Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Scottie
Iam so tired of my parents’ attention, I’ve seriously considered hiding under my bed for the last two days.
It’s like, hey, Mom and Dad, I love you and all, but I’m finally able to publicly date the man I love, and we still can’t get two seconds alone!
I’m over making out with him in private.
I want a Jumbotron kind of love.
But today is the last day of their weeklong vacation to Phoenix, and they’re leaving for the airport as soon as the game ends.
We’re all wearing Fischer jerseys today, but we’re also wearing Rodgers baseball caps—Firebirds caps with Jake’s number embroidered on the side.
The online frenzy hasn’t died down completely, but Jake’s press conference was so compelling, he’s more likable than he ever was with me.
And as much as I wish I could take the credit, that one was all on him. On penalty of death from my mother.
I fit in a bit of work before the game and am on my way to meet up with my parents in the stands when I take a detour to the locker room. I shoot off a text, not crazy enough to actually go in.
A moment later, Jake comes out, standing only a few feet from the entrance.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We look at each other for a second, all the things we could say taking up all the space between us.
Then I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
He pauses for a split second, then his arms come around me, and he holds on.
“This is going to be terrible for the media narrative,” he says into my hair.
“Screw the media,” I say. “I’m having a moment with my brother.”
His arms tighten.
We stay like that longer than I planned. Long enough that one of the guys clears his throat somewhere behind us, and another one says something low that makes a few of them laugh.
When I pull back, Jake’s eyes are doing the thing they do when he’s feeling something he doesn’t have words for.
He tucks his cap on and gives me a real smile—not that cocky grin he’s started using with the media. “Give your parents a hug for me. They’re leaving in the top of the seventh, right?”
I nod. “They’ll be at the season opener in a couple weeks, though.”
“Right,” he says. “It’s my favorite Quinn tradition.”
“Of course it is,” I tease with a roll of my eyes. “We’re all celebrating you.”
He gives a shrug that’s a little more performative than it would have been even a few weeks ago. My parents’ love hasn’t been in doubt—I hope—but sitting with the consequences of his actions will be good for Jake. At least, that’s what he said his therapist told him.
There’s a sharp whistle in the locker room, and Jake looks behind him before saying, “That’s my cue.”
“We’ll be the ones in the stands cheering your name.”
He stops mid-spin. Looks back at me and smiles.
“Thanks, Scot. For everything. Not just the … dating. You’ve always been there, and it means a lot to me.”
“You kiss like a squid, but it worked out okay in the end.”
The mention of kissing makes us both shudder. Then he flicks my shoulder. “I’ll catch you in the media room.”
“Go get ’em, bro.”
He nods once—and then instead of jogging off, he leans back through the doorway. “Hey, Fischer,” he calls. “Someone out here’s been looking for you.”
A beat later Lucas appears in the doorway, still in his uniform, cap on, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the corridor.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
Half the locker room is probably watching. Neither of us cares.
“Go throw one-oh-two,” I tell him.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and he leans in, his response tickling my ear: “Yes, ma’am.”
And then he’s gone, and I’m standing in the corridor with my heart doing something embarrassing, and Jake is already halfway down the hall.
And then I go find my parents.
***
Jake’s up first in the inning, and the stadium settles into that low electric buzz that always comes right before the pitch.
The crack of the bat comes fast and loud, and the ball shoots past third and down the line.
The crowd jumps to its feet as Jake beats the throw to first with a stand-up single, wearing a cocky grin like he had it under control the whole time.
Next up is Coop. After two balls, the pitcher throws a nasty curveball, but Coop sees it coming and absolutely demolishes one to right field.
The ball sails high over the fence, and the stadium explodes as Jake jogs home ahead of him.
My mom nearly spills her soda celebrating, and my dad is clapping so hard, it leaves his palms bright red.
The inning wraps up a few minutes later, and when the teams switch sides, the bullpen gate swings open. Lucas jogs out toward the mound, glove tucked against his ribs, that loose, confident stride that makes my stomach flip every time.
I’m already on my feet cheering before he even reaches the dirt. My parents are cheering too, but I’m definitely the loudest.
Two rows down, Doug stands and whistles sharply through his fingers before clapping hard.
Lucas warms up with a few quick throws that pop into the catcher’s glove like small explosions. The first two batters don’t last long.
The third guy steps in, and I don’t know why, but I hold my breath.
Lucas sets. Fires.
101.
He catches the return throw, rolls it in his fingers. Sets again.
101.
The batter steps out, resets his grip. He knows what’s coming and he still can’t stop it.
Lucas winds up and throws everything he has.
102.
Right past the bat like it was standing still.
Strike three.
Three up. Three down.
I’m cheering wildly, jumping up and down and screaming like a madwoman. Mom hugs me and we scream together.
Doug whistles again, shaking his head in something that looks like pride.
He turns around and looks at me past the fans that separate us.
“Whatever you did to that kid, keep doing it.”
I nod, smiling. “Yes, sir.”
Doug and I had a good chat after everything settled, and being Jake’s handler has made my life so much simpler. Cleaner.
And it’s changed the tenor of the family thread.
Less “Scottie, make Jake look good,” and more “Jake, when are you going to listen to Scottie?”
I love that change.
Not as much as I love my boyfriend, but I love it.
***
After my parents finally leave for the airport, after the postgame interviews wrap up, and after the last few lingering fans trickle out of the stadium, the concourse settles into that strange quiet that only happens when the lights are still on but the crowd is gone.
The cleaning crew is getting to work, but the smells of popcorn, sunscreen, and the dusty sweetness of spilled soda linger on the air. Somewhere far off, a maintenance cart beeps in reverse.
I’m walking toward the clubhouse when I see him.
Lucas is leaning against one of the concrete columns near the tunnel, cap turned backward, freshly showered and in shorts and a plain gray T-shirt that fits him so well, I almost can’t believe I get to ogle this man in public.
His eyes lift the second he hears my footsteps.
And the smile that spreads across his face makes my heart leap.
“Well,” he says, pushing off the column. “There’s my handler.”
“I’m not your handler.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve been bossing me around for a year.”
I step closer, lowering my voice.
“That was before I was dating you.”
Lucas’s eyes darken in that way that makes heat surge through me.
“Dating, huh?”
“Publicly,” I remind him.
He glances around the empty concourse in exaggerated suspicion. “We’re not so public now, though. There are no cameras.” He steps closer. “No reporters.”
“So?” I ask, almost breathless the nearer he gets.
He leans all the way in, his lips against my ear, his voice dropping. “No parents.”
That’s when he kisses me.
And my word, a woman could wait her whole life for a kiss like this and it would be worth it.
His hands slide to my waist, warm and sure, and I grab the front of his shirt like I need something solid to hold onto. He smells like fabric softener and shampoo, and it’s so fresh, I could sink my nose into his hair.
If I weren’t busy kissing his face off.
The kiss deepens slowly, deliciously, until it feels like time is stretching and dissolving into nothing.
I could stay in this kiss forever.
And we do. For at least an eternity.
But when time folds back in on itself, I feel Lucas smile against my mouth.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, brushing his forehead against mine, “how long I’ve been waiting to do that in public.”
I laugh softly, still a bit breathless.
“I thought you were relieved there were no cameras.” I brush his lips with mine. “No reporters.” I speak directly into his mouth, tasting his warm, minty breath. “And definitely no parents,” I say, tugging his bottom lip into mine.
Lucas pulls me closer, his hand sliding up my back until his fingers disappear into my hair, tilting my face like he’s savoring something he waited far too long to taste.
“Good point,” he says, as our foreheads bump together and our noses brush, neither of us quite willing to break the kiss even long enough to talk properly. “But one day, I’m going to kiss you in the middle of that field for everyone to see.”
“Didn’t you hear?” I ask, my eyes closed, my lips hovering over his. “Practice makes perfect.”
Lucas goes very still for half a second.
Then he grins. “Quinn,” he says, like he’s just had a dangerous idea.
The next thing I know, he’s hefted me over his shoulder and is carrying me toward the field, where he sets me down right on the pitcher’s mound, the dirt still warm from the afternoon sun.
“Better?” he asks, pulling me back into him like the answer is obvious and kissing me again, one hand cradling the back of my neck while the other steadies me against his chest.
I laugh against his mouth, happier than I’ve ever felt.
“The best.”