by Pippa Grant
I, too, look at the bandages on the hand I’m using to scratch Coco Puff behind the ears. “It’ll be fine by the weekend. And no, thank you. My neighbor has a spare key.”
His hooded hazel eyes study me like he’s trying to decide something, and my brain leaps to a thousand conclusions.
There’s poison in whatever he’s brought for breakfast.
He has a secret identical twin brother who didn’t get the memo that I’m done cock-blocking him, so he can stop coming over and pretending that he wants to have sex with me purely for the sake of torturing me with the knowledge that I’m the reason he’ll have to retire imminently.
He’s not actually a baseball player. He’s a secret international assassin who’s discovered a plot at Duggan Field to make ducks into radioactive soldiers for a shadow government made up of former bullied geeks who want to change all professional sports by making athletes wear shock collars during the games and be punished for poor play.
He likes me and wants to ask me on a date.
That last one is so ridiculous, I snort softly to myself.
Of all the women in the world, I’m the last one he’d want to date.
His gaze dips to my lips, and my stomach bottoms out.
Brooks Elliott wants to kiss me.
“How do you do it?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Believe.”
I don’t have to ask believe in what?, because my thumping heart and that intense gaze are filling in the blanks.
Plus, there’s only one thing I really believe in.
The Fireballs.
“I can’t not believe. It would be like not breathing.”
“But how?”
“I just…do. It’s like hope on steroids. I hope. I hope so hard, and so long, it turns into belief, because there’s no sense hoping for something you don’t believe in. I can’t be out on the field playing the game. For one, because I broke my collarbone the one time I tried to play softball, and for two, because if I were to get out there on the field for every game, I’d get arrested for trespassing since, well, see number one. Not a player.”
He either wants to laugh, cringe, or he’s suppressing a fart. Possibly all three, or at least the first two.
I can acknowledge I’m a little bit crazy. I don’t even mind waving that crazy banner in public from time to time. But right now, I don’t want Brooks to think I’m crazy.
A small part of me would die if he completely wrote me off as that nutso girl who only wanted to keep him from having sex.
“Since I can’t play, I believe. We’re all connected, you know. All of humanity. So I send positive vibes out into the world for my favorite team to win, because that’s what I can do for them. I can’t bat. I can’t pitch. I can’t coach. So I believe. It’s my part. And I’ll keep doing it as long as it takes. No matter what.”
Yep.
He totally thinks I’m bananas.
I squeeze my eyes shut and open my mouth to tell him I need to go get my spare key, but thinking suddenly becomes impossible, because he thrusts his hands into my hair, and his lips connect with mine, and hello, good morning, yes, please.
Not what I expected.
But oh.
Oh, this kiss—it’s tender and sweet and desperate and hungry at the same time. I gasp against his mouth, and he touches the tip of his tongue to mine, and more.
I need more.
Or maybe he needs more.
He needs all the belief I can give him.
Believe, Brooks. Believe.
I angle my mouth against his, using my lips and my tongue to infuse as much belief into him as I can. I don’t care if he thinks this is simply another point—that I’ll be the woman who breaks his game to punish me for stopping him in spring training.
Because I know that this is more.
And the way he’s gripping my hair, lighting up the nerves on my scalp almost to the point of pain, and the way he’s crowding me against the door, his body hard everywhere—I don’t think he’s trying to prove a point.
I think—
I think he wants me.
The idea startles me so bad that I jerk out of the kiss, banging my head on the door and squeezing Coco Puff so hard that he squeaks.
Brooks’s chest is heaving. His gaze flies to mine while he swipes his thumb over his lips, and gah, I want to bite it.
I want to bite his thumb and I want to leap into his arms and I want to kiss him so hard that he can’t help but win tonight.
But that’s not how this works.
Not for Brooks.
“Breakfast.” He bends and grabs the foil pack from the ground. “Eat this. For luck. Please.”
He takes Coco Puff, puts the puppy back in the sling one-handed, and shoves the package at me.
As soon as I take it, he turns and strides to the stairwell exit without a goodbye.
The door across the hall inches open, and one of my neighbors—this one a grad student in particle physics at Copper Valley University—pokes her head out. “Were you making out with Brooks Elliott?”
“It…looks like,” I stammer.
She eyeballs the foil-wrapped food in my hand. “What’s that?”
I peel it back, and inside, there’s a sandwich.
A bacon sandwich, with pancakes for bread, and—I swipe a finger over the brown creamy stuff.
Nutella.
He made me a bacon-Nutella sandwich on pancakes.
Be still my beating heart, he made me a masterpiece.
My neighbor’s still watching.
“Breakfast,” I tell her. “It’s breakfast.”
But it feels like something more than breakfast.
It feels like a date.
20
Brooks
I’m not a stalker. I’m just sitting here on the side of the road in my SUV, watching Mackenzie’s apartment building so that I can make sure she gets to work okay.
And so I can see if she’s eating her bacon.
That’s all.
Nothing stalkerish about that.
“This is totally normal,” I tell Coco Puff. “It’s all in the name of superstition and winning.”
He grins at me and licks my arm.
He tinkled on a fire hydrant as soon as we were out of the building, and I high-fived him for not peeing on Mackenzie.
Who I left standing in the hallway without a way to get back into her apartment.
Fuck.
I’m such an idiot.
My phone dings, and I glance at the read-out with half an eye, then a full eye as I realize what it says.
Eloise: Why are you sitting outside Mackenzie’s apartment building? Are you spying on the crazy chick?
Brooks: QUIT TRACKING ME.
Rhett: Don’t yell at my wife. Ma made us do it.
Brooks: I’m disowning you all.
Gavin: Thank god. I’ve been waiting for this day for thirty years.
Parker: Duck duck goose.
Knox: Parker’s right. Gavin’s sarcasm doesn’t work well on text, and Brooks, you can’t disown us. No one else will ever love you as much as we do.
Brooks: Half of Copper Valley loves me more than you do, and I haven’t even helped their team win yet.
Eloise: You need to lay off the jacking off. Sorry, bud. Only thing that’ll help.
Knox: Okay, Hot Crazy Pants, I’m gonna have to stop you there. Wait. Hot Crazy Pants. Hot Crazy Pants. E-L-O-I-S-E. Shit. My phone’s doing it now too.
Rhett: Bazookarooka, get home now. I’m invoking Code Dead Brother-in-law. Knox is looking at my wife wrong.
Brooks: You know Eloise is the one who made his phone say that. Also, if you kill him, Parker will tickle you to death.
Rhett: Fine. I’ll activate my old team. Pigpen’s been itching to take him out anyway since the fucker made us all read that Nicholas Sparks book. HE SAID IT WAS A ROMANCE. HE LIED. And now he’s making eyes at my wife. He has to die.
Eloise: I love it when you get al
l pissed at being denied a happy ending. It’s so hot.
Jack: *monkey covering his eyes emoji*
Brooks: I’m muting you all.
I turn my phone off and glance back at Mackenzie’s building, then nearly jump out of my skin.
I can’t see Mackenzie’s building.
Lila Valentine’s standing at my window. I hit the button to roll it down, swallowing hard and trying to shove my heart back into my chest, instead of letting it keep hammering up in my throat. “Mornin’, boss-lady.”
“Why are you stalking Mackenzie?”
I stare at her without blinking. “I’m not stalking Mackenzie.”
She lifts her phone again, and there’s a message from Parker. It’s a photo of a hand-written note.
Brooks is stalking Mackenzie. I’m worried he’s going to try to sleep with her and completely destroy his game for good.
I’m torn between an irrational desire to grab Lila’s phone and fling it into traffic so no one can ever see that offensive note again, and wanting to high-five my sister for her ingenuity. “Huh. She got around the auto-correct problem.”
Coco Puff lunges toward the window and gives Lila the puppy dog eyes that no one can resist. She smiles at him and scratches his ears. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you? Is Brooks taking good care of you? Yes? He’s spoiling you with treats and love and letting you sleep on his bed? What a good doggy daddy. Maybe next, he can try being happy to be here with this amazing opportunity? Yes? Yes? Would that make you happy, you adorable little puppy?”
“I can hear you.”
“I know. I want you to.”
“You know my mom’s having a voodoo doll made because she’s so upset that you took me from her.”
She lifts her eyes to mine, and while she might be friends with my sister, she’s not going to tolerate my bullshit this morning. “What do you want, Brooks? You can’t go back to New York. They were offering you to half the teams they were talking to about trades. You’re not doing poorly, but you’re not spectacular either. There won’t be many other teams who’d take you without also wanting one of our draft picks or partial payment of your contract. Statistically speaking, you’ve probably already peaked as a baseball player. You’re not one of the young guys anymore. So, as your friend, I need to know what you need. How can we help you make this work for all of us?”
I catch sight of Mackenzie’s car pulling out of the parking garage, and I crane to see if she’s eating the breakfast sandwich I made her. But she turns the opposite direction, and I can’t tell.
Dammit.
I’ll have to text her.
Lila glances behind her, then looks back at me expectantly.
Hard to miss the Fireball-mobile.
I scrub a hand over my face, realize I forgot to shave this morning, and then drop a hand to scratch Coco Puff’s wiry fur. “I was set in my routines in New York. I just—I need a little time to find the new patterns.”
I get the eyebrow of I don’t believe you.
Like I’m the only one who’s done this dance lately. “You didn’t need any time to adjust to Copper Valley after living in New York for how many years?”
“Oh, I did. I’ll own that. But I did the same thing you’re doing too, and I got involved romantically in something that could’ve been a very, very bad idea.”
“You don’t think Mackenzie’s good enough for me, or you don’t think I’m good enough for her?”
She purses her lips and looks up at the sky. “I’m trying very hard to not comment on superstitions or thievery right now, because there are some things I like to pretend I don’t know. It helps me sleep at night.”
Oh, shit. She knows.
She knows Mackenzie stole the meatball.
I wait until she looks me in the eye, and then I do something I’ve done so often as the youngest child in my family that I don’t even get a blip in my pulse. I lie through my teeth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She doesn’t believe me, and I know it. But she drops it. “Whatever you did in New York seemed to work for you. Maybe you should associate with the same kind of people and do the same kind of habits.”
“I’m hitting the fucking ball.”
“Not like you used to. Parker says your game’s off. Tripp says your game’s off. And half the guys on the team don’t trust you yet.”
I’m trying hard to care, because I do, despite what she thinks, but I need to let Mackenzie know that she needs to stash that meatball costume right now. “So you think I should get rid of Coco Puff? Lila. That’s cruel. At least let me keep my companion for my normal habit of randomly parking on different streets to meditate the morning before every game.”
“Also, if you hurt Mackenzie, I won’t be responsible for what Tripp and his friends will do to you.”
Coco Puff whimpers. Guilt grabs me by the throat. “I don’t want to hurt her. I—I’m trying to understand her. To help my game.”
Her eyes narrow while she studies me. “I’m so glad Tripp’s kids aren’t old enough to lie convincingly yet.”
“I don’t like to suck.”
“That, I believe.”
“Even in the minors, I never played for anyone but New York. This is all new.”
“So how are we going to fix this?”
I glance at my phone, where my siblings and in-laws are still continuing what’s undoubtedly a hilarious text conversation without me. They’ll probably get together for a book club meeting one night this week. Have dinner together at Ma’s house once or twice this month. Heard there are baby showers in the works.
I miss a lot of shit during the season. I wouldn’t be there for any of this anyway.
But knowing it’s happening five hundred miles away instead of in the same metro area sucks.
I lift my phone. “Can your IT department wipe whatever Eloise put on this to track me?”
“Is there anyone on this planet who can stop Eloise when it comes to electronics? We’re talking about the same woman who launched that dick pic phone virus last fall, aren’t we?”
Fuck, that was funny. She bricked a third of the phones in the locker room back in New York.
I don’t know how many guys on the Fireballs got hit with the same thing. I might’ve been actively invited to the de-cursing night at spring training—nope, still not telling what we did with the dildo—but I don’t know which of my new teammates is most likely to put bubble gum in my helmet or which one most deserves to have his car parked in center field before a game.
I haven’t been to these guys’ weddings. Haven’t gone on a McDonald’s run for fries after a late night of drinking after a bad loss, or helped pour a cooler of Gatorade on Santiago after a win.
“If you’re out, if you’re done, at least do us the courtesy of telling us,” Lila says softly. “No judgment here. We know the Fireballs’ record. We know we’re trying to do the impossible. And we know it’s not for everyone. But I hoped you’d give us a chance.”
She gives Coco Puff one more scratch behind the ears and steps back. “See you at the ballpark.”
“Lila.”
“What?”
“You know what works really well for team spirit?”
She lifts a brow.
I wiggle mine. “Matching pajamas for road trips.”
“You’re hilarious. Don’t make things awkward for your sister and me, because I’m pretty sure you’re the one who’ll lose if you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“You want matching pajamas. Matching Fireballs pajamas.”
Not a question.
A statement pointing out the lunacy of my idea.
“Tell Tripp. Tell Cooper. Then tell me I’m the asshole.”
She’s giving it serious consideration as she steps away. I can see it in the battle going on in her face.
Good.
I need her distracted. And, despite the fact that she thinks I’m mocking her, I’m completely serious.
T
here’s nothing like everyone looking like idiots and owning the fuck out of it to bring a team together.
As soon as she’s gone, I lunge for my phone and pull up my conversation with Meaty.
Mackenzie needs to know that Lila’s on to her so she can hide the costume. Or ditch it. Maybe burn it so they can’t swab it for her DNA or any stray hairs on the inside of the meatball head.
Yeah.
I’m helping a woman stash a meatball, when I should really be worried about the impact of the meatball missing on the team that’s paying my paycheck.
Lila’s right.
I have a Mackenzie problem.
But I’m not sure it’s a bad problem to have, if I want to get my game back.
21
Mackenzie
My phone will not stop buzzing.
Not my regular phone. My burner phone.
It’s blowing up with texts from Brooks.
Lila knows. SHE KNOWS you have the costume. Hide it. Get rid of it. Burn it. Then toss this phone too.
Meaty? C’mon, Meaty, answer me so I know you’re not in meatball jail.
Did you eat the breakfast sandwich? Oh, shit. Are you allergic to hazelnuts?
If you still have this phone and haven’t tossed it, I need to talk to you. I think I know what’s wrong with my game, and I need a crash course in all things Fireballs. I’d ask Rock, but I want the full story from someone who won’t make him out to be a god.
Related to that last text: Please don’t make Rock out to be a god when we talk. It makes my dog irrationally angry.
Fine, it’s me. I get irrationally angry because Rock still has his home team, whereas mine didn’t want me anymore. It sucks. It sucks worse than being a fucking thirty-year-old virgin. Happy now?
I’m not actually mad at you. And I don’t usually talk this much. And OH FUCK. I need my own damn burner phone, because I think my sister-in-law is tracking mine. SHIT. Eloise, if you’re listening in, I will strangle you myself with Ma’s leg warmers, because THAT WOULD BE FUCKING JUSTICE.