Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nate
“In baseball, you don’t know nothing.”
Yogi Berra
The locker room smelled like sweat, leather, and regret—so, basically, normal.
I’d just dropped my bag by my locker the next morning and started unlacing my cleats when Garcia strutted in. He held his phone up like it was the Holy Grail, already grinning before I even acknowledged him. That was never a good sign.
Truly.
The last time I saw him smile like that, he tried to microwave a protein shake because cold blended stuff hurts his teeth. Or the time before that, he live-streamed his attempt to cut his own hair with kitchen scissors, went viral, and looked like a toddler.
Whatever this smile was for, couldn’t be good for me.
“Oh man,” he said, sliding onto the bench beside me as he stared at his phone, “you are not ready for this masterpiece.”
“I’m not watching shit,” I muttered, keeping my focus on the laces like they were suddenly the most intricate knots known to man. Weird how I never thought about laces before this second.
Garcia ignored me completely. He hit play, cranked the volume, and turned the screen so I couldn’t avoid it.
Cassidy’s voice filled the room, all syrupy and smug and delicate.
“Look at this fine man … do you see his forearms?” She fanned herself and panned the camera over to me—no, not me, the guy I’d become in this fake-dating nightmare.
Backward hat. Sunglasses. Forearm braced over her head like I wasn’t two seconds away from bolting.
I looked like a guy who knew exactly what he was doing.
Which, of course, made me irrationally angry. I was a fucking pitcher, potential Cy-Young winner. Not some chump being used for clicks. God, I hated this so much.
Garcia was cackling. Actually cackling like this was the best day of his life. “Dude. You are the thirst trap. You are part of the problem now.”
“Turn it off,” I snapped. “And a thirst trap? No.”
“My brother, you are. The comments are going wild for you and her. They are happy she found true love, that her dad totally approves from heaven. They think she deserves this after everything she’s been through.”
Before I could throw his phone into the nearest Gatorade bucket, I glanced down at my phone and saw a shit ton of texts from my sister.
AMANDA (8:43 a.m.):
EXCUSE ME SIR. EXPLAIN. NOW.
AMANDA (8:44 a.m.):
IS THIS WHAT YOU MEANT BY “NOT A BIG DEAL”??? NATHANIEL.
AMANDA (8:45 a.m.):
YOU HARD LAUNCHED A HOT INFLUENCER IN A THIRST VIDEO AND DIDN’T THINK I NEEDED A HEADS UP? I’M YOUR SISTER.
AMANDA (8:46 a.m.):
I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY IN LOVE WITH HER AND DIDN’T TELL ME I’M TAKING YOU OFF MY BABY SHOWER INVITE LIST.
AMANDA (8:47 a.m.):
I HAVE QUESTIONS. I HAVE FEELINGS. I NEED DETAILS. I’M HORMONAL. ANSWER YOUR PHONE, IDIOT.
AMANDA (8:49 a.m.):
IS SHE COMING TO THE BABY SHOWER??? SHOULD I INVITE HER??? DO YOU GUYS HAVE A SHIP NAME YET???
I tossed my phone into my duffel bag and rubbed my temples. “I need a nap. Or an exorcism.”
Before Garcia could say something stupid like You two would have hot babies, my email pinged with a new message from Lauren. I already regretted opening it.
To: Nate O’Brien, Cassidy Calloway
From: Lauren Kane (Director of PR, Gila Monsters)
Subject: Media & Engagement Calendar—Next 6 Weeks
Hi Nate and Cassidy,
Thank you for your participation yesterday—content is performing extremely well. As discussed, we have a narrow window leading into the All-Star break and want to maintain positive momentum with strategic touchpoints. Below is your shared PR/media calendar.
Please review and confirm availability. Adjustments can be discussed but expect high visibility moving forward.
Gila Monsters Couple Visibility Campaign
Objective: Shift narrative from “curse” to “comeback romance” and increase fan ticket sales.
WEEK 1: HOME GAME—FIRST PITCH
Cassidy throws out first pitch (in #9 jersey)
Post-game: stadium kiss cam possibility (pending approval ??)
WEEK 2: Children’s Hospital visit + Co-Ed Charity Softball Game (you two = rival captains)
WEEK 3: Local TV interview + Community Clean-Up Day
WEEK 4: Home Game Series
WEEK 5: Foundation Gala
Let me know if there are any questions. And smile more, O’Brien. Try to enjoy it.
—Lauren
Regards,
Lauren Kane
Director of Public Relations
Arizona Gila Monsters
I was gonna spiral.
Between my sister, Lauren, and Cassidy—the main women in my life had collectively launched a full-scale assault on my sanity.
And I wasn’t built for this kind of distraction.
I wasn’t some young rookie thriving off drama and attention.
I was thirty-six. My body needed more time to recover, my mind more effort to stay locked in.
I didn’t have the luxury of letting personal chaos bleed into the game.
None of this helped me with my start tomorrow—the whole reason I existed.
I closed my eyes and sat back against my locker, taking a deep breath in through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow. Intentional. I could practically hear Dr. Voss’s voice in my head—our team’s mental performance coach who’d been working with me since last season.
“Control what you can. Clear out the noise. Reset your breath, reset your focus.”
So I did.
I’d already visualized the first inning twice this morning—leadoff batter, fastball in on the hands. I’d scouted matchups, watched film, and prepped for tendencies. Today was supposed to be light. Hydrate. Stretch. Avoid stress.
And yet here I was, being fake-dated into a viral sensation while my sister planned Cassidy’s invite to her baby shower.
I tried every trick Dr. Voss ever taught me—breathe, reset, focus—and still couldn’t clear her from my head.
I was early.
I hated being early for non-baseball things, but Lauren’s text said be at the tunnel elevator by 5:40 sharp, and I didn’t want to give her one more reason to increase my media obligations.
So now I was here, standing in the concrete corridor that led to the field access tunnel, wearing my game-day warmups and a jersey with my name stitched across the back like this wasn’t a PR stunt designed to make me look … approachable.
Footsteps echoed behind me, light and fast, and my pulse spiked before I even turned.
My body already tensed as I prepared myself to see Cassidy again.
Despite not wanting to watch her posts, I couldn’t stop myself last night or this morning, some sick desperation or some form self-punishment overtaking my brain.
I viewed a few videos she made the last year, refusing to be charmed at all.
She was fake. All her shit was fake and I needed to remind myself of that.
Cassidy rounded the corner like a vision straight out of a fever dream—tight white pants that hugged her legs like a second skin, a cropped Gila Monsters tee knotted at her waist, and my number stretched across her back yet again.
Her hair was pulled into some loose braid situation that made her look both angelic and unbothered, and her lips were painted that same red I’d seen on her during the shoot—bold, bright, and designed to ruin men.
I tried to look away. I really did. I ignored the way my skin tightened and my fingers twitched with the urge to touch her hair, just to see if it was as soft as it felt.
Because then she smiled wide and wicked, and I swear to God my knees flexed like I’d been hit by a line drive.
“Well,” she said, sauntering toward me with a sway in her hips and mischief in her eyes. “Don’t you look like you’re about to throw a tantrum.”
I swallowed hard. “Don’t you own anything that isn’t skin-tight?”
“Not when I’m representing the brand.” She did a slow spin, arms lifted just enough to make my brain short-circuit. Her ass was perfection. Round and juicy and toned in those jeans.
Fuck me. I closed my eyes, but she kept talking.
“PR said lean into the fantasy. And apparently, I’m the fantasy, wouldn’t you say?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out except a small, strangled sound of defeat. Pavin’s words from yesterday repeated, how she was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen, and I had to agree with him.
Lauren appeared out of nowhere like a sitcom side character. “You’re both walking out together. Ten minutes until we go live. Cassidy, you’ll wave from the mound. Nate, smile and stay beside her until we announce she throws out the first pitch. Garcia will catch it. Remember, we want synergy.”
Then she disappeared again, leaving behind a faint whiff of expensive perfume and professional judgment.
Cassidy turned to me, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “You hear that? Synergy. Guess that means you have to pretend to like me in public, big guy, and that means no scowling.”
“I’d rather pitch a doubleheader,” I muttered.
“I’d rather you pitched shirtless, but here we are.” She shrugged and ran her teeth over her bottom lip, her chest slightly heaving.
I rolled my eyes and stepped toward the field entrance.
She fell into step beside me, and the proximity was dangerous.
Her perfume was warm, citrusy, and sweet—and completely distracting.
The crowd’s roar was muffled by the concrete around us, and for a second, it felt like we were in a pocket of time where the chaos couldn’t reach us.
For once, she wasn’t baiting me or teasing me.
She stood silent, her gaze somewhere else, her focus clearly not on me.
And I missed it. I wanted her large eyes on me and I couldn’t for the life of me explain why.
“You nervous?” I asked, just to say something to get her attention.
She glanced up at me, lips twitching. “Why? Because I’m about to throw a ball in front of forty thousand people who will absolutely roast me online if I botch it?”
“Exactly.”
She shrugged. “I’ll smile and flip my hair. That’s what I’m good at, right?”
Her voice caught a little on the last word, so soft I almost missed it.