Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Cassidy
“If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be.”
Yogi Berra
I was absolutely, one hundred percent, doing this to piss Nate O’Brien off.
And by God, it felt good. After attempting to film an ad for teeth whitening that morning, I burst into tears and scrapped it.
Wild how my mind was thinking about smiling to getting hit with grief, missing my dad so much it hurt.
He was the only person who could get me to slow down and parse out what mattered.
I had a lot of online friends, but I was always so caught up in the hustle, I never leaned on them like I did him.
He’d find ways to make me laugh when I was sad, or book a day retreat to force me to relax.
Once, he helped me place flyers all over our town with my high school boyfriends’ number with an opportunity to win a roaring contest. It was one of my favorite memories and I’d been sad all damn morning.
So channeling that grief into revenge against the broody asshole pitcher felt better than good. It made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in months.
I eyed my watch—ten minutes until ten. I had no idea if Nate would actually show up, but the audacity of this man still irritated me. My forehead vein throbbed just thinking about his ego, and yet, the second I saw his message, my pulse had jumped like I’d been waiting for it.
It reminded me of the early Cassventures days, back when every notification made my heart race, when I still cared what people thought.
I hated that he had that effect on me.
I’d done the whole hot and grumpy vibe before, and it only ended in one way—heartbreak. I’d had enough of that. It wasn’t my job to fix men who didn’t know how to talk about their feelings.
I cleared my throat, steeled back my shoulders and forced a tight smile.
The camera was steady in my hand as I panned over the racks of Gila Monsters jerseys, my voice light and sugary sweet. “Okay, besties. I need your help deciding. Do we go classic black or Sedona red for my new favorite player, Pavin Porcello?”
Social media was so parasocial. Viewers were all weighing in about my love life and I played along for the brand.
I angled my phone toward the jerseys, giving my followers a full view of the beautiful number 45 stitched onto the backs.
I could already picture the comments flooding in.
Oh my God, yes, Pavin! Cass and Pavin would be so hot together!
I knew you had a thing for the players! Girl, you have to go black—it’s sleek, like your soul.
A laugh bubbled up in my chest at the absurdity of it all. Little did they know that I was absolutely in no condition to date anymore. But before I could move on with my bit, a very specific voice grumbled behind me.
“Are you for real?”
Oh. My. God.
I turned slowly, heartrate up like I was prepping for a fight. I grinned, because I knew who it was, and I knew this was about to be fun. Sure enough, standing there with his arms crossed like he had been personally offended by my jersey selection, was Nate Grumpy Ass O’Brien.
I let my lips part in a dramatic gasp. “Oh, wow. Nate O’Brien. In a team shop. Amongst the commoners. To what do I owe the honor?”
Nate scowled. He always scowled, but this was an extra scowl. Like he’d woken up, had his morning coffee, and thought, I should glare harder today. Really step up my game.
He jerked his chin toward the jerseys in my hands. “Pavin? Porcello?”
I held it up with both hands like the Price Is Right models I used to watch with my dad in hotels.
“Yep. He’s young, a better pitcher. I mean, you’re aging out and he’s so fresh.
Good thing my dad wasn’t around to watch his hero fall…
” I winked and tilted the camera toward Nate.
“What do y’all think? Should I wear a large number 9 instead? Nah, I’m more of a Pavin fan anyway.”
Nate let out a slow breath through his nose as I glanced at him. His jaw flexed as he undid, then recrossed his arms. “You’ve known him for five fucking minutes.”
“Long enough for him to treat me like a human and not a distraction,” I sing-songed, returning my attention to my phone. “Okay, besties, I think I’m gonna go with the black jersey—”
Before I could finish, Nate grabbed a jersey off the rack and shoved it in front of my face.
“Ow, what the—” I pushed the fabric back so I could actually see it. And then I snorted. “Oh my God. O’Brien. Are you seriously recommending your own jersey?”
His expression didn’t change. “If you have to buy one, at least pick someone who knows how to throw a fastball.”
I gasped dramatically, clutching the Pavin jersey to my chest. “Are you insulting my favorite player? Oh, Nate, how could you?”
Nate’s jaw clenched, his green eyes darkening. “I’m saying, if you want to buy a jersey of someone who actually wins games—”
“Oh, this is rich coming from a guy who literally lost his last start,” I shot back.
His nostrils flared. “Because of you.”
“Because of me?” I tilted my head, placing a hand on my hip. “Oh, sure. I totally forced you to walk two guys. I personally infiltrated your brain.”
He grunted and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not helping.”
“Oh no. Not helping Nate O’Brien. Whatever will I do?”
At this point, I was pretty sure he was debating the ethics of strangling a woman in a public place. The thing was … sparring with Nate made me feel alive for the first time since my dad died, possibly even earlier. Watching this man slowly unravel because of me was a new favorite pastime.
I smirked, stepping in just a little closer. I hated that I noticed how good he smelled—warm skin, fresh sweat, and aftershave. My stomach swooped from the heat radiating from him, and I arched a brow, wanting to push him even more. “What’s wrong, O’Brien? You jealous?”
His entire body tensed.
Bingo.
His voice was lower when he finally responded. “I don’t get jealous.”
“Right. Sure.” I dragged my gaze over him, deliberately slow, letting my lashes sweep up as I met his eyes again. “Is that why your fists are clenched?”
He immediately flexed his hands open.
I laughed. “Oh my God. I love this.”
“Cassidy.”
“Nathaniel.”
His eye twitched.
Before he could fire back, I walked toward the back of the store and my smile died.
The air in my lungs froze, thick and unmoving.
I hadn’t even noticed the framed picture on the wall—the one tucked in next to the rows of jerseys, small and unobtrusive.
It wasn’t posed. Wasn’t for the press.
It was just … my dad.
He was standing next to someone—I couldn’t even register who—grinning, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, his old, faded Gila Monsters hat perched on his head. This was an honor to him.
I knew that hat. I used to make fun of that hat. He used to tell me, Cass, this hat has been with me through more heartbreaks than I can count. I can’t just trade it in for a new one.
Grief hit me so hard, so fast, I felt dizzy.
I didn’t cry. I refused to cry. Not here. Not now.
I forced a smile then turned away before Nate could see whatever had just cracked through my mask. My chest felt too tight. “Is there no air conditioning here? Why is it so damn hot?” I fanned my vintage Yankees shirt, needing airflow over my skin.
Sweat beaded on my forehead, between my breasts, and the phone slipped in my fingers.
I could not lose it here. Losing control in public was my greatest fear. I’d so carefully curated my brand and was generally always put together.
Not in a damn team shop, next to racks of overpriced jerseys, with Nate O’Brien standing less than a foot away, watching me like I was a bomb about to go off.
My fingers itched to grab my phone, to make a joke, to brush this whole thing aside. To tell my audience, Wow, guys, Gila Monsters really coming for my heartstrings today, huh? But for once, the camera in my hand felt like a weight instead of a shield.
I shoved it into my pocket.
It was just a picture. Just a tiny, tucked-away photo of my dad, his smile mid-laugh, like someone had said something hilarious right before the shutter clicked.
And yet, the sight of it made my stomach fold in on itself.
Get it together, Calloway.
I fanned myself again, blinking rapidly at the rows of jerseys. The heat pressing into my skin wasn’t from the store’s broken AC—it was grief, curling in my lungs, heavy and suffocating.
I hadn’t even realized I was staring at the framed picture again until a low voice cut through the silence.
“You need to sit down?”
Nate.
He wasn’t making fun of me. He wasn’t teasing, smirking, or taunting me over my fake flirting or my jersey choice. He just … asked. The genuine concern on his face freaked me out. I couldn’t look at him.
I hated that the question made my throat tighten even more.
I huffed out a breath and turned my back on the photo, forcing my lips into a smirk. “Nope. I’m great. Perfect, actually. I’m gonna buy the hell out of a jersey, and it’s gonna look amazing on me.”
Nate’s gaze didn’t waver. He was still watching me like I was about to tip over. “Right.” His voice was gruff, but softer than before. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
“What’s what gonna be?”
“The jersey,” he said, tilting his chin toward my hands with a glint in his eyes. “Porcello or me?”
The casual arrogance in his voice should have made me roll my eyes. Should have ignited my usual instinct to push back, rile him up, poke at the chip on his shoulder just to see it shift.
But for some godforsaken reason, I hesitated.
The Pavin jersey was still clutched in my fingers. But my eyes flickered to the one Nate had shoved in front of me, the number 9 stitched onto the back.
My dad’s favorite player.
God, he’d love this moment of me talking to his hero, his favorite player. My chest ached and I had to stop it. The grief overwhelmed me and I shifted, needing to distract myself.