Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
COOPER
Y ou wanna know what’s fun?
How excited everyone is to work with me.
Wait, did I say fun?
I meant not fun. Not even a little.
This morning’s opening session and strategy meeting were both fine. Some side-eyes, sure, but some smiles, too. Lunch with Marty Mercer, the Director of Scouting, was good. The guy’s gruff, but he seemed to respect me, and we saw eye-to-eye on a lot of the prospects in the Firebirds farm system. But now, the two of us are stepping into a breakout room in the resort’s conference center, and you could hear a pin drop. A dozen people look at me, a couple with surprise and excitement. A couple with contempt.
At the front of the room, a blonde woman is bent over her laptop, and given that there’s a light coming from the projector but it’s not sharing anything, I’d bet the muttering woman is having a hard time getting her laptop to connect.
I walk over to her, only because I promised Doug I’d be a team player. Not because she has a great figure, or anything.
“Need a hand?”
“Yes, please—” she stops abruptly. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s you.” I can’t help myself. “The woman from the airport. And the lobby. And the stairwell.”
“Yeah, I work here.” I can practically smell the fumes wafting off her. “Not here here. For the Firebirds.”
“I play for the Firebirds.”
“Oh! Do you?” She bats her wide-set eyes pointedly. “We’ve established that, buddy . That’s why you’re ‘so freaking rich,’ remember?”
“So you repeatedly insult me to my face and I crack a joke, and somehow I’m the bad guy?”
“You’re the bad guy for treating the sport like it’s a joke.”
It’s my turn to fume. “Baseball purists.”
I turn to find Marty. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have an open spot near him, so I look for the woman’s tumbler with its absurd geek in the spreadsheets message and pick the seat farthest from her.
An older woman stands and helps the obnoxious woman. A presentation flashes on the screen. The pretty pest sits down, and the older woman clears her throat.
“Thanks for being prompt,” she says. “I’m Kathy Coleman, Director of Baseball Analytics.” This is her department, so she’s clearly introducing herself for my benefit. “We’re excited to welcome Marty Mercer, Director of Scouting, and the team’s new special assistant to the GM for scouting, Mr. Cooper Kellogg.”
The excited people clap. I like them.
Pretty Pest doesn’t. Which is fine, because I don’t like her.
“We have an hour, people, so let’s make the most of this. Coop is out for the season, and we need to determine the best way to fill the gap he’s leaving next year, among others. And, as always, we need pitching.”
“And we need to do all this on a reduced budget,” Pretty Pest says looking at me .
Kathy gives a slow nod that screams duh. “We all understand the assignment, Liesel.”
HA! Take that, Liesel .
Liesel. That’s a pretty name. Too pretty for someone who wants to set fire to me with her eyes.
“Of course, jersey and season ticket sales have also increased dramatically,” I say. “So that should help the budget.”
“Uh, yeah. We’ve taken that into account,” Kathy says with the same duh in her voice that was directed at Liesel. Liesel shoots me a triumphant look that makes me want to pull a Mason and stick my tongue out at her. “Let’s dive in.”
Liesel nods, and the projector starts sharing her screen.
Marty and I give each other a glance when we see their top draft pick. We talked about this kid at lunch. Marty juts his chin toward me, gesturing for me to speak.
“The kid’s a ticking time bomb,” I say.
“Excuse me?” Liesel asks. Why use such polite words with such a waspish tone? Sort of contradicts the whole thing. “He’s a top fifteen college player. His college stats are as good as Derek Jeter’s.”
“Yeah, but Jeter didn’t break his bat four times in a single season after striking out. And his mommy didn’t hug him after games and threaten to give the Big Bad Umpire a piece of her mind.”
Silence answers me.
Yeah, maybe I got a little waspish, too. “But you’re right,” I add hastily. “The guy’s got great stats. If he can fundamentally change his personality, he could dominate.”
Liesel doesn’t just want to set me on fire with her gaze, she wants to scatter my ashes afterwards.
“Marty?” Kathy asks. The steely scout nods.
“Okay. The kid’s off the table. Next.”
Liesel presents several more draft potentials, and Marty and I have no objections, so they get green-lighted. But there are a lot of moving pieces to putting together an extended 40-man roster. Depending on what other trades and moves happen among other teams this week, we could find that our top picks in any category are gone, and suddenly we need to rethink the whole strategy. And Liesel, I’m seeing, is a master at strategy. With every new name, she updates a field in her software, and it populates a dozen different possible paths to filling the roster.
It’s awesome.
Not that I’ll ever tell her that.
We move on to pitchers, and Liesel puts up a couple of proposals, including calling up two minor league pitchers.
Logan and Lucas Fischer.
Liesel thinks I’m a punk? Those two are the Princes of Punk Town (still workshopping that name). More than that, though, their numbers don’t convince me. They moved up to Triple-A ball last season, and they were good. By the end of the season, they were really good. But they’re unproven.
And, as was previously established, they’re massive freaking punks.
“The Fischer twins? Really?”
Liesel’s nostrils flare. “Do you have a problem with them?”
“They’re easier to read than a chapter book.”
Kathy and Marty look at each other. Marty shrugs.
“They telegraph their pitches. Is this really news?” I ask.
But Liesel doesn’t let either of them speak. “Then how about we look at your old buddy Colton Spencer, instead?”
“Colt Spencer?” I spit the name before I can stop myself.
“You blew the guy a kiss after you ‘launched a bomb,’ remember? I assumed you two were close.”
“He’s a jerk. Total clubhouse poison,” I say.
“What would that be like?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t know. My teammates love me.”
“Okay, break time,” Kathy says. She snaps and points to Liesel and me. “You two: here, now.”
I hate the burning feeling in my chest. I’m doing a great job getting attention, but a terrible job doing my job. I exhale loudly. I didn’t want this. I can’t stand the idea of Doug thinking he assigned me for nothing. What is it about Liesel that makes me so irritated, so contrary, so …
Excited.
No, not excited. Just irritated and contrary. If she makes me feel more alive, it’s the same way getting caught naked in a snowstorm would—sharp, cold, and impossible to ignore.
Judging by her tight eyes, she feels the same way about me.
“Did you two used to date, or something?” Kathy asks.
“No, we just met,” Liesel says.
“I’m sorry, Kathy,” I say, getting my apology in before Liesel can. “I should probably do a better job observing and chime in when you and Marty need me.”
“Good idea,” the older woman says. “I like strong opinions. But we have a lot to get through in a short time, and if you two don’t stop sniping at each other, we’re never going to make it.”
“Sorry, Kathy,” Liesel says. “Let’s try this again.”
We return to our seats, and when I get there, Marty is sitting beside me. Is he babysitting me? Who am I kidding? Of course he is. The presentation continues. I bite my tongue, only offering input when Marty elbows me.
And when the conversation circles back to pitching.
“You’re serious about the Fischer twins?” I ask, holding back a groan.
“Fischer brothers,” Liesel corrects.
“Fine, the Fischer brothers. You really think they’re ready?”
“Their stats are solid,” she says.
“Solid isn’t exceptional,” I say.
“Who in the minors is exceptional?”
“Betancourt. He exploded last season.”
“He’s played a half season of Triple-A. The Fischer brothers were strong all season long. They have a safer track record,” Liesel argues.
“Betancourt has a bigger upside.”
“His upside is unknowable!”
“Same as with the Fischer twins.”
“Fischer brothers.”
“What is your obsession with them?” I ask. “Do you have a crush or something?”
Kathy coughs, and it almost sounds like a laugh.
“I’m not obsessed. I’m being accurate,” Liesel says, her eyes slits. “They’re triplets. They have a sister, okay?”
“And … she plays for a team?”
“Nope. She works for one.”
Realization dawns on me like the sun. “Liesel Fischer, huh?” I grin.
“Finally caught on, did you?” she asks, mirroring my snide comment from yesterday.
“The geek in the spreadsheets mug is a surprisingly effective disguise. But it’s cool. I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“Why you’re not thinking rationally.”
“Excuse me? I always think rationally.”
“Do you know what that word means? Be honest.”
Her face is so red, I think steam might actually be coming off it. “Do you ever get tired of carrying around that massive ego?”
“No, but thank you for your concern.”
Kathy smacks her forehead with her palm. “Enough! If you’re going to keep acting like children, I’ll put you in timeout.”
“Sorry, Kathy,” I mumble.
“Sorry, Kathy,” Liesel mutters.
Kathy flexes both hands. “Your recommendations are noted. Let’s move on.”
Liesel’s neck is splotchy.
“Yes, ma’am,” Liesel says, her eyes fixed on her laptop screen.
The look on her face causes a pang in me. Sure, she’s the human equivalent of a lump of coal in your stocking, and she’s dead wrong about her brothers, but I didn’t want to humiliate her. I didn’t want to make her feel bad .
When the breakout ends, we still have too many holes in our roster, including pitching. The rest of the room files out toward the ballroom for dinner, but Kathy and Marty pull Liesel and me aside.
“That didn’t go how we expected,” Kathy says shortly.
“I know,” Liesel says, looking at her strappy heels. “I’m sorry again.”
“I don’t need your apologies, I need your brains,” Kathy says. Then she looks at me. “Both of you. You have different experiences and perspectives, and we’ve all seen enough baseball movies to know that scouting and analytics need to work together. So congratulations.”
Liesel and I look at each other like we’re temporarily not enemies. “Congratulations?” I ask.
Marty and Kathy nod at each other. “You two are working together.”
“What does that mean?” I ask Marty.
“It means you aren’t coming to another meeting or even to dinner until you two have figured out our extended roster.”
“But what if someone we choose gets picked up by another team?—”
“Have a backup. And a backup to the backup. And you’d better have it figured out by tomorrow when we present to the GM, or we’ll make you two roommates, while we’re at it,” Marty says.
I nod. “Yes sir.”
“What about my presentation?” Liesel asks Kathy.
“This takes priority,” Kathy says. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kathy and Marty exit, leaving Liesel and me staring at each other.
“Look what you did!” she says.
“Me? Look what you did!”
She huffs and returns to her seat, where she shoves her personal items in her laptop bag. My satchel only has a baseball I got from a swag booth and some resistance bands for my rehab, so I stand and watch her with my hands in my pockets. When she’s all packed, she stomps past me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, following her into the hall.
It’s busy enough that she’s forced to slow down. And she seems suddenly aware that we can be seen by the couple hundred people who are roaming the halls on their way to the ballroom. Especially considering we’re the only people walking away from it.
I get right next to her as we walk. She pastes on a fake smile for the benefit of the rest of the Firebirds organization, no doubt. “Don’t walk next to me,” she says. “I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
“That we work together?”
“Right, like anyone thinks you’re here to work.”
“I had a press conference this morning. Everyone knows. That’s why they’re looking at us.” I nod and smile at people as we walk. I incline my head toward her. “Believe me: no one would buy that we’re together.”
She stiffens. We turn a corner into yet another packed hallway. “Why? Because you typically only go for girls who are ultra tan and ultra enhanced ?”
“No, because I don’t date fans, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your fan, and I’m definitely not your sweetheart.”
“Judging by how closely you keep tabs on my social media, we both know you’re lying. Sorry, Sugar Plum. It’s nothing personal, but I don’t mix business and pleasure.”
“You don’t treat baseball like it’s business.”
I snort. “It’s not. Baseball is the pleasure. Women are the work. And I don’t need a job when I can play a game for money.”
She takes me down corridors that get progressively more and more narrow until we pass the front desk and go into a private hallway with an exclusive elevator. “You are the most obnoxious man I’ve ever met,” she says. “I would rather have to decorate the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center than be stuck with you for another minute.” We stare at each other in the reflection of the elevator. It’s coming down from the seventeenth floor. My elevator only showed sixteen floors.
“That literally sounds like the best time of my entire life. I’m in.” Judging by the twitch in her eye, my last comment broke something in her brain. “Let me guess: I’ve enraged you so much, you’re planning to throw me off the roof,” I say.
“If I were going to murder you, it wouldn’t be a crime of passion. It would be slow, painful, and totally untraceable.”
The numbers keep ticking down. “So where are we going?”
“My room.”
“Your room? Where?”
“The Owner’s Suite.”
“Hold on. If you’re the Fischer brothers’ sister, that makes your dad Bruce Fischer, the umpire. Umps do well, but not this well. Is your mom a secret billionaire, or something?”
She winces. “No, my best friend’s fiancé is, though.”
The elevator dings.
“Okay. I see how it is. You’re hoping to wow me with luxury so you can have your way with me.”
As the doors slide open, the image stretches until I catch a final glimpse of half of my grinning face and half of her frowning one. We step onto the elevator, and I lean against the wall, while she stands primly, clutching her bag.
“My way would necessitate burying your body,” she practically bites. “Now, we’re here to work. So shut your trap so we don’t have to room together.”
“Marty was kidding.”
Her blue eyes turn icy. “That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Okay, Scrooge.”
“Okay, Buddy .”
The elevator doors close, and up we go.