Chapter 19 #2
The Firebirds’ manager, Joe Scarpetta, walks by us on his way to another table, and for a second, I think Scottie’s going to rat me out (which might be her job, come to think of it), but when I peek out of the corner of my eye, I see her on her phone, looking annoyed.
Then frustrated. Then she puts her phone face down and looks at me.
“We still meeting for twenty after this?” I ask.
“It was fifteen,” she says, “and no. I’m getting pulled into a meeting. You have defensive reps until three after lunch,” Scottie says. “And then sponsor activation in the courtyard at three thirty. Meet and greet, photos, the whole thing. Your agent already signed off. Don’t make me chase you.”
Wouldn’t dream of it.
She gets up, her sandwich only half eaten, and dumps her tray.
I don’t watch her walk out.
Logan sets his tray down across from me a moment later. He just sits there, eating, not looking at me.
That’s worse than anything he could say.
After a minute, I glance at him. “Go ahead.”
He takes a drink of water. Sets it down.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says.
“You don’t have to.”
He looks at me then—one long, level look—and goes back to his food.
We eat the rest of lunch in silence.
I’ve spent twenty-six years being able to read my brother’s face fluently.
Right now, there’s something I don’t recognize, though.
And that’s the problem.
***
When three hits, I technically have a half-hour break after defensive reps, but I don’t need it.
After a quick stretch, I find Scottie exactly where I expect her to be: in the courtyard, making sure she knows the lay of the land for sponsor activation so she can best keep me and the other Flaps out of trouble.
Emphasis on me.
The courtyard looks nothing like the back fields at Triple-A.
There are towering sponsor tents in glossy team colors, inflatable drink cans the size of small cars, and a team-logo backdrop already flashing under camera tests.
A DJ booth hums near the fountain, playing something aggressively upbeat while a production crew adjusts a ring light beside a folding table stacked with merch boxes and branded baseballs.
Kids in oversized jerseys and baseball caps press against temporary barricades while corporate reps in polo shirts and headsets hustle around like air traffic control.
In Mullet Ridge, this would’ve been a card table, a Sharpie, and mosquitoes.
Here, it feels like a minor movie premiere with sunflower seeds.
I spot Scottie near the check-in table, sunglasses on, iPad in hand, hair loose in the breeze like she’s walked off the set of a baseball movie. She’s taken off her blazer and has tucked her fitted white tank into her high-waisted jeans.
“Quinn,” I say, slow-jogging over when I have her attention.
With her sunglasses on, I can’t see if her eyes are flinty, but the way she’s crossing her arms makes me wonder if I’m jogging to my demise.
“You’re early,” she says.
“Try not to be impressed.”
“I’d be more impressed if you had another one of those flat whites. It’s been a day,” she grumbles. When I cock my head to the side, she hands me her phone without my even asking.
It’s the Quinn family thread.
Mom
Jake, honey, just saw that you were tagged in that nasty post. What happened?
Hudson
What post? Send the link, Mom.
Jake, you okay?
Scottie’s Boyfriend
they twisted what I said—it wasn’t that bad
Seeing Jake called “Scottie’s Boyfriend” in her phone is like a stab to the gut. I know it’s fake, but seeing that still hurts.
I look at the link Scottie’s mom sent. “Should I click it?” I ask Scottie.
“Only if you want the full experience.”
“I really don’t,” I tell her. Because I don’t want any more of Jake anywhere, especially when I’m with her.
She scans the courtyard. Two rookies are already lining up at the autograph table. A cameraman tweaks his lens ten feet away. A sponsor rep fusses with a nearby table. Scottie steps closer, using the tent wall as cover.
“In a nutshell, someone asked him how it feels to be six weeks into the longest relationship of his lifetime, and he said, ‘how does it feel to be the stupidest person at a charity event?’ He thought the guy was a reporter, but it was a dad. With his kid. Jake couldn’t see the kid, because there were so many people there. ”
I wince. “Not good.”
“Tell me about it. Read on.”
Scottie’s Boyfriend
it probably wasn’t even his kid. bro was way too aggressive
Dallas
Who cares? Athletes say crap to people all the time. I guarantee there are five other athlete encounters trending on X right now way worse than this.
But why were you at some charity event alone, anyway? Scottie, isn’t that literally what you’re for?
Marisol
Scottie’s working in Phoenix right now.
Mom
Marisol’s right. She can’t be holding Jake’s hand at *every* event. Scottie, I hope the weather’s better in Phoenix than it is at home right now. Brr!
Jake, Scottie, have you two coordinated yet?
Hudson
Scottie, you’ve got to at least do damage control.
Sottie’s Boyfriend
nah she’s busy managing the tiktok kid
guess I shouldn’t go alone to things though
I look up from the thread, my nostrils flaring as I pull in oxygen. I scroll up, reread, then scroll down again.
“They’re putting this on you?” I almost spit. “It’s not your job to make Jake not be an idiot.”
She gives a low chuckle. “It literally is. That’s why we’re dating.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s fake.”
“It was my job even before … this,” she says. “Me and him.”
The courtyard is filling fast now—kids shouting names, a bat cracking on the practice field behind the stands, someone testing a mic with a sharp burst of feedback—and I can’t keep standing this close to her without attracting attention.
“We’re not finished talking about this.”
She rolls her eyes and then looks at someone past me. “Every minute of your day is scheduled out, and when it’s not, you have a shadow that looks exactly like you.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to break curfew.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and she points a finger at me. “Don’t. Even. Think about it.”
She looks like she’s a breath away from storming off, so I don’t say “watch me,” like I want to.
The words sit on the tip of my tongue. I almost say it. Almost push—
But I don’t.
Showing up is easy. I’ve always been good at that.
But kicking the door open? Pushing for what I want?
That’s not me.
I’ve always told myself that’s patience. Respect. But as I watch her face turn to stone, I’m not sure anymore.
Players are coming out, and when Logan and Coop start approaching, I don’t back away, because I’m talking to my handler, and that’s normal.
When Logan and Coop flank me, Scottie gives a curt, professional smile.
“Why so serious, gang?” Coop asks.
Scottie’s smile strains. “Lucas thinks he should whip off his shirt and have people sign his back.”
Coop and Logan look at each other past me. “That tracks,” Logan says.
Coop eyes me. “You thought I was a blowhard for doing a backflip after a homer, but you want to take your shirt off for fans to sign? I thought you were a baseball purist.”
I put my hands on Coop’s shoulders and look him dead in the eye. “What about my body isn’t pure?”
Scottie groans and pivots away to direct Diego toward a photo backdrop.
She really is an exceptional actor.
And it’s starting to rub off on me.