Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
LIESEL
A fter another long day of meetings, Cooper and I have officially presented our proposal to the GM, along with backups and backups of backups. That means we’ve recommended signing Colton Spencer, keeping Jessup for another year, and signing my brothers to the extended roster. I don’t think either Coop or I are truly thrilled about it, but what happens now is out of my hands.
Bah humbug.
Being in control is the best, and I hate the idea that I’m not. That may be the way life goes but I don’t have to like it.
“You two seem to have gotten past your differences,” Kathy says afterwards. “Good.”
“Liesel gave a very heartfelt apology,” Coop tells her. “It moved me.”
Kathy shakes her head, and walks past us. “See you at six for cocktails.”
When she’s gone, I scowl at Coop. “You can’t shut up, can you?”
“Oh no. Not even a little,” he says. We leave the room together. “And it’s so much harder when I haven’t slept .” He bumps his elbow into my side, and I swat it away.
“People will get the wrong idea,” I hiss.
“Again with this? What do you think they’ll think? That we—gasp—successfully put aside our differences? Or do you mean they’ll think we canoodled ?”
He waggles his eyebrows, and I have the urge to shave them off. “Don’t say that.”
“Canoodle? Why not? It’s a great word.”
It’s the end of our second day, and I’m spent . Between the late night and the full day of meetings—including a two-hour long presentation on a new ticketing system that will surely rock the sports world—I could hibernate for the winter. Oh, and if that’s not enough, Coop has been my shadow all day.
I go between amusement and annoyance every time he opens his mouth. Also, and this is probably the exhaustion talking, he has a really attractive mouth. If only it would stop long enough for me to look at it.
“Why are you so bent on vexing me?” I ask.
“Why are you so easy to vex?”
I punch his arm, and he laughs. We’re near the stairs, and while I’m used to taking them with Juliet, I don’t want to, not even with Coop.
I mean, especially not with Coop.
I’m tired. Too tired. And I haven’t showered yet after our long night. I’m not saying I stink, but I’m saying the dry shampoo I used this morning makes me look like a frosted fruitcake.
“See you in an hour,” I say when Coop opens the stairwell.
“I’ll be the one in a Santa hat.”
I groan but smile.
He’s not that bad.
I’m just walking into my suite when I get a video call from Lucas. My brothers both play for the same Triple-A Firebirds affiliate team, so I’m sure Logan will be close by.
“Hey,” Lucas says.
“Hey,” I say. “Are you wearing one of your Christmas sweaters?”
“Of course I am,” he says, looking at me in confusion. It probably was a silly question, but I avoid wearing mine until I have to. I really am the Grinch of the family, but I have my reasons. “Speaking of which, are you going to come over to the house and help us decorate the Christmas tree? Dad insists we can’t do it without you.”
I prop the phone against the poinsettia at the dining room table and unpack my laptop bag. Hopefully he can’t see the frown I’m fighting off. “You can do it without me.” Please .
“He says Mom wouldn’t have done it without you.”
My throat thickens. “It’s December 9 th . Mom always had the tree up the day after Halloween.”
“Yeah, and it was a family tradition to do it together . You’ve been avoiding coming home?—”
“I’m not avoiding coming home,” I lie a big, huge lie. “I don’t get months off for vacation when the season’s over like the rest of you. And I’m Juliet’s maid of honor. I’m busy .”
Lucas nods, but he’s clearly not buying it. He blows a raspberry. “So how’s the staff retreat?”
“Not bad,” I say.
“You’re not dating any players, are you?”
“No, I’m not dating any players.” I roll my eyes. “Players don’t attend staff meetings, anyway.”
“Unless they happen to injure their elbow and get a special assignment with the GM …”
I blink tiredly. “You’re so overprotective, it’s adorable. Like a big, dumb golden retriever who thinks he’s a German Shepherd.”
“Lee,” he says in his sternest “big brother” voice.
“I’m not dating Cooper Kellogg!”
“Really? Then why did a fan share a picture of the two of you together on social media?”
“WHAT?”
I swipe out of FaceTime and to social media. A few quick searches, and …
I gasp.
This picture is from only ten minutes ago, when Coop and I were walking through the hallway. I knew this would happen! He’s giving me that mock sexy, flirty look, and I’m glaring at him, but somehow it looks … playful. Coy.
The fact that we’re standing so close together when no one is actually that close to us is a coincidence. There were throngs of people! Throngs!
“This is totally out of context. He was elbowing me to make it look like he was joking about something he wasn’t joking about. If the fan had taken another photo a second later, it would have shown me practically vomiting on his shoe.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. You know I can’t stand Cooper Kellogg. He’s the worst,” I say, but it feels like lip service after working together last night. He still has the biggest head of anyone I’ve ever met, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s simply a bad ambassador for the game I love so much.
To old timers, at any rate.
“So what were you two doing?”
“Work. He’s helping with scouting, and I’m in analytics. That’s the job. We’re looking to fill Coop’s spot, and that utility player I discovered from Costa Rica is at the top of our list.”
He nods. “How about the rest of the lineup?”
My chest grows hot. My brothers have never pressured me to put in a good word for them or put them on the GM’s radar. But I can’t tell if it’s subtext on his part or a guilt complex on my part that makes me feel pressure to do everything I can to promote his career.
“I’m not sure. We have some trades and moves in the works, but it’ll be the GMs call.”
“Doug’s the best, man. You’re so lucky to work with him.”
More guilt. More pressure. Is this a friendly conversation, or is he hinting at something? An image of my mom crying happy tears when my brothers were drafted springs to mind, followed by her grabbing my hand.
“You’re the best sister they could have hoped for. I know you’ll always take care of them.”
And suddenly, the pressure and guilt are more than I can stomach. I’m not taking care of them. Yes, I managed the family’s schedules better than a personal assistant. I made sure they had forms and waivers and applications for every league, every tournament, every time. I ordered groceries to keep the junk out of their diets that wouldn’t help with their training.
I sacrificed a lot.
But am I still? Didn’t I let Coop talk me out of my duty to my brothers—to my mom —so we could present two other names to the GM?
“Is that Lee?” Logan says in the background. A moment later, his handsome face appears on the screen. He’s also wearing one of Mom’s Christmas sweaters. She got us a new one every year, and we used to open them the day we put up the Christmas tree so we could wear them all season long.
When Mom realized her illness had progressed to the point that the end was in sight, she ordered us every Christmas sweater she could find. Dad has boxes of wrapped Christmas sweaters in the attic, and he gives us a new one every year. Her handwriting was too shaky for her to write a note, so he found an app where he was able to upload and print out her handwriting based on whatever she dictated.
So on top of the Christmas sweater, we get a new card every year, too. A new card in her computerized handwriting that makes me feel like my heart is getting ripped out again every year .
It’s a family tradition to wear our Christmas sweaters all season long, but I never will again. I hate them. I hate remembering what I used to have. I hate missing my mom so much, I can’t breathe. And now, getting confronted with reminders of her at the same time that I’m wondering if I’m failing her by hurting their careers, I can’t take it anymore.
I don’t want to talk to my brothers. I don’t want to see either of them when I may have just made the biggest mistake of their lives.
“Sorry, I have to go,” I say. “See you when I get back.” My smile looks like a grimace, but I stab the screen and hang up the call before they can call me on it.
My chest is tight, and I have to pant to draw in breath. And why is it so hot in this room? And why do there have to be so many reminders of Christmas?
Of Mom?
I rush outside to the balcony, my breath bursting from me in something between sobs and hyperventilation. My eyes fly everywhere.
Name five things you can see! I cry to myself.
My shaking hands. The twinkle lights around the balcony. The green of the golf course. Pinnacle Peak in the background. The sun setting behind it.
Four things you can touch.
I close my eyes for this exercise and strain my senses to really feel each of them.
My clammy forehead. The velvety texture of my navy blazer. The cool metal of the balcony railing. The light breeze stirring my hair.
Three things you can hear.
I tune the world out, letting my ears hear dozens of sounds. I fixate on only a few.
My shallow breathing. The ringing of a phone in the distance. The crack of a driver hitting a golf ball.
Two things you can smell.
I breathe deeply, in and out. In and out. My lungs are moving slow now, and my pulse has steadied.
I smell fresh, dry desert air, so different from home. Spiced sandalwood …
Spiced sandalwood?
My eyes open and I whip around.
Cooper is leaning against the doorframe like the roguish heartthrob of every romance reader’s dreams. He’s wearing a rich, dark green suit that fits him far too well. Men like him shouldn’t be allowed to wear suits so perfectly tailored to their bodies. It’s like giving them an arsenal no woman could defend against.
Except me.
I give him my sternest, most piercing look. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He shrugs. “The clerk saw me come up last night, and when I told her my date was late for cocktail hour, she called upstairs. You didn’t answer, so we agreed that I should check on you.”
“You flirted with her to get up here?” I push past him to get inside my suite. “And you lied! I’m not late.”
“That’s what you think I lied about? Not you being my date?”
“Put those suggestive eyebrows down this instant, young man.”
His grin is pure mischief.
“Okay, so you’re not technically late, but something told me you’re the kind of girl who likes to be early. When you weren’t, it made me wonder if you were okay.”
“I have an hour to get ready,” I say. “The meetings just ended.”
“The meetings ended forty-eight minutes ago. Cocktail hour starts in twelve minutes.”
“WHAT? I need to shower! My hair! My makeup!”
“You look great!”
“What do you know?” I yell, my back to him. Sprinting to my room, I pull a hair tie from around my wrist and put my hair up so it won’t get wet. In the bathroom with the door firmly locked, I throw my clothes off and hop into the shower, soaping down with the speed of a superhero. My legs are stubbly, but no one’s going to be touching them, and if anyone gets his face close enough to tell, I’ll kick it.
I dry off and drop my towel on the ground in front of the mirror.
I pull my dry-shampooed hair up into a sleek ponytail and then spin it around in an equally sleek bun. Most women will know this is a twenty second hairstyle, but something tells me my boss—who wore Crocs today with her pantsuit—isn’t one to care.
My makeup has mostly cracked from the intense dryness, but I don’t have time to wash my face. So I use a face mist, pat it, and then add a quick extra coat of mascara, because I love my eyelashes, but I look like a middle schooler without makeup. So I make them extra dark and thick. It’s a good thing I dyed my naturally blonde eyebrows before I left for Arizona. I use an eyeliner stick to add a quick and dirty smoky effect that’ll do the job. I don’t know how to contour, but I use a highlighter stick on the bridge and tip of my nose, and I’ll use my lipstick as blush in the elevator on the way down. I throw on my little black cocktail dress and slip into a pair of shimmery heels. With a minute to spare, I run out of the room.
And smack into Coop’s rock hard chest.
“Why are you still here?” I say, rubbing my chin.
“Whoa,” he says at the same time, putting his hands on my shoulders. The fitted black dress has a sweetheart neckline and a sheer mesh top, so even though he’s technically touching fabric, it also feels like he’s touching skin.
My irritation flares hotter. And … less like irritation.
No.
Not less like irritation. Exactly like irritation.
I march past him, holding my phone and lipstick, but he’s standing still. I go back five steps, grab his hand, and tug. “What are you doing?”
“I, uh—” He shakes his head. “Nothing.” I press the elevator button and catch his reflection. He’s taking me in.
A lot.
I duck my head to keep back a smile.
We step on to the elevator, and I dot lipstick on my cheekbones and blend it in. Thank goodness this elevator is so shiny.
“That was the fastest transformation I’ve ever seen,” Coop says. “And you look way hotter than Clark Kent.”
“Oh, stop.” I glare at him for effect. “Don’t you dare badmouth Henry Cavill in my presence.”
He grins, and for a second, my heart leaps. No, the elevator stopped on the first floor, and it made me leap. That’s all that was.
We walk together toward the ballroom, where the cocktail hour and dinner will be, and I realize I forgot something.
“Shoot,” I whisper.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“I forgot my clutch. Walking around with lipstick and a phone in my hands isn’t quite the vibe I was going for.”
“Use my pockets.”
“No. That’s a date thing.”
“We’ve already established that you are my date.”
“Have not,” I say.
We turn a corner. “You didn’t deny it upstairs.”
“Because the idea of being late is the only fate worse than dating you.”
“It’s all coming up Coop,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. And when he takes my lipstick and phone and puts them in his pocket, I also can’t help but notice how strong and … attractive his hands are.
(And yes, I’m fully aware how strange it is to find someone’s hands attractive.)
The hallways are full of people. Because the sessions are over for the day, it’s easier to spot the non-baseball guests and fans. Yes, the meetings themselves are private, but it’s still a big hotel with plenty of other people staying.
We get our pictures snapped by a couple dozen people, and I try to hide my face.
“Embarrassed to be seen with me?” Coop says.
“More like worried my brothers will flip their lids. I’m not allowed to date baseball players.”
“That’s a stupid rule.”
“You don’t date fans.”
He gives me his most impish smile yet. “Haven’t you heard, Frosted Sugar Plum? Rules are made to be broken.”
“Frosted? Because I’m a bit of an ice queen?”
“Nah, because of the dry shampoo,” he says.
I laugh. “Get over yourself, Buddy .”
“You called me that earlier. Why?”
“You wore a Christmas cowboy hat in an airport with a Rudolph face tattoo.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re Buddy the Elf.”
Laughter bursts from him. “Yes! That is so much better than I thought.”
“Why did you think I was calling you ‘Buddy?’”
“I was worried you were friend-zoning me.”
Heat pools in my abdomen before spreading out to my limbs. But before I can respond or even process what he just said, Coop spots someone up ahead.
“Braden!” He jogs forward a dozen yards and pulls the guy into a big hug. “How are you, man? How’s Las Cruces?”
“Not the same without you,” he says.
I’m not sure if I should walk in without him, or not, but Coop turns to me and waves me over. “Braden, this is my friend, Liesel,” Coop says, “She works for the Firebirds. Liesel, this is Braden, one of my friends from home. He’s a pitching coach for the Double-A team in New Mexico where we grew up.”
We shake hands, and Braden gives me a friendly smile. Coop puts his hand on my lower back as he and Braden catch up. His hand is warm and presses around my spine in a way that gives me goosebumps. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Coop was putting out a vibe to his friend.
A possessive vibe.
But that’s silly. He couldn’t be possessive. We can barely tolerate each other.
I know, I know: he came up to my room to check on me. He’s escorting me to cocktail hour. He’s holding my stuff. He’s touching my back in a way that makes me shiver.
But he’s not being possessive. He’s playing mind games with me, because that’s what nemeses do. And that’s all we are. Hot nemeses.
I mean, regular nemeses. Not hot. Fine looking nemeses. Absolutely fine looking.
We’re both fine.
“Hey, I saw your mom at the grocery store the other day.”
Coop makes a choking sound. Worried, I pat his back. “I’m fine,” he says, making my cheeks burn hot.
Fine will never mean what it used to mean , I think.
Coop clears his throat and says to Braden, “Nah. You must be mistaken.”
“That’s what I thought at first. I know your mom. But then?—”
“You’re wrong, bro,” Coop says so firmly, it ends the discussion. “We gotta go in. I’ll see you inside.”
I expect to see offense all over Braden’s face, but instead, his eyebrows tug together and he gives an understanding smile. “Okay. I’ll see you in there, Coop. Glad you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
“What was that about?” I ask Coop when he opens the ballroom door for me.
“Nothing.”
He grins broadly, with eyes crinkling in a way that almost seems purposeful. Calculated. It’s like someone told him once that his smile didn’t reach his eyes, so he designed one that would make sure no one could ever say it again.
And now I know how to tell when Coop is lying.