Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cassidy
“If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be.”
Yogi Berra
There were a lot of things I expected to happen in my life. Like, I expected to get a dog before thirty. I expected to cry watching Pixar movies forever. I expected to eventually settle down with someone who didn’t hate social media and wouldn’t break up with me at my dad’s funeral.
What I didn’t expect? Sitting across a glass conference table from a PR director who looked like she used to run comms for the Pentagon, while Nate O’Brien stood in the corner like he was contemplating the ethics of faking his own death.
He kept glancing at the trash can like he could somehow fit inside of it and disappear.
I wouldn’t stop him if that’s what he wanted.
Lauren clicked her pen once and smiled the kind of smile that said she could spin literal garbage into gold. It terrified me and turned me on a little bit. “Let’s talk deliverables,” she said, her voice crisp.
I arched a brow and recrossed one leg over the other. “What do you mean?”
She nodded, flipping open a folder. “The organization has decided it’s in everyone’s best interest to lean into the media frenzy.
We shift the narrative from ‘Cassidy Calloway is Nate’s curse’ to ‘security guard’s gorgeous daughter falling for his favorite player, a narrative everyone will love.
’ You’ll post curated content on your platforms. The team will grant you access to field-level events, behind-the-scenes media days, and limited dugout privileges. ”
I stared at her. “Okay, so to clarify, you want me to fake date a guy who accused me of faking grief—”
“Allegedly,” Nate cut in.
“Hush, you.” I pointed a finger at him, narrowing my eyes. My dad always said my Calloway glare could work on a mobster. “And you want me to do this all for free?”
Lauren’s smile faltered, like I’d walk away if there wasn’t money on the table. I wasn’t about to share with her that I was already intrigued just because Nate was so pissed, but I knew better than to not try to negotiate.
Lauren frowned before masking her face into perfect indifference. “Not for free. For access. For brand expansion. I’ll partner with you anyway you want. Think about what would help your business and get back to me.”
I glanced at Nate, who was now pretending to study a wall-mounted photo of the 2004 championship team. His jaw flexed. He hadn’t looked me in the eye yet. Coward.
“And what’s in it for the team? I understand Nate needs all the help he can get after this last game,” I said, ensuring my voice went all saccharine, hoping to provoke him.
He rolled his eyes, but continued to study the wall.
“Good press,” Lauren replied smoothly. “Redemption. A narrative arc the fans can root for. Right now, people think you’re a distraction. But if you’re his motivation? If he starts winning again, and you’re there cheering him on, wearing his number…”
I waved my hand in the air, nodding along. “Got it. So really, this benefits you all more than me. I just want that to be super clear. The most clear.”
Lauren cleared her throat, a slight tinge to her cheeks.
“It’s mutually beneficial.”
That was debatable. I leaned back, twirling the straw in my iced coffee.
My stomach churned, equal parts caffeine and nerves.
This wasn’t what I wanted per say, however, it could help me secure more brand deals and new fans.
It’d be another challenge, another distraction from my sad empty life.
Plus, I missed my dad in a way that felt like gravity pulling me down.
This could offer me more of a chance to know the team, to hear stories about him.
I’d get to be closer with his memory, with his team.
I was already dreading the 9 dates being over, and this kept me going.
I didn’t need the fans or brand deals. I could get those. What I couldn’t buy was more memories of my dad.
And damn it, being around the team made me feel closer to him.
“May I ask for one thing?”
Lauren tilted her head. “Go for it. If I can make it happen, I will.”
“Creative control.” I kept my voice neutral, hoping I didn’t give away how badly I wanted the freedom.
I’d been burned, ghosted, screwed over, all of it.
They weren’t paying me and I refused to let them tell my story.
I forced a smile, one that the rest of the world thought would be genuine.
“I film it. I post it. I cut what I want. No edits, no corporate filters. My story. My platform.”
Nate chose to wake up from whatever weird little pout he was having. He crossed his arms and stared at me with raised brows. I refused to back down. I arched my perfectly waxed brow back at him like we had a personal eye brow arching war going to sudden death.
Lauren sighed before nodding. “Deal.”
I pushed back from the table, grabbing my bag, ready to be done with both of them. “Great. When do I start fake falling in love with my dead father’s favorite pitcher?”
That just rolled off the tongue, didn’t it?
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll arrange a private dinner for you both with some staged photos. The viral video of you is still gaining traction. This will add to it.”
“Can’t wait.” I blew a kiss to Nate, absolutely loving how much he hated this. “See you tomorrow, babycakes.”
I wore red lipstick for war.
Not the soft, subtle kind either. This was high-shine, fire-engine red, borderline criminal. The kind of shade that made exes sweat and enemies weep. And if I was going to pretend to be totally smitten with Nate O’Brien, then yeah—I was going to look like the main character in a revenge fantasy.
My phone buzzed again.
Lauren: Nate’s inside the restaurant. Head to the back patio. There is a photographer there, but he’s with me.
Great. I pushed my hair behind my ear.
“Showtime,” I whispered to myself. I’d done hard things before, but agreeing to a dinner with someone who I hated was new for me.
The only reason I was here was for my dad.
I would get a story out of him. It was that, or I’d throw water in his face.
I smiled at the hostess, feeling people’s stares at me as I wondered toward the patio as Lauren directed.
Nate sat at the table, arms crossed, backward hat on, sunglasses perched on his nose like he didn’t know how dangerous he looked. His black tee stretched across his chest like it was begging for mercy, and the gold chain against his skin made me forget how to breathe.
And don’t get me started on the jeans. The thighs.
He was gorgeous. Physically, yes. But I knew better. The minute he opened his mouth, I’d want to throw something.
He didn’t once look up as I approached him, the butterflies in my stomach growing at being so blatantly dismissed. I wasn’t used to it, and it grated me. “Hi honey,” I cooed, sliding into the chair and leaning onto my elbows. The tank top dipped low and I knew it looked good.
Nate flicked his gaze to me, nothing but vitriol in them as his jaw flexed as he scowled.
“Don’t scowl. It’ll make you wrinkle. Honestly, I can help you with your skincare routine if you want,” I shrugged, using my giggly persona to hide my stress. “A little serum and we can have you looking years younger. What are you … 40?”
“Jesus,” he barked, pinching his nose before he met my eyes. “I’m 36.”
“Too old to be this cranky then. Did you miss your naptime?”
“You are my fucking nightmare.” He leaned back in his chair, green eyes blazing with intensity.
“Aw, that’s so sweet you dream about me. I don’t dream about you at all.” I rested my chin on my hands, giving him my most practiced smile. “I believe you owe me something.”
“I don’t owe you shit. If anything, you owe me my life back. You caused this. You and your stupid followers. Before your bullshit, I didn’t have all this damn attention.”
Stupid followers. My stomach hurt from that comment. I had to match that hurt and flung the only thing I could at him.
“If you were pitching better, you would.” I shrugged, taking a sip of the water on the table.
I swore he growled, which made me grin.
“Okay folks, Lauren told me I need to take photos like I was hiding in the bushes.” The guy frowned, staring at his camera. “I’m gonna try to get a few then I gotta head out. Just, talk, be normal.” He waved his hand in the air and disappeared behind a hedge, leaving Nate and me alone once again.
Nate crossed his arms, clearly putting another barrier between us. He kept flexing his jaw, like he was chewing glass for fun, and I hated that I kept noticing everything about him.
“I know exactly what we can talk about,” I said, leaning closer to him. “My dad. I want the story you promised.”
“That was before you created this fake thing between us,” he bit out. “The viral video or whatever. You wanted more attention, I’m sure.”
“I didn’t do that, Nate.” My voice cracked just a bit, hating the insinuation that I did.
“Social media is a vicious thing, and it can take a mind of its own. So don’t assume I was behind that.
Do you think this is what I want? Being stuck with you, a grumpy old ass man who is mean to me?
Who is withholding stories about my dad and judging every single thing I do?
No. It’s not.” My anger reared its head, and I blew out a breath.
Nate’s jaw flexed and his mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. My skin prickled with shame, anger, all of it. I sat back in the chair and read the menu over and over. I wasn’t sure if we’d actually eat, or if it would be staged, but I knew the second this was over, I was gone.
Nate let out a slow breath, his eyes fixed on the water glass between us. “You’re right,” he said finally. “You didn’t make the video. But you made it easy for everyone to believe it.”
That stung, but I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.
I waited for him to keep going. He didn’t. The silence stretched so long it made my stomach ache.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “He used to come to the field early.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Jackson,” he said. “Your dad. He’d show up hours before anyone else. Walk the field. Check the fences, the dugout. Said the place felt different before the noise started.”
My throat tightened. “I didn’t know that.”
Nate nodded once, still staring at the table. “He’d hum while he worked. Badly. You could hear it all the way from the bullpen. Drove the rookies crazy.”
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep my voice steady. I could totally picture this. He’d be smiling too. Hands in his pockets. “What did he hum?”
“Didn’t recognize it,” he said. “Same tune every day. Maybe something he made up.”
It wasn’t much. Just a handful of sentences. But the image of my dad—alone on the field, humming to himself, making everything ready for the day—hit me square in the chest.
For the first time since I’d sat down, I didn’t know what to say.
“Thank you,” I managed, despite the ball of emotion in my throat.
Nate looked up then, and the world tilted a little. His gaze wasn’t angry anymore. Just … tired. Maybe even sorry.
“You don’t need to thank me,” he said. “I should’ve—”
The photographer’s voice cut through the quiet. “Alright, I think that’s enough for tonight. Got some good shots.”
Nate gave a quick nod. “You can send them to PR.”
The guy packed up his camera and ducked out, leaving us alone again. The air between us felt heavy. Not angry-heavy. Different.
Nate leaned back. “Might as well eat. The food’s paid for from what Lauren told me.”
I shook my head, the need to escape overwhelming me. Nate saw too much. “I should go.”
“You came all this way to leave before the meal?” he frowned, the line between his brows more prominent.
“I got what I came for.” I tried to sound light, but my voice came out thin.
“Right,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to spend an extra minute with the grumpy old man.”
His tone was even, but there was something under it—something close to disappointment. It made my chest twist.
I stood, slipping my bag over my shoulder. “Goodnight, Nate.”
He didn’t answer, just watched as I walked away.
At the door, I hesitated. I should’ve said thank you again, should’ve asked for another story, should’ve done something other than leave him sitting there alone.
But the longer I looked at him—broad shoulders, quiet stillness, eyes following me with that unreadable expression—the heavier the ache in my throat grew.
So I left. Outside, the air felt different. Quieter. I ran my thumb over the edge of my phone, half-expecting another notification to pull me back into the noise. But nothing came. Just the faint echo of his voice in my head.
He used to come to the field early.
And hum.