bad for my psyche to get glared at before a game.”
“You’re already in a pissy mood, so I don’t see how this will make anything worse. Go talk to Stafford. If he doesn’t have any advice on getting your head back in the batter’s box, I hear he also keeps magic gummy bears in his back pocket. Hell, I’d have your mom’s cheesecake flown in on game days if that’s what it took to get you to hit a few more home runs.”
“My mom’s cheesecake is terrible.”
“I know, but Parker said you always hit better after you ate it. Go on. Pet the goat. Actually, let it lick your face. That’ll be a good shot for the cameras.”
Santiago, the team manager, calls her name, and she switches directions to head over to talk to him.
And it’s not like I can ignore my puppy when he’s on the field, so I say hi to Coco Puff. He gets to lick my face. I’d keep him in the dugout with me through the game if I could. Explain the rules of the game. Teach him to bark—and cuss—at the echidna mascot. Store him in my helmet when I’m out on the field.
The goat?
Not a chance. And not only because he’s too big to fit in my helmet.
“Who’s a good boy?” I ask while Coco Puff pants happily and tries to jump all over me.
It’s utterly impossible to not
smile at being attacked by puppy tongue. Better therapy than talking to anyone or eating magic gummy bears.
And even though I’m pretty sure that apologizing to Mackenzie for making her uncomfortable would be better for my game tonight—and yes, I know where her seats are, and no, I haven’t seen her yet—I’ll take puppy kisses too.
“Brooks Elliott,” a voice whispers next to me.
A blue-eyed, dark-haired woman is angling closer. “Can you sign my shirt?” She puffs up her chest and points to her left boob. “Right there?”
“Tillie Jean, put that away!” Cooper sprints over, grabs her by the shoulders, and glares at me. “Don’t look at my sister’s boobs, asshole.”
“Can I?” Lopez calls from the dugout.
Tillie Jean rolls her eyes and looks at my dogsitter. “Told you he’d notice.”
It’s so fucking normal that I crack up.
Huh.
I can feel like a total shit over how I treated a woman and still stand out here on the baseball field and laugh.
Cooper’s trying to cover his sister’s chest with his batting helmet. She spins away from him, trips, and stumbles, and I do the same thing I’d do for my own sister, and I lunge to catch her.
With my dog in my other hand.
Growing up with Parker gave me a lot of practice with helping awkward.
Growing up with my three older brothers gave me a lot of practice with annoying the shit out of people too.
And right now, I’m hitting a personal home run that makes me feel like I’m back in New York, on solid, familiar ground.
I’m grinning while I make sure Cooper’s sister has her footing, but only for a split second, because in that split second, I catch sight of someone in the stands.
Someone watching me holding on to another woman.
Shit.
Mackenzie’s totally poker-faced, in Fireballs gear from head to toe like normal, but her hand’s wrapped in gauze, and her normal glow is missing. It’s a punch to the gut.
I broke her.
And I need to fix that.
First, by playing the fuck out of this game tonight.
And second—fuck, I don’t know what second is, but I know Firequacker’s dashing out onto the field, and my dog does not like that duck.
Coco Puff howls.
His collar yells something that isn’t fit for broadcast TV.
The goat howls too, and then it charges.
Right at my crotch.
19
Mackenzie
I’m in a mood this morning.
It’s not because I lost my Cooper Rock bobblehead at the game last night, which I never do, because bobblehead. It’s not because I was up too late. It’s not because my hand hurts. It’s not even because the Fireballs lost last night.
It’s because my heart hurts.
And when my heart hurts, there’s only one thing to do.
“Lord have mercy, child, if this isn’t an emergency, you’re grounded,” Papa says when he answers the phone.
I’m dancing into my Louboutins—a splurge two years ago at Christmas—and reaching for the new lipstick I grabbed over the weekend as I answer him. “I’ve been mean to someone, and I need an aura cleansing.”
The look on Brooks’s face last night the minute before that goat almost took him out of the game—god.
He looked like someone told him baseballs come to life and choke puppies to death every night.
And now I’m going to give myself nightmares too.
But I probably deserve it.
Brooks struck out every single at-bat. And Cooper texted to tell me that someone was with him all day, so it’s not like he got laid, and also that if Brooks ever touches Tillie Jean again, Cooper’s sorry, but the man will die.
So now I’m worried that Brooks and Tillie Jean, who’s a lovely woman, might be a good match, which makes my heart hurt, and I’ve caused so much trauma that Cooper will interfere and no one will ever be happy again.
Yes, I’m neurotic.
I know. I know.
Hence, I need an aura cleansing. A fresh start. And to spread happiness instead of insanity.
“Oh, honey,” Papa sighs.
I hear Dad saw a log, snort loudly, and then shout, “Dundersticks!” which basically means he’s belatedly realized that he’s awake.
“Get dressed, Billy. We’re having ice cream for breakfast.”
“I can wait until lunch,” I assure my dad. “But I’m in meetings all morning and wasn’t sure you’d check your text messages in time.”
Dad yawns loudly. He scribbled over the phrase morning person in the dictionary when I was seven, tore the page out, and taped it to their bedroom door after I woke the house up by singing show tunes at six AM.
Papa reminded him where I learned the show tunes, and he apologized for snarling, but he kept the dictionary page taped to the door for months to remind everyone that he’s not to be spoken to before his third mocha latte.
“Do you need us to sneak in Jack in a flask too, or is this the smaller kind of aura cleansing?” Papa asks.
I grimace while I grab my purse and dart for the door. Ice cream, Jack in a flask, a dousing in Kindness perfume, and a TED talk on the power of karma would probably all be appropriate. “The smaller kind.”
And possibly a psychic medium who specializes in being able to see how black one’s soul is after putting baseball and winning above all else.
The thought nearly makes me slap myself, because of course baseball and winning are most important.
Except logically, I know I’m being irrational.
I can’t control if my team wins based on which hand I hold my spoon in while I’m eating my morning yogurt at work. No matter how connected I believe we are as a human species, which hand I eat my yogurt with doesn’t determine how accurate Max Cole pitches or how well Cooper Rock connects with a ball.
Wow.
It feels like a part of my soul is dying now.
“Mackenzie, baby, are you sure you can make it until lunch?”
“I’m out of vacation days if I want to go to Dollywood with you two at Thanksgiving.”
He sighs.
It’s not a you shouldn’t have wasted two vacation weeks at spring training sigh.
It’s a you should get a job with more flexibility sigh. And I’d consider it—I would—except I like making enough money to continue chipping away at my student loans while I give the other half of my paycheck to Etsy stores that specialize in custom Fireballs gear.
Yes, yes, I also mostly like my job. I am decently good at it.
And with that reminder—that I’m good at something other than being a baseball fan—I throw my shoulders back, take one last look in the mirror to make sure I’m wearing my game face, and stride to my door like a freaking queen.
“I’m about to hit the elevator,” I tell Papa as I swing open the door. “I’ll see you at—aaah!”
I drop my phone, because there’s a very large man poised to knock on my door, which means he’s poised to knock on me now.
I’m a split second from throat-chopping him and following it with a knee to the nads when Coco Puff yips from inside the cross-body sling, his collar calls me something that makes my dad gasp, and I come to my senses.
Mostly.
“What in the name of Andre Luzeman are you doing here?” I shriek at Brooks.
“Oh, hells, no,” Dad says distantly on the other end of the phone. “Who’s tormenting my baby girl? He’s gonna die. He’s. Gonna. Die.”
Brooks glances down at my phone, then back up to me. He takes two steps back before I realize he’s holding a foil packet in his hand. “I’m trying a variation on the bacon. Brought you breakfast.”
Coco Puff yips again. “Turd-sniffer!” his collar yells.
My pulse catches on to the fact that we’re not in imminent danger, and the sudden plunge in heart rate makes me go momentarily light-headed.
I sag against the wall. “Stand dow
n, Dad,” I say to the floor. “I’ve got this.”
“Billy, you can’t drive without pants on,” I hear Papa say. “Honey, you still have your—”
There’s an erp noise, and I sigh while I retrieve my phone and turn my back on Brooks to finish my conversation with my dads, because I know exactly what happened, because it happens at least once a week.
Dad says he can’t fall asleep with Papa snoring, so he puts in earbuds attached to a meditation app on his tablet, and then he forgets, and he tries to get up wrong.
Every. Time.
“Papa, can we please get him wireless earbuds so he quits clotheslining himself in the morning?”
“Not as long as I get the show of watching him go down like this a few times a week.”
I don’t have to be there to know Dad’s flipping off Papa right now, or to know that Papa’s dry humor is hiding his utter frustration with Dad.
“If you didn’t snore like a sailor, I wouldn’t have to wear ear protection,” Dad snaps.
“I’m hanging up,” I tell Papa. I have video of both of them snoring, and I don’t need to be a part of the argument brewing right now. “I’m fine. And I’m going to work.”
“See you at lunch, baby girl.”
I grab my door handle, because I need my keys, and—
And I need my keys to get into my apartment to get my keys.
My head drops on its own against the door. Several times.
A fluffy brown puppy with curly fur and sweet baby eyes sneaks between my chest and the door, and a high-pitched voice attached to the arm holding the dog says, “Don’t be sad, Mackenzie. Pet me. I make everything better.”
I pull back enough to look down at Coco Puff.
He gives me the universal look of Yes, my dad embarrasses me too.
“Are you going to pee on me?” I whisper to him.
“There’s an unfortunately high chance,” the falsetto voice behind me replies.
I sneak a look at Brooks. “Do you always make him talk?”
His cheeks go ruddy. “No.”
The big bad baseball player, brought to his knees by a little furball.
The man needs to stop being attractive.
“Here. Eat this. You need me to go get building management?” He shoves the foil packet at me again, looks at my hand, and winces. “How bad is it?”