Chapter 29 #2
The last few nights, no matter how late it got, the three of us ended up on video calls. Sometimes it was quick, just a check-in to make sure we were all doing okay and to recap our days. Sometimes it dragged, because none of us wanted to be the first to hang up and sit alone with our thoughts.
But the calls didn’t stop everything going on outside of them.
Reporters had been pushing for comments the second I stepped into the clubhouse.
Beat writers lingered a little longer at my locker.
Postgame questions turned personal really fast. Even when the mics weren’t pointed at me, I could feel people trying to get a reaction for their clip.
My phone was worse. Unknown numbers, voicemails that started with “Just a quick question,” texts from people I hadn’t talked to in years, and message requests that sounded friendly while fishing for anything they could twist into a headline.
And on top of all that, I felt bombarded by internet trolls and their hateful comments on every single photo or clip of Dylan and me we’d ever shared.
The clip of Dylan hugging Faye after the game was everywhere, paused and zoomed in, and reposted by accounts that didn’t even pretend to care about baseball. People treated one second of footage like a sworn statement.
Wait, I thought she was with Jase?
So was St. John fake or what?
Why is she switching brothers?
Is this a love triangle?
Poor Jase.
Dylan’s the better one anyway.
No, Jase is the better one.
She’s playing them both.
They’re using her for clout.
She’s using them for attention.
The Secret Service is gonna tackle him.
This is why they’re losing.
Keep politics out of baseball.
Some comments were meant to be funny, as if people get a pass because they used a laughing emoji.
Others were just nasty, the kind that turned Faye into a headline, Dylan into a prop, and me into an afterthought.
Threads spun off into theories, timelines, screenshots from St. John, slow-motion clips of the hug, and arguments about who she “really” wanted, as if her attention was something to earn instead of a choice she got to make.
I kept telling myself to stop looking, but I continued doing it anyway, because apparently I liked punishing myself almost as much as I liked baseball.
Dylan had looked relaxed on the calls, but standing there in front of me, I could see what it had cost him.
His shoulders stayed high, his jaw remained tight, and his eyes were constantly tracking movement as if he were waiting for someone to pop up with a camera and a question he didn’t have an answer for.
The media and others hadn’t been kind to him either, given that he was labeled a “homewrecker.”
I lowered my voice. “You sleeping at all?”
He let out a short laugh. “Not really.”
“Tonight should help.” I winked, fully alluding to us fucking.
He snorted. “Can’t wait.”
A few minutes later, Faye stepped off the escalator wearing a black baseball cap as though that would hide who she was. It helped that she’d signed off on her detail for the trip, so men in suits weren’t tailing her and drawing even more attention. Her gaze fell on us, and she walked faster.
Dylan moved forward, then checked himself and stayed put.
I stayed put too because touching her right there might’ve turned into someone’s scandalous video within seconds, and we weren’t giving anyone that.
Faye got to us and paused, and I did everything in my power not to reach out and put my arms around her. The media assumed we were dating, and I wasn’t sure whether the right move was to fuel that fire.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hi.” Dylan grinned.
“Hi.” I smiled. “I want to kiss you right now, but I won’t.”
She blushed. “Probably for the best, but it still sucks.”
“I want to kiss you too, Princess,” Dylan stated.
“I know, but I know we’re not doing anything in public.”
“Yeah, we’re being good.” I smirked.
Faye chuckled. “Just in public, though. In our hotel room, I want you both to be wicked.”
Dylan cleared his throat. “Carousel seven then?”
She nodded. “Yep.”
We walked like three people who happened to be heading in the same direction. Nothing to see here, no story, no drama. Dylan and I still ended up on the outside with Faye between us without discussing it, because that was instinct now, and because neither of us trusted strangers around her.
We hit carousel seven and waited. No touching. No leaning in. No cute moment someone could zoom in on and post with a caption that was anything but the truth.
As we waited, a guy in a Dodgers hat stared at Dylan too long.
Dylan stared back longer.
Faye angled her face toward him without looking up. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Dylan replied.
“He might just be trying to place you. He is a baseball fan,” I remarked.
“Maybe,” Dylan agreed.
Faye’s suitcase finally rolled out, and she grabbed it fast, tugging it off the belt with a little grunt that made Dylan’s mouth twitch.
“Of course it’s heavy,” he commented, eyeing the bag.
“It’s not heavy,” she argued, but I knew better than to believe her.
I glanced at the arrivals board, then back at them. “I still need my bag.”
Faye’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t grab it already?”
“I met Dylan first,” I stated. “Then you showed up.”
“Where’s your bag?” Dylan asked.
I rechecked the board. “Carousel nine.”
Carousel nine was a mess of people hovering too close to the belt, as if standing on top of it would make their luggage appear faster. I watched for my bag, trying not to focus on the fact that every phone in the building had a camera.
Faye stayed a step back, her suitcase in front of her. Dylan stood on her other side, posture rigid, eyes forward, expression tight.
A bag thumped onto the belt, then another, then another. I spotted mine and stepped forward. Grabbing the handle, I pulled it off, then stepped back immediately so I wasn’t blocking anyone. We turned and headed for the pickup area.
A guy near the doors lifted his phone higher than normal.
Faye didn’t change pace. “Keep walking.”
“I’m walking,” I said.
Dylan glanced at me without turning his head. “Don’t talk.”
I scoffed. “You’re acting like I’m going to break into a musical number.”
Faye finally looked at me. “You would.”
“That’s slander,” I complained.
Dylan chuckled. “But accurate.”
Outside, the Vegas heat slapped me in the face like it was the devil himself living in Sin City.
“We’re going to the pickup line,” I murmured, mainly to keep us moving in the same direction. “Marcos told me a car would be waiting.”
Faye’s brows lifted. “He set up a car too?”
“He set up everything,” Dylan replied.
A black SUV rolled up to the curb right as we reached the lane. The driver stepped out, scanning faces, then stopped on us.
“Matthewson? Statler?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
The driver opened the back door. “Andre. I’ve got you.”
He reached for the handle of Faye’s suitcase while we climbed into the back. She got in first, Dylan slid in beside her, and I took the other side.
Once Andre got into the driver’s seat, he merged into traffic.
“So what do we want to do before we head to the fight?” I asked.
“Get a cocktail,” Faye said.
“Food too,” Dylan stated. “I’ve only had airplane snacks today.”
“May I suggest Javier’s?” Andre spoke. “It’s in the hotel and has a delicious jalapeno margarita.”
“I could totally go for a margarita,” Faye said.
“I’m down,” Dylan agreed.
“Sounds good to me.” I nodded my head. “After we check in, we can head down there.”
“I’ll have the concierges make you a reservation,” Andre said.
“Perfect. Thank you,” I responded.
Andre pulled up at Aria and took us to the Sky Suites entrance.
Inside, the staff greeted Dylan and me by name, handed over keys, and kept it professional.
Andre called the concierge desk to make our restaurant reservations, which gave us about an hour to get ready for the evening, and then the front desk clerk pointed us toward a private elevator.
Once the doors slid shut, I finally took a real breath.
Faye let out a slow exhale. “I forgot what it feels like to walk through a place and not have people staring at me.”
Dylan kept his gaze forward, but his shoulders loosened a little. “Sky Suites was a good call.”
“Marcos loves a good call,” I joked. “He’s going to text us later and ask if we noticed the fancy soap.”
Faye’s mouth twitched. “I’m taking the fancy soap.”
Dylan’s lips curved. “You steal hotel soap?”
“It’s not stealing,” she argued. “They are complimentary.”
I glanced at her cap. “Are you going to keep wearing that, or are you done trying to hide?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not trying to hide. I’m trying not to give people an easy picture.”
Dylan’s eyes slid to me. “Don’t push.”
“I’m not pushing,” I insisted. “I’m commenting.”
Faye stared at me. “You’re annoying.”
“And yet you flew to Vegas to see me.” I smirked.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” She laughed.
The elevator opened onto a quiet hallway, and a minute later, we were inside the suite.
The place was huge. The living room featured an oversized sectional facing a wall-mounted TV and a low table that looked too nice for two rookies who lived out of suitcases.
Floor-to-ceiling windows took up most of the far wall with a view of the Strip.
Off to the side was a wet bar and a small kitchenette with a wide stone island, a sink, and a fridge.
Faye took off her cap and tossed it onto the entry table, then dragged her fingers through her blonde hair. “Okay. I’m gross.”
Dylan’s mouth curved, his eyes sliding over her like he was already imagining steam and wet skin. “We could shower and fix that.”
“Then follow me,” she sassed.
The suite’s main bathroom was a sanctuary in white marble and gleaming chrome. Faye led the way, her steps purposeful, and Dylan and I followed.