CHAPTER 47 Millie Monroe
One Last Question
I watch the game from the suite Cooper got me a ticket to. I’ve met his wife, Gabby, and their toddler, Sunny. Gabby is so kind and seems like the kind of person who could become an actual friend. She’s busy chasing her daughter all over the place, so I take a seat to watch the first pitch.
I don’t actually watch the first pitch, though. My eyes drift out to left field, where Archer Bradley stands.
We’re in the same building. The anticipation is heavy within me. He’s so close and still so far.
I’ve never been to a pro baseball game before. I know the basics of the game. I played softball my freshman year of high school. But hearing the roar of the crowd when his name was announced filled a space in my chest I didn’t know was empty.
People love this man. I’d heard his name before, but I didn’t realize exactly how popular he is in his sport. It made me realize that whatever happens, he has people who care about him.
In a totally different way, though, it also made me realize more about the scope of his deeply rooted issues.
People love him without knowing him. They love him because he plays ball.
I think his trust issues are starting to become a little clearer now that I can see them through the lens of this stadium.
And this is only the fans who are present, a small percentage that doesn’t account for the others at home watching on television or the casual fan who doesn’t watch every game but roots for him all the same.
He gave a piece of himself to me, and I threw it down and stomped all over it. And for what?
For nothing. Nothing important. Nothing that matters.
But what does matter is him. Us.
And that’s what I plan to tell him after the game.
I know there may be cameras on us, and I know I need to choose what to say carefully.
I want to say all of that.
But I can’t.
I can’t let people into our little bubble. I need to come up with the exact right words.
And I have exactly zero clue what they might be.
I’m dreading the moment as much as I’m hoping it gets here faster. It’s such a conflict of emotions. Fear and excitement, dread and hope, disappointment in myself, and so, so much love for Archer.
The smell of hot dogs and popcorn in the suite is overwhelming, but I can’t eat. I’m too nervous.
Archer catches a pop fly in the top of the eighth, and the crowd goes absolutely wild. The Heat is ahead by two runs by the top of the ninth, and Gabby escorts me through the stadium to the tunnel where the rest of the reporters are waiting for field access just outside the dugout.
A crowd is gathered there with cameras and credentials, and I wait at the back of the line with them.
“I’m Natalie, director of PR here,” a woman says.
“Interviews for Noah are by the dugout. Brewer will be by first. Ross at the mound. Bradley will be coming in from left, so we’ll meet him near third.
Each player will have a publicist to direct questions. ”
She doesn’t take questions, instead assigning her people to each player. Apparently she is the one who will be helping Archer.
The game ends, I think—I can’t see from back here, but the crowd goes wild, and we head out onto the field to the sound of fireworks booming overhead celebrating the victory.
Cooper runs by me and gives me a wink and a nod of his head on his way toward his wife, and other players are stopping in various positions with various reporters.
I head up the back of the group, jogging out toward Archer, everyone in front of me already prepared with their microphones or phones out.
Natalie stands to the side as a circle forms around Archer, and my heart is pounding in my chest.
Holy hell.
He’s mere feet away from me, an actual man in uniform—a baseball uniform, anyway.
He’s sweaty from running around catching and hitting balls, and he looks different than he did in the Bahamas.
There, he was relaxed with me. He was himself.
Here, he’s putting on the act for the reporters.
He’s serious even though he must be thrilled to be back. I know him well enough to know that.
He’s uncomfortable, answering questions in the way clearly the PR director told him to, constantly throwing his praise to his teammates and organization.
He hasn’t seen me. He’s focused on the reporters asking him questions, first the TV broadcasters, then the beat and local reporters. He has no clue I’m here, anyway. He wouldn’t even know to look for me.
“Thank you all,” Natalie says, dismissing the reporters, and I think for a moment that maybe she forgot, but then she nods at me as the others walk away. “We have one last question, Archer.”
My heart races. A flutter rises up in my belly.
It’s just the two of us here on the field. No cameras. No phones. Just us. And Natalie. And the thousands of screaming fans still in the stadium.
His eyes fall to me, and he freezes.
His jaw slackens, and his eyes widen.
“Millie,” he whispers. “What are you doing here?”
I lick my lips, my entire mouth suddenly drier than the desert. “Welcome back,” I say softly.
He’s about to respond when Natalie—who must not know why I’m here—interrupts. “Did you have a question?”
I nod. “Can I ask a question off the record?”
Archer glances at Natalie. “Can you excuse us, please?”
She narrows her eyes at Archer, but she relents, walking away.
Another player in a Heat uniform walks by and slaps Archer on the shoulder. “Great game, man! Glad you’re back!”
Archer nods his thanks, but his eyes don’t leave mine. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times as if he’s grappling with what to say. Eventually, he lands on, “How?”
“Cooper,” I admit.
He clenches his jaw and nods as if that makes sense.
“I’m so, so sorry, Archer. You matter more than my content. I panicked, and I didn’t get the chance to explain. I chose wrong, and if I had the chance to do it all over again, I’d choose you.”
He blows out a breath, his eyes focused on mine. I see pain there in his, pain I caused…pain I wish I could take away. He hesitates, and I’m afraid I’ve lost my chance.
“I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry.” He presses his lips together and nods once at me, and then he jogs to the same spot where I walked onto the field so he can exit it.
My heart drops into my stomach.
I’ve made contact. He knows Cooper has my information.
I guess from here…the ball’s in his court.