Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
LIESEL
W HAT WAS I THINKING?
My best friend got stuck on an elevator last Christmas with her nemesis, and here I am, just walking onto an elevator with mine like I haven’t read this story before? Smooth move, Fischer! It worked out beautifully for Juliet, but then, Cooper Kellogg is no Nate Cruz.
For one thing, Cooper isn’t a sexy European billionaire. He’s an odious American millionaire. Yes, he may have a great jaw, but that does not make him sexy. Besides, he’s hyperaware of how attractive he is. To other people, I mean. Not to me.
For another, Cooper doesn’t care about things like justice and kindness. I mean, I haven’t watched him around anyone else, but he’s right: I’ve seen enough of his social media to know he’s all about grandstanding, and he takes an inordinate number of selfies with women. Unless you play Banana Ball and have gone viral for lip syncing a Taylor Swift song on your way to the batter’s box, no player should have that many female fans lined up.
He smells like spiced sandalwood, too. And let me tell you, a smell that divine does not belong on a man so decidedly not .
Oh, and can we talk about how Cooper argues about everything? Everything! My best friend loves to debate, but she thinks it’s fun.
I don’t.
I hate being second-guessed. I don’t mind polite discourse. I don’t even mind when someone disagrees with me, because they’re so frequently wrong. I don’t just throw opinions into the universe for fun like Cooper does. If I have an opinion on something, it’s informed. I’ve studied the issue to an unhealthy degree. How can he feel so free to state his mind without a folder’s worth of data to back him up?
Worst of all: how is it that he might be right?
Actually, even worse than that: why doesn’t it upset me with him? Normally, confrontation makes me feel shaky and nauseated. Confronting Cooper makes me feel like I’ve been spiked with adrenaline: tense but also supercharged.
I’ve never argued with someone so boldly, but then, I’m not used to someone pushing me to stand up, either.
How dare he say I wasn’t being rational?
He wasn’t wrong , a little voice whispers.
Rational, shmational. I’m following my heart, thank you very much. Isn’t that what data nerds are always told? We’re heartless monsters who value stats over people? Well, not this nerd!
The elevator mercifully glides up to my suite, and Cooper doesn’t say a word the whole way up. I watch his reflection watching me, though, and I don’t like it.
Not a bit.
He doesn’t look bold as brass, he looks contemplative in a way that makes me fidgety. I spin my earring and steel myself against even the possibility that Cooper Kellogg may have more than one side.
The bell dings, and the doors open to my lavish suite. Cooper whistles appreciatively. “Wow. It’s like the North Pole and Buckingham Palace had a baby. Who’s your friend and why did he hook you up with this suite again?”
We walk into the entry, and Cooper breezes past, not waiting for me. I hang my purse up, and follow him. “My friend is Nate Cruz.”
Cooper goes to the next room and then to the next. “The actual owner?” I hear him play the first few bars of Heart and Soul on the piano next to the stupid eight-foot Christmas tree. Housekeeping has added decorative bowls of cinnamon pine cones, and it’s enough to make me hate cinnamon. “Why did he book you this suite if he’s marrying your friend? He doesn’t secretly love you, does he?”
“No! She and I are roommates, and I was responsible for getting them together.”
“Responsible?”
“I parked my car in a spot while I was in Costa Rica, and that made them always fight over another … it’s a whole thing. Anyway, they’re stupidly in love, so they’re both always giving me gifts to show me their appreciation.” I hold up my Stanley for emphasis.
My phone buzzes and buzzes again. I pull it out and groan. My brothers are texting on our siblings thread.
“Hold on,” I tell Cooper.
Logan
Guys, what’s the plan for the Stewart family Christmas Adam party?
Lucas
NOT IT
Logan
Wouldn’t expect otherwise, bro. Lee?
My stomach twists into knots. I glance up at Cooper, who’s looking at the Christmas decorations with an expression I don’t recognize on his normally bold face. Is it nostalgia? Longing?
Liesel
I’m in another state right now and you two are off until Spring Training. Can’t you take care of it?
Lucas
Have you met us?
Liesel
Aunt Linda and Uncle Paul always take care of dinner. We only have to organize the games and dessert. You can do that easily.
Lucas
Come on. You did it half the time Mom was sick, Lee.
Liesel
I didn’t last year while I was in Costa Rica.
Lucas
Yeah, and it was terrible. We bought Costco cookies and played charades. Uncle Paul was so mad. He said he didn’t smoke ribs for 72 hours just to eat grocery store garbage. Costco cookies aren’t garbage!
Liesel
Okay, fine. I’ll work on it this weekend.
Logan
You’re the best. Want to do it at the house and we’ll help?
Liesel
No, I got it. Don’t worry.
Lucas
Come on, Lee. Do it at the house.
Liesel
All my stuff’s at my place.
Logan
What night do you want to do it? We’ll come over.
Liesel
I’ll have to get back to you.
Lucas
Do you guys remember how much Mom loved Christmas Adam?
Logan
She laughed every year about eating ribs.
Lucas
How that joke never got old to her is a mystery.
I hate Christmas Adam.
“What’s Christmas Adam?”
I clutch my phone to my chest. “Excuse me? How did you see my texts?”
“I didn’t,” he says, holding his hands out. “I’m four feet away from you, and you whispered it.”
“Whispered what?”
“‘I hate Christmas Adam.’ What’s Christmas Adam?”
Did I really say that out loud?
“It’s a family tradition on my mom’s side. The day before Christmas Eve, we have a big family party with her siblings and kids. We play games and have a huge spread. And we always eat ribs.”
He nods slowly. “Ribs for Adam, because Adam came before Eve. I get it. That’s funny, and it sounds awesome. Why would you hate it?”
I could answer his question in so many ways. Because it makes me think about my mom, and thinking about my mom causes me agonizing heartache. Because even before she was gone, I started taking on more and more of the mothering of my brothers, and this is another example of how I’ll never get to leave that role. And that’s to say nothing of how tired I am of people telling me how I look exactly like her. I’m weary of Uncle Paul saying how painful it is to look at me, and I’m emotionally exhausted from not measuring up to the ideal she created.
But I won’t admit any of that to Cooper.
“I just don’t like Christmas.”
He studies me for too long, that contemplative look from the elevator returning in the angle of his head and the slight tension around his eyes. My heart rate rises, and I feel like I’m holding my breath for what’s next. I cannot control my reactions around him. If he presses, I might spill everything .
I spin my earring, and Cooper takes notice, so I drop my hand, and his expression shifts just as quickly to that overly-confident look I know and loathe. “You must like the gifts, though. Your best friend’s fiancé hooked you up.”
“I like reasonable gifts as much as anyone,” I say, holding up my new water bottle. “Here’s what my friend gave me. There’s no obligation in something like this. I’m not debilitated trying to think of what the perfect gift for her is after getting a Stanley. But do you know what Nate got me for Christmas last year? His Prius.”
“His car?”
“I know! In fairness to him, my car was stolen while I was interning in Costa Rica and he felt bad about it, but who gives someone a Prius?”
“That’s weird. Why not let insurance take care of it?”
I don’t disagree. Even if I were stranded in the middle of nowhere, I’d struggle to let someone help me. I had options, though, and I was just desperate enough not to take them.
“You didn’t fight me on that,” Cooper says. I meet his eyes. I spaced out for a second, and during that second, he picked up on what my own best friend has missed. “You don’t like that he did this, do you?”
I clutch my locket. “No, I don’t. I like being able to do things for myself.”
“You like being the helper, not the helped?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I get it. We’re more alike than I thought.”
“Ha! No, we’re not. Having one thing in common doesn’t change that.”
But he shakes his head. “We have more than that in common. We both love baseball, we both have strong opinions about what’s right for our team.” He pauses, and I crane my head forward, curious to hear what else he’s going to say. “And we both think I’m too attractive for my own good.”
I roll my eyes so hard, I pull something in one of my eyeballs. “How do you always manage to say the dumbest possible thing that comes to mind?” I ask, rubbing my eye as I walk out of the living room.
“It’s a skill.”
“I’m rethinking throwing you from the roof.”
I head into the dining room, with its twelve-seater table. I take the far end of the table and open my laptop, pull out my notebook, folders, and more. When I look up, he’s sitting in the chair nearest me.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready to work.” He looks at the table. “Did you want me to sit at the far end of the table so we could yell at each other the whole time?”
Kind of .
I grab two menus from a small corner table near me. I take one and hand him the other.
“Could you ask them to send up an ice pack, too? For my arm,” he adds.
“Of course,” I say, feeling a small flash of worry, because I cannot be responsible for breaking Cooper Kellogg. “Is it … are you feeling okay?”
“It still gets sore and stiff, but I’m strict with my rehab protocol and my doctor’s happy with the improvement.” His brow wrinkles for just a moment as he looks at his elbow, and the unmistakable flash of worry makes me look at my menu.
When I call in our order, Cooper goes into the kitchen for water. I’m just hanging up the hotel phone when his phone vibrates where he left it on the table. I glance at it without thinking.
“Your mom is FaceTiming,” I call. “Want me to bring you the phone?”
Coop comes into the room with a half-filled glass and I slide the phone across the table to him. He takes a deep, almost steadying breath, and then he puts on a show-stopping grin and answers the call. “Hey, Mom!”
He walks into one of the other rooms and closes the door. I can’t catch what either of them say, but I do pick up on their animated tones. A few minutes into their conversation, though, he must be standing next to the door, because I hear him say, “No, I have to be in Chicago for a charity event at the end of the week, so I won’t be able to make it home until the twenty-third.”
“Oh, shoot. I was hoping we could get more time with you!” his mom cries.
“I know. Me, too.”
“I wish I could come to you.” The catch in her voice makes tears spring to my eyes, which is silly. Their schedules don’t match up and he’ll get to see her in a week. Why am I emotional about that?
“It’s okay, Mom!” Cooper reassures her. “It’s okay. I’ll be back home in no time. I promise. We’ll have all the time in the world to catch up before I get back to work in January.”
“Okay, sweet boy. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Give Dad a hug for me.”
When he comes back a few minutes later, he looks different. Not upset or worried, necessarily, but his usual cocksure expression is gone.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Of course. Why?”
“No reason. I was just checking.”
“I have a headache,” he says. He pulls out the chair next to me and sits with a little more distance than he had at first. “I’ve actually had it since yesterday in the airport when a super-fan decided to air all of her grievances with me to my face,” he says, but he’s smiling.
“Whatever. That was the best moment of your life. Didn’t you say your greatest fear was being forgotten?”
“No, I definitely didn’t say that,” he says.
“You implied it.”
“You inferred it.”
“You know the difference between implied and inferred?” I ask.
“I’m an athlete, not an idiot.”
“Same difference.”
He chuckles, and I bite back a smile.
“You know,” he says, “if we’re going to work together, we should probably act friendly tomorrow in front of Kathy and Marty.”
“I agree,” I say, relieved that we’re finally making headway. “No one needs to know that you secretly despise me.”
“Or that you openly want me,” Cooper says.
And we’re back to square one.
We’ve ordered room service twice by the time our conversation circles back to my brothers.
“Why do you think they’re ready?” Cooper asks, looking at my laptop. “What numbers are you seeing that convince you that they’re a better bet than keeping Jessup and calling up Betancourt?”
“They’re some of the top prospects in the Minors. We could at least put them on the extended roster.”
Cooper’s eyes flash. “You know they’re not ready.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You know they telegraph their pitches, don’t you!” I squeeze my fists, not wanting to answer. But he pushes. “Admit it! You know!”
“Yes!” I blurt. “And it drives me crazy ! They never listen to me when I talk baseball! No matter what I say, what feedback I give them, they shut it down instantly.” Now that the words are out, I can’t take them back. And I don’t want to. “They could hang in the majors. I do have the stats to back me up on that. Their mechanics are top tier. But they don’t think they need to control themselves, and they don’t accept feedback, and it’s going to stop them from greatness.”
Cooper slams his hand on the table. “Liesel Fischer. Atta girl.”
I scorch him with my gaze. “Don’t ‘attagirl’ me. Literally all they need to do is listen to me.”
“But they don’t.”
“They’re ready.”
“But so is Betancourt. And Jessup is still strong, even if he’s on the decline,” he says.
“I like how you’re pretending the guy you hate isn’t even an option. He’s a surer bet than any of them.”
Cooper leans back in his dining room chair and a baseball materializes. He throws it into the air and catches it with his non-dominant hand. It’s easy to forget he was ever injured, but he’s only eight weeks out from surgery. He still has probably sixteen months of rehab and strength training to go. “You were serious about wanting that guy? He’s a bigger jerk than I am.”
I stand up and start pacing around the dining room. “Toss me the ball,” I say.
He does, and I catch it with one hand. He raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, stop,” I say. “There’s nothing surprising about a woman being able to catch a baseball from ten feet away.”
“You’re right.”
I throw the ball back to him as I walk, playing catch.
“Why are you so interested in Colt?” he asks. There’s a note in his voice that couldn’t possibly be jealousy, but is definitely something.
“I’m not interested in him. He’s really good, and because he only started pitching in college, his arm will be good for a long time.”
“He’s a trash talker.”
I laugh. “He’s professional and even-keeled.”
“He runs his mouth constantly.”
“No, he doesn’t!”
“Do you have a crush on him, or something?” Cooper asks.
I could shake this guy like a can of soda. “What is with you always asking if I have a crush on a guy you don’t like?”
I mean it as a joke, but Coop’s brow pinches together, almost like he’s wondering the same thing. “Colt’s a womanizer. I take pictures with fans. He does a lot more than that.”
Ew. “That’s gross but irrelevant. He’s good, and you know it.”
“He has baseball purists fooled, that’s for sure.” He gives a wry chuckle. “Colt can say anything he wants, but because he uses a professional tone instead of having some enthusiasm for the sport, he gets a pass. Doesn’t matter that his team hates him.”
“His team doesn’t hate him.”
He shrugs. “Sure. Because you talk to the players.”
“Teams hate you .”
“No, opposing fans hate me. Stuffy front office people hate me. People who haven’t played with me …”
“That’s a nearly comprehensive list of the human race.”
“I’m not clubhouse poison.”
“And neither is he.”
“Only because he’s been playing under his rookie contract. I guarantee, the second he signs a major contract, he’ll be straight up toxic. Right now, he has to watch his mouth a little.”
“Unlike someone I know.”
“I never put down other players. If Colt had struck me out and pumped his fist, no one would have cared, because pitchers are allowed to be excited. Why? It’s one of the unwritten rules about baseball. And it’s those rules that make kids choose other sports.”
We’ve been playing catch this whole time, but I hold my hands out so he doesn’t throw the ball to me again. “You’ve talked about that in interviews. Baseball is fine. What is your obsession with kids choosing other sports?”
“Because baseball connects people to something bigger than themselves and their problems!” His face flushes, and his light brown eyes seem darker. “When I was a kid, I felt alone all the time. It wasn’t until my dad put me in baseball that things changed for me. I found a community of people who saw me—most of them, anyway—and it helped me find myself. Without baseball, I wouldn’t …” He trails off. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, standing up with his lips pressed into a thin smile but his eyes crinkled. “Baseball’s awesome. I’m gonna take a break.”
I watch him leave the dining room, and one thing is certain: Cooper Kellogg has a lot more layers than I realized.
And I’m more curious to unwrap those layers than I care to admit.