Chapter 11 Hollis
Hollis
I’ve never known relief quite like this as I sink into my office chair, the heavenly blast of cool air washing over me.
Overall, today was great. I was able to film a ton of usable content that I know our fans will love. Yet, the moment practice ended, I couldn’t get off the field fast enough.
I can blame the warm Texas spring air, but it’s not like I’m a complete wimp and can no longer hang.
I grew up in it, after all, but after being away for a few years, the humidity welcomed me back like a sucker punch to the gut, and unfortunately, it’s only going to get worse the deeper into the baseball season we get.
But, if I’m being completely honest, it wasn’t the weather that had me running. It was that damn shortstop.
I’m a fucking professional. I should be able to do my job and kick ass and take names while doing it, but it’s a little hard when all I want to do is stop and stare at his perfect form. He may think I wanted to avoid him, but it was actually the exact opposite.
What I truly wanted to do was be near him all day, especially as the kiss in the alley replayed in my head on a constant loop.
Sorry brain, but this isn’t one of those times to keep hitting repeat.
If it were a new Kelsea Ballerini song, then sure, that deserves to be played over and over again.
I don’t care how good that kiss was, it just doesn’t deserve the same treatment.
The worst part? He’s been right all along.
I do like him, even when he’s annoying the shit out of me.
That’s exactly why I cut our time short.
I tried my best to remind myself why we couldn’t work and only let him participate in a segment that I was sure would make him look like an asshole.
Yet, somehow in classic Fletcher fashion, his answers only made me fall even harder.
I’m so fucking screwed.
At least I have a few hours of Fletcher-free content to edit.
Well, mostly. His videos are there, taunting me, but those can wait until I’m good and ready.
Preferably once I've stopped obsessing over his stupid smile and dimples.
Because really, how is that even fair? His face is gorgeous enough, why go and give the man some dimples too?
A soft knock snaps me out of my thoughts, and my head jerks up from behind my computer.
I half expect to see Fletcher standing there, as if I somehow manifested him with the power of my obsessive thoughts.
Although, what surprises me more is the disappointment I feel when I realize it’s not him, but my dad.
Does that make me the worst daughter ever? Probably.
I really am glad to be home, and near my parents again. Plus, how many people out there are lucky enough to get surprise pop-ins from their dad during the workday? Not many. Still, there’s a tiny tug of disappointment in knowing I won’t be seeing Fletch anymore today.
Either way, I meet his gaze with a giant grin. Even in his late fifties my dad still carries that ex-ballplayer swagger. His once dark hair may be a bit more salt and pepper now, but he’s still the same tall, broad-shouldered teddy bear who would do anything for his family and team.
“How’s my favorite daughter?” He asks, shutting the door behind him as he walks in.
My office isn’t huge, but it works for what I need it for, especially since most of my time is spent out on the field with the team and staff. I’ve managed to dress it up with whatever Honky Tonk and Rowdy Rattler merch I’ve gathered from around the stadium, but that’s about it.
They told me I could paint and redecorate however I wanted, but what’s the point when I’m only sticking around for one year?
The only real personal touches I added were a few framed photographs of my friends and family.
I may be a Pinterest girly at heart, but I’ll save that experience for the next person who takes over my position.
“She’s doing great. The real question is: how’s my favorite father?” I answer.
He chuckles as I push out of my chair and move to wrap my arms around him in a giant hug. His solid arms envelop me as he presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Oh wait,” he pulls back, a smirk on his face. “Was that not appropriate for work?”
“Hmmm,” I muse aloud as I shuffle back toward my chair. “I might need to check with HR about that one.”
He plops into the seat opposite me.
“I think your boss would probably make an exception. For me at least. Anyone else though...” he trails off, looking less than pleased with the idea.
If only he knew…
“So...” he begins, leaning back. “Speaking of everyone else, tell me, how’s it all going and what are your thoughts on the team?”
“They’re wonderful. Incredibly welcoming, and honestly, I couldn’t be more impressed. Seriously, Dad. You’ve put together a pretty amazing group of people.”
All of the players are not only incredible athletes, but outstanding performers who truly know how to put on a show. And somehow, they make it way too easy to let loose and have fun with them. Half the time I forget that what I’m doing is an actual job and technically considered work.
He beams proudly, and it’s obvious my compliment means everything to him.
“And what about Mason Fletcher? What do you think about him?"
So much for not having to think about him.
“He’s...fine,” I shrug, trying to sound casual, despite my knee unconsciously bouncing under the table. “Definitely a talented player.”
He arches a brow, and it’s clear he wanted more of an answer than that, but come on. What am I supposed to say? That he’s spent the last few weeks following me around, before I shoved him against a wall and kissed him? Yeah, he’d love hearing that.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say about one of our most popular players?”
“Well, what do you want to know?”
It’ll be much safer to let him lead this conversation. My feelings are already messy enough. The last thing I need is to trip over my words and expose something I’m not ready to put out there.
“I can’t really think of anything specific, but I did ask him to show you the ropes. I guess I was just hoping you two would get along and spend more time together.”
My eyes go wide. “Really? Why would you want that?”
“Why do you look so surprised?” he asks, thankfully looking more amused than concerned.
“I just figured you two are the pros when it comes to all this social media stuff. Doesn’t he tend to go viral with every video he posts?
And that stunt you two pulled?” he asks, leaning forward, the excitement practically radiating off him.
“It gave us our first-ever sold out game. I just assumed after that it’d only make sense for you to put your heads together and create more special moments like that. ”
“Oh yeah. Well, we’ve filmed some content,” I say, my knee gaining even more momentum under the desk. “But I guess I’ve been focusing more on content that lets the whole team shine. Plus, he was pretty busy most of the day.”
It’s mostly true. Okay, fine. So maybe I’m slightly stretching the truth and I could’ve gotten more content with Fletch.
But in my defense, would it really be a good idea to fill my dad in on why I’ve practically turned avoiding a certain shortstop into an Olympic sport?
Pretty sure if they were handing out medals for this, I’d be the undisputed gold medalist.
His brows furrow. “You know you’re allowed to pull the guys away at any time. I already told the coaches how important it is that—”
I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just didn’t want to pull him away for too long. It had nothing to do with him or the coaches,” I assure him, feeling an odd sense of protectiveness over my new work family.
“Okay good,” he nods as his shoulders relax. “Your job is instrumental to the success of this league. Our first game proved that. And most importantly,” he continues, leaning in, “they better be treating my baby girl with the respect she deserves.”
And there it is. My worst fucking nightmare.
He may be joking, but that doesn’t stop it from striking a nerve.
“Remember our deal when I agreed to come on?” I ask, giving him ‘the look.’ “No special treatment. I’m serious, Dad.”
He holds up his hands. “I know. I remember. Sorry,” he offers, at least having the decency to look sincere.
“But the truth is, that’s how I’d want them to treat anybody in this role.
Not that we’d want anybody else after how well you’ve done.
You sure I can’t somehow convince you to stay on for another season, or hell, permanently? ”
“Dad…” I warn, not in the mood to have this conversation... again.
“Okay” he gives in with a resigned sigh.
“And I suppose I'll take this as my cue that it's time for me to get back to work.” He plants both hands on my desk and pushes himself up before turning to leave.
“But Hollis,” he says, stopping as his hand lands on the doorknob.
“Please think about what I said about Fletcher. I really think you two could create some magic together.”
If he only knew.
“I will. Promise.”
The second the door clicks behind him, I let my forehead drop onto my desk with a soft thud.
Why are parents always right? It’s so fucking annoying! Because, of course, he’s right. Fletch is social media gold. The numbers don’t lie and I’d be an idiot not to take advantage of that. Pretty sure this means it’s officially time for me to suck it up, be a professional, and do the damn thing.
So I guess my next order of business is mastering my poker face, because it’s getting harder and harder to keep pretending like I’m not falling head over heels.
The problem now? I suck at poker. Yep, I’m screwed.
I can’t say I expected to end my shift loitering outside the Honky Tonk locker room, yet here I am.