Chapter 27 #2
Then he gets pulled into the dugout, where the rest of the team congratulates him. With a lead going into the ninth, Logan’s closing means game over.
We’re barely off the field before Gabriela and Scottie appear at the dugout steps with her clipboard. “Kellogg, Rodgers, Martinez, and Fischers—you’re up.”
Logan and I swap looks, and the excitement he was doing a good job concealing only a minute ago dies completely.
Coop looks at us. “You got this, guys. Just do exactly what I do and you’ll be fine.”
Logan snorts, some of his tension falling from his shoulders.
Surprisingly, Jake looks more nervous than my own brother right now.
Scottie squeezes his arm, leans in, and whispers something I can’t hear. Whatever it is smooths the line out of his mouth.
That shouldn’t bug me.
It does, anyway.
Gabriela walks with Jake and Coop toward the interview setup, going over timing and reminding them to keep answers tight.
Scottie falls into step beside me, then Logan pulls up on my other side, and for a moment the three of us are walking in a line through the tunnel—player coordinator, setup man, closer—a perfectly professional arrangement.
Logan’s jaw is tight. He’s been quiet since Scottie called our names at the dugout steps, and I recognize the particular quality of his silence. It’s not watchful. It’s inward. He’s already running the gauntlet in his head—every question they might ask, every answer that could go wrong.
“You closed a perfect ninth,” I tell him.
“Media’s different,” he says, like that explains everything.
It doesn’t for me, but I get why it does for him.
Scottie glances past me at him. “Logan. You’re going to be fine. Answer what they ask, nothing more. If you don’t like a question, look at the floor for half a second and then answer a different one. They’ll think you’re being thoughtful.”
He processes this. Nods once.
“Okay,” he says.
And then, because Logan in a spiral needs a fixed point, he drops his eyes to the floor and focuses on walking—and stops watching anything else entirely.
Which is how Scottie’s hand finds the sleeve of my jersey.
Her fingers curl around the fabric for one second as we walk—barely there yet completely there—and then let go before I can react.
I don’t look at her.
She doesn’t look at me.
Logan doesn’t look at either of us.
But my pulse is in my throat for the rest of the walk to the media room, and when she peels off toward Jake the second we arrive, I stand there for a moment with the ghost of her fingers still grazing my skin.
She’s killing me, all right.
The media room is just off the clubhouse, with fluorescent lights humming overhead, rows of folding chairs filled tight. A long table sits at the front with Firebirds logos stamped across the navy backdrop behind it. Four microphones are lined up like sentries.
About two dozen reporters are crammed inside—the usual beat writers Scottie warned me about, plus a couple of national guys from ESPN and Bleacher Report who look like they’re already writing tomorrow’s headline in their heads.
Scarpetta is finishing up at the table, answering questions about “unfinished business” and “October focus.” The room feels charged.
Gabriela hovers to the side with her clipboard tucked beneath her arm and a stopwatch app, keeping us all on task.
Scottie spots Jake before I do, and he looks stiff and nervous.
“That’s my cue,” she whispers to me, walking toward him. He looks more comfortable immediately.
“How we doing?” she asks, adjusting his mic clip at his collar. I’m close enough to hear them, boxed in behind the table and backdrop with nowhere to go that wouldn’t look obvious.
“They’re gonna harp on how I struck out looking,” Jake says, like it’s something to be ashamed of instead of something that happens to everyone.
“Yup,” Scottie says, looking up at him. “But you also hit a homer.” She walks him through how to answer both, impressive as always. “You can be humble and cocky. When they ask about us, that’s when you get to wink. Got it?”
“Got it. Thanks, Scot,” he says.
She smiles. Slaps his butt like one of the guys. “You got this.”
When Jake goes to the table, I force myself not to take his place next to her. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even I can see the symbolism in that one.
Jake sits at the table while Coop gets mic’d up and the reporters come in exactly as Scottie predicted. I watch her watching him—arms folded, thumbnail against her teeth—nodding with each answer.
Then a reporter asks a question Scottie didn’t prep Jake for. “Jake, what’s it like watching your girlfriend work so closely with other players?”
Jake’s face reddens. “I don’t know, Josh, what’s it like watching your wife—” Scottie clears her throat loudly, and I’m not sure if Jake hears it or if he’s actually growing as a person, but he presses his lips together and then huffs.
“Is that a sign you don’t like it?” the reporter—Josh—presses.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, man. She’s great at her job, and I’m proud of her. Look how much less you guys hate me after a single offseason.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and I’m not alone. The media is roaring with laughter. It was the perfect answer, and even Jake chuckles seeing them respond. The approval doesn’t seem familiar to him, though. He’s almost blushing.
He gets through the rest of the questions quickly, staying small, like he’s worried he’s going to mess it up. The second his time’s up, he gives them a polite nod and gets away from the table as quickly as he can.
“Perfect,” Scottie says, throwing her arms around him when he gets back. “You were funny and real and not quite apologetic, which is great. You get to be you. Perfect, Jake!”
The hug is relief more than romance, but something about how Jake’s hand presses into her back for a second longer than the moment requires causes a spike of panic in me.
I’m positive Jake doesn’t like her romantically …
But is he going to be willing to let her go?
Worry takes root in me, making my stomach churn.
Jake heads off to the locker room, and Coop takes his turn, charming everyone the way he always does. Scottie grabs a mic pack from the folding table where Gabriela’s laid them out in a neat row and comes over to get me media ready.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, focusing on clipping the mic on my collar.
“That would probably be easier without the glasses,” I say.
She shoots me a glare. “I love these glasses.”
“They’re for show.”
“I never said they weren’t,” she says. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love them.”
I huff. “You’re so good at this.”
“At what, managing media?”
“Managing images,” I say. “I don’t want you managing mine.”
“I wouldn’t want to,” she says, looking me over like she’s inspecting me for flaws, not checking me out.
“So what questions should I be on the lookout for?”
She pauses, adjusting her glasses. “They’ll ask about your first major league outing, obviously.”
“It’s still Spring Training, but I’m pinching myself that I get to have a shot at earning a roster spot on my favorite team.”
“Good.” She nods. “They’ll ask about Jake, what’s he like as a teammate.”
“He’s a good guy. It’s an honor to be on a team with him.”
“They’ll ask about your family—baseball legacy, remember? It’s a good story.”
“I’ve been answering those all my life.”
The right side of her mouth quirks up. I don’t let myself think about her lips often, but if I were allowed to—
My heart rate spikes. “Anything else? Anyone else?”
I hear the hitch in her breath, and her face goes blanker than a scorecard before first pitch.
But she smooths her hands over my jersey in a crisp, efficient motion that feels way too good for how quick it is.
The air between us is thick and hot. She removes my cap, fixes my hair, and puts it back on, her fingers grazing my scalp, my forehead, my ears.
By the time she’s done, I’m so flustered, I can’t remember anything she just prepped me for.
My eyes jump to where Doug’s standing at the back of the room, his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Coop slaps my butt, startling me enough that I jump. He grins at me. “You’re up, kiddo.”
I look at Coop, then Scottie, then Logan, and then head to the table.
I can barely hear Scottie’s nails clicking on the back of her iPad.