Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Georgie
Logan’s game is on in the background at Meant to Bean—thank you, Alma—and I am a ball of nerves as I sit at my booth, my legs jumping beneath the table and my laptop on top.
Jane won’t arrive for another hour, but I’m ready.
Of course, I need to have a conversation with my dad and Marlowe, too, but I’m not ready for that one.
I want to hear from Jane first. Figure out what she thinks my prospects are.
Maybe I’ll even run the trust situation by her and get her perspective, although it feels wrong to talk with her before I talk with Logan …
Oh, Logan.
I’ve held back from him this week, and watching his brother on the mound as the game starts pricks me with guilt.
I grab my phone and shoot off a text, knowing he won’t get it until after the game.
Georgie
Can you call me after the game? It’s been a week.
<3
There. I promised to tell him what’s going on days ago, but after finding that trust document, I haven’t been able to think straight, let alone talk it out.
I’m not sure I can think straight yet, but I’m ready to talk to Logan about it.
No, I need to talk to him about it. After years of processing everything alone at my own pace—or avoiding it—I haven’t made enough progress without him.
If anything, it feels like I’ve simply put up a wall around my heart so I don’t have to process anything to anyone.
Like usual.
Customers stream by while my attention flits between my presentation, the clock, and the game.
I’ve always loved baseball. My parents were casual fans, but one of my earliest memories was of my parents taking me to a Mudflaps game when I was maybe three or four.
They sat me between them and held hands over the seat back behind me.
They were so affectionate that day. My dad said something that made Mama laugh so hard she spit soda everywhere, and that only made Daddy laugh uncontrollably, which made me laugh, because what kid can see her parents laughing hysterically without joining in?
We went to a game every year until she got really sick. There was something about the atmosphere that turned our family into a team. It wasn’t Mama and Georgie on one side of the state and Daddy on the other. We were simply together. The three of us.
I know now that there was more to it than the magic of baseball.
Neither of them could do a lick of work at the stadium, probably because the crowds at the game always strained the cell service too much for them to get reception.
It didn’t matter to me then, though, and it doesn’t matter to me now.
We never felt more like a family than when we were watching baseball.
And for that, I’ll always love the game.
I love it so much more, though, because it brought Logan into my life.
“Hey, Georgie,” someone drawls, and I look away from the TV on the wall to see another barista—a cute girl named Abby who’s working the counter today.
“My meemaw called ’cause she’s got a flat over on Ridge Road.
I was hoping to run over and help her put the spare on.
Any chance you could fill in for me for ten or fifteen minutes? ”
I look at the clock. It’ll probably take longer than fifteen minutes, but I’m still thirty-six minutes out from my meeting with Jane, and everyone working today can handle a rush, if one comes.
“Sure, Abby. Call me if anything changes.”
I close my laptop and take it into the back room before putting on an apron and joining in behind the counter. Neither Alma nor Liv is working today, but everyone knows me, even if they don’t know that the shop has belonged to my family for decades.
It’s a busy afternoon, and the shop smells of pumpkin spice and cardamom. Every time a customer comes in, there’s a blast of cool fall air that makes me shiver, partially because I’m wearing a dress instead of the jeans and sweatshirt I’ve been wearing since the weather turned.
As more and more customers come for the coffee, they stay for the game. Because Logan, Lucas, and Rojas all came from the Mudflaps, there are a lot more people watching baseball than reading or hanging out on their phones, for a change. They’re interacting more.
I kind of like it.
In fact, I like it so much, I forget that I’m supposed to be worrying about Jane and my parents and I become one with the crowd, watching and cheering as Jake Rodgers gets on base in the bottom of the third.
The guy after Jake strikes out, but the batter after him gets on base, too, giving the Firebirds two runners on base just for Cooper Kellogg to come up to bat.
“Can we get two ice waters and two hazelnut cozies?” a woman with a low, confident voice asks.
I rip my attention from Coop hitting a bomb of a foul ball to see Jane … and Kayla.
Because why wouldn’t my boyfriend’s billionaire owner friend be here for this meeting?
Both women are smiling as I blush and stammer. “Of course! Sorry I was distracted,” I squeak.
Jane gives me a calm smile that steadies my pulse. “It’s an exciting game. I can’t promise not to be distracted, myself.”
I smile and start on their order, but a collective hiss issues from the customers, and I look up to see a replay of Kirby—the opposing pitcher—throwing a pitch that almost clips Coop’s jaw.
It makes my stomach flip to see how close he was to getting hit.
I haven’t met Coop, but he’s been on FaceTime a handful of times when Logan and I have talked over the last few weeks. He’s been a sweetheart to me every time he’s grabbed Logan’s phone. Liesel, too.
I keep my eyes moving between the game and the espresso machine until I grab the portafilter straight off the group head, bare-handed—
I hiss and drop it, but I don’t even look at my palm. I’m too shocked to care.
Kirby hit Cooper.
I finish the drinks quickly—and carefully, after the burn—and walk slowly back to the counter, watching in horror as both benches clear and a fight erupts on the screen. I see Logan running from the outfield, watch as Jake Rodgers pummels Kirby—
No one in the shop can do anything but stare.
We stay like that for two, maybe three minutes, until Jake and Kirby are ejected from the game.
“I can’t believe it,” Kayla says, visibly shaken. “Liesel must be so worried.”
She starts texting, and even though I have no right to ask this, I can’t not: “Will you let me know what she says about Cooper? I know how worried Logan and his family must be,” I say softly.
Kayla looks up from her phone. “Of course, Georgie.”
Jane takes the drink carrier, and I point them to the only open booth—my booth, which I put a “Reserved” sign on before I hopped up to fill in for Abby.
I tell one of the baristas that I can’t fill in any longer, and she nods. The shop is slammed, and all I can do is hope Abby will come back soon.
But I can’t keep putting off my future while others live theirs, so I join Kayla and Jane.
“Thanks for coming,” I say to Jane. “And thanks for joining us, Kayla,” I add. “Sorry, Mrs. Carville-O’Shannan?”
“Kayla is so much easier to say,” the woman says with a smile. “Now, what do you have for us?”
I take a deep breath, trying to shift my worry over Coop to the side so I can focus on the excitement I’m going to need to carry me through a pitch to a woman who made the Forbes Thirty Under Thirty list after rebranding a cult underwear line, leading to it having the most successful IPO in undergarment history, to say nothing of her rebrand of the famous Sugar Maple Farms.
Oh, and her billionaire cousin-in-law.
Everything’s fine. If I sweat through my blouse, at least I remembered to wear white. I hand them both packets I printed out, and I pull the presentation up on my laptop so I have something to follow along. After only a few slides, Kayla’s already nodding.
“This is all well and good, but next time, jump straight to the money,” Kayla says. “You’re proposing to make me more money. That’s the kind of thing that makes an owner excited.”
I breathe a laugh. “Yes. I’m proposing that I make us both more money.”
Kayla smiles. “I did some research after we last talked. Coffee carts have an incredible markup. We’re leaving money on the table by not having one in the stadium.”
“That’s right, and looking at average concession spend per attendee across the league, I think we’re looking at real margins, even conservatively,” I say, trying not to let my imposter syndrome swallow me whole.
“I like it,” Kayla says, looking at Jane. “I’m sure Ash will have thoughts about the color scheme and logo, right?” Jane nods. “Good.” Kayla looks at me. “I like it.”
“I do, too, but I think we’re thinking too small,” Jane says, her deep blue eyes narrowed in thought.
“A coffee cart at the Triple-A level working around seventy-five home games a year—that’s real money, but it’s not the number that should excite you.
” The corner of her mouth curves up. “Somewhere between thirty and forty percent of Major League stadiums don’t have dedicated coffee offerings, including the Firebirds.
You can get a crappy drip cup with your hot dog, but for real coffee enthusiasts, there’s nothing.
And MLB fans already average around sixty dollars a game on concessions, so they won’t mind ponying up real money for a quality espresso. ”
“You think I should pitch this to the Firebirds?” I ask, my voice wobbling.
“I do. Make it a club-level offering. An espresso machine takes a minute, doesn’t it? Those kinds of lines are tolerated more at the club level than the general level.”
“I don’t want to leave anyone out,” I say, my thoughts racing through possibilities.
“I could invest in a rapid-pour draft system and focus on pre-batched cold brews. Maybe a couple of specialty drinks,” I say.
“And I could have regional favorites. Barrel-aged cold brews and matchas in Chicago. Ooh, and iced Irish creams. Nonalcoholic for the kids. I could dye them green—”
Kayla and Jane are staring at me.
“You’re a dreamer,” Kayla says. Normally, I flush when someone tells me this, but she makes it sound like a compliment. She and Jane are both nodding. “There’s nothing I like more than a dreamer with a business plan. I’m sold.”
I could cry. I don’t, but I could.
“Who do we need to talk to with the Firebirds?” Jane asks.
Kayla looks at me inquiringly. “Do you want to meet with the VP of Partnerships for the Firebirds? I can’t make any guarantees, but I’m happy to put up the seed money in exchange for ten percent. Meant to Bean feels like a baseball coffee shop, doesn’t it?”
“I thought it felt more literary,” Jane says, “but I don’t see why it can’t be both.”
I’ve been holding back a smile, but now it breaks over my face.
Then someone in the nearby table curses, and a handful of people hiss.
We all look over to the TV to see Lucas hunched over as the announcer says something about him getting hit by a ball.
I make eye contact with Kayla.
“You know,” she says, “if you wanted to be in Chicago tonight—”
“Georgie?”
I look up to see Marlowe and my dad.
Shoot.