Chapter 3 #2
Reaching out to their marketing team via socials and asking if I could. It was that simple. They loved the idea. Why wouldn’t they? When I announced I was attending Nate’s games, those tickets skyrocketed in price.
“Holy shit. That’s Garcia. And Gallagher.” Luciano tugged me against him as he gazed down at me. His large brown eyes softened as he tilted his chin up. “I know you said this was a one-time deal, but I’m going to ask for more.”
“I can’t get you on the field every time, Luc.
” I shied away from his touch, more interested in catching the eye of a certain player.
I’d met him at various events before, fundraisers throughout the valley.
Luciano was a fellow influencer, so it was mutually beneficial, but I knew the look he gave me.
The stars in the eyes. The how can I join her lifestyle question.
It was all shallow and superficial. We laughed, we looked good, but we never talked about anything important.
Damn. Nate’s words about me doing everything for likes hit me again. It was more than that, but doubt crept in.
“Are you kidding me?”
Ah, there was that grumpy voice. My heart sped up as I turned, Luciano’s arm now around my shoulders so my back pressed against his chest. “O’Brien,” I practically purred. “It is so nice to meet you. I am your biggest fan.”
Nate’s nostrils flared as he eyed me up and down, his jaw twitching in clear annoyance. Oh yes. I pissed him off. “How are you on the field?”
“Will you take a photo with me?” I blinked up at him, voice sweet as honey, and held out my phone. “You know—for the likes?”
His jaw ticked, and a muscle flexed in his cheek. I watched it happen with a tiny rush of satisfaction. He deserved this. After what he said to me, he deserved to squirm a little.
Before he could answer, another player jogged over, all smiles. “No way—Cassventures on my field? Oh, baby, I’m such a fan!”
“Garcia, knock it off,” Nate snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
“Garcia,” I said brightly, slipping out of Luciano’s grip and closing the space between us, “would you like a photo?”
He smelled like sunflower seeds and leather as I looped an arm around him, pressing close for a selfie. “Thank you so much,” I said loudly enough for Nate to hear. “My dad would’ve loved this—one of his favorite player’s team being so welcoming.”
Garcia laughed, awkward but game. “Uh, yeah—of course. Nate-O, come on, man, get in here with us.”
I turned toward Nate, phone still raised, my heart hammering harder than I wanted to admit. This wasn’t about a picture anymore. It was about payback. About making him feel even a fraction of what he’d made me feel when he’d said those things about my dad.
I didn’t even know why I cared so much. He was just another self-righteous athlete with too much ego and not enough empathy. But the way he’d said it—the conviction, the judgment—still clawed at my chest.
So I smiled. Too wide, too fake.
“What’s wrong?” I asked innocently. “Don’t want a picture with your old friend’s daughter? Or maybe I was wrong about you and my dad being close. Guess you’re too high and mighty for a lowly security guard’s kid.”
The words came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t stop them. I wanted to see him flinch. I wanted him to feel guilty for twisting my grief into something ugly.
And when his expression shifted—just slightly, just enough—I felt a flash of satisfaction. It was gone in a blink, replaced by the same hard glare, but I’d seen it. A crack.
He hated me now, and that should’ve felt like a victory. Instead, it left me feeling hollow. Nate shook his head, staring daggers at me. “I don’t need this shit.”
“Brother, don’t be such an ass. We have a celebrity among us.” Garcia slung his arm around my shoulders while Nate continued to glare at me.
“Yeah, come on, Nate. I’m here for you. I love watching you play.” I chewed the side of my lip, enjoying how uncomfortable I made him. He hurt me and I hated feeling that way. Nate and I both knew I was full of shit. Totally. But I couldn’t stop. “I even got a little temporary tattoo for you.”
I spun around and pointed to the number nine printed across my shoulder.
That was another part of the idea. My shirt didn’t exactly have a back—just thin straps and a whole lot of exposed skin.
I knew the effect that usually had. I’d built a career on understanding how to hold attention, how to turn a glance into engagement.
But Nate didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, stoic as ever, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine instead of anywhere else.
That threw me more than I wanted to admit.
“What?” I asked, forcing a smile that felt too bright. “Do you not like it?”
His expression didn’t change. A single muscle flexed in his jaw, deliberate, controlled, before he muttered, “It’s fine.”
Fine.
God, I hated that word.
“He loves it,” Garcia said, smacking him on the arm. “Brother, loosen up or you’re going to pitch like shit.”
I smiled for Garcia’s benefit, pretending it didn’t bother me. But it did. It really did. I wasn’t trying to flirt; I was trying to win, to make him crack first. The fact that he didn’t only made me more determined.
Because if Nate O’Brien wanted to keep acting like he was above me, I’d make damn sure he eventually looked down.
I glared right back before deciding, nope, I was done with this.
My goal was to honor my dad and distract myself from all the heartbreak, and at least that was happening.
I turned my back on him and held out my hand to Luciano. “Ready to go to our seats, babe?”
“Yes.” He glanced at my mouth and tugged me close. “You are amazing. Seriously.”
I smiled, but the words were hollow. Why was I amazing?
Because I got us onto the field? Not that amazing.
Because I took care of my body and knew I looked good?
I wasn’t actually amazing. I faked it. So I ignored the gross feeling and enjoyed the moment.
My dad always talked about the smells and sounds of baseball.
The laughter from fans, the excitement in the air, the way the crowd cheered when a fan-favorite player walked out of the dugout.
The vendors yelling get your hot dogs, and the sound of the ball hitting the glove as they warmed up their arms in the outfield.
It was romantic and magical.
I miss you, Dad.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to live in the moment and not worrying about posts or content or anything. If he were here, he’d be telling me anecdotes about every player on the field. Did you know, Cass, that Mitch holds the record for longest strike out streak?
Just then, someone shouted, “You’re Jackson’s daughter, yeah?”
I spun around, still holding Luciano’s hand as I was brought back to present. I nodded as a player jogged up to me, all smiles and wide eyes. “I am, yeah.”
“I wanted to share that he talked about you all the time to us. He’d brag on your adventures and how you’re so creative and lovely, that you make a living just by being you.
” The player blushed and held out a baseball with writing on it.
“This sounds cheesy, but if you ever go to visit him, could you leave this there?”
I took the ball and smiled at the quote on it. “In baseball, you don’t know nothing.”
“Don’t tell me he quoted Yogi Berra to you too?”
The player nodded. “He did, all the time. They were ridiculous but reassuring.”
My eyes welled up. “What’s your name?”
“Pavin Porcello.” He smirked. “Don’t tell anyone you didn’t know that. It’d ruin my rep.”
I smiled. Pavin was so easy to talk to compared to Nate. “Thank you for this. I grew up with Yogi Berra quotes. I even have one tattooed on me. They were a way of life for my dad, and I love knowing he passed that on to you all.” I sniffed, and Pavin reached out to squeeze my arm.
“Your dad was genuinely one of the best guys. He took me to dinner one year on my birthday because my family couldn’t make it. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out before, but if you ever need anything, let me know, okay?”
I nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude. This was how Nate could’ve acted. This classy, respectful, kind way. “Thank you. That is very sweet.” I swiped a tear before it could fall. How could my dad not talk about the team like this? Why did he keep all this from me? “I appreciate it.”
“Have fun. I love watching your videos.” He winked, stepping back toward the dugout, leaving me blinking under the stadium lights.
I waited a beat but felt someone staring. Nate’s forest-green eyes and salt-and-pepper scruff were just to the right of Pavin. Of course.
Great.
He’d probably seen a few of my Cassventures—the zip-lining fail where I screamed the whole way down, or the karaoke night where I forgot the lyrics halfway through Since U Been Gone and made the entire bar sing with me. My whole brand was equal parts fun and cringe.
I wasn’t great at the things I tried, but that was the point. It was supposed to make people laugh, remind them not to take life so seriously. And okay, maybe I liked showing that I could do ridiculous things and still come out smiling.
Nate O’Brien didn’t look like he smiled much. He gripped a ball at his side, his forearms flexing as he glared at me. I genuinely didn’t understand the disdain he had for me, but I was done worrying about it. Without thinking, I showed him my middle finger before leaving the field with my date.
Sure, I might have an enemy in my dad’s favorite player, but after Pavin shared his story with me, I already felt closer to my dad.
The guy who never told me he worked security here.
The guy who raised me with every ounce of love he had but had he failed to mention he worked here and I’d never get to ask him why.
I did feel closer to him here, surrounded by Yogi Berra quotes and the sounds of the game.
I just had to pretend that my dad’s favorite player didn’t hate my guts.