Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
COOPER
W ell, I’m drunk.
Not on alcohol, mind you. I’m an elite athlete at an event where I’m trying to impress my boss. I’m not dumb enough to get hammered.
No, I’m drunk on Liesel Fischer.
Drunk isn’t even the right word, because you have to drink something to get drunk, and Liesel doesn’t give me almost anything. But her playful scowls and verbal jabs are just enough to make me crave more.
Crave. That’s right. I’m not drunk, I’m hungry . She’s salty and occasionally sweet—the best combination—and I’m starving for more. It’s like that week of Thanksgiving when you only eat enough to survive so you can gorge yourself on Thanksgiving dinner and enjoy every morsel.
I’ve only eaten long enough to survive for a long time.
I want to feast.
That’s not sexual, by the way. Yeah, she’s a total smoke-show in that dress, but I’m around attractive women plenty.
It’s her . Her essence. Her sense of humor. Her mind.
Unfortunately, the stupid cocktail hour has pulled us from each other too often, with various affiliate owners and GMs vying for my attention, no matter how hard I try to shrug them off.
The ballroom lighting is low enough for comfort, but because it’s Christmas themed, twinkling lights illuminate the faces brightly enough that I can see Liesel and the people she’s talking to.
And they’re all dudes. Young dudes who are probably attractive to women, but I wouldn’t know, because I think they all have dumb, smarmy faces.
Including my own friend, Braden.
Who the heck chats up the girl his friend was clearly staking a claim on? I know I can’t really stake a claim on her, because she’s not mine and we low key “hate” each other (which is a cover, because it’s obvious we actually love fighting with each other). If I didn’t care so much about my job, I’d go over and give him a knuckle punch in the thigh just hard enough to make sure he gets it.
But no, Liesel and Braden are laughing, and she’s playing with that earring and occasionally touching the skin behind her earlobe, and I wonder what it feels like. Her shoulders were soft and supple when I grabbed them in her suite. Her hands were velvety smooth when I took her lipstick and phone.
She gave me her lipstick and phone.
That’s such a date move. It’s a sign of huge trust, whether she knows it or not. Do you know why?
She has a wallet case phone. I could look at her driver’s license and get her address, not that I would because I’m not a total creep. Her key card is in this, not that I need it, because the front desk clerk had no problem letting me upstairs.
But still.
For whatever reason, she’s not afraid of what I could do. She’s not worried I’ll use the knowledge I could get here to toilet paper her place or rack up a bunch of room service charges. She trusts me. Or she’s starting to, at least.
I try to make my way closer to her, weaving through the crowds, but Marty stops me. I swallow my frustration.
“I hate mixers,” Marty says, taking a long drink from his glass. A server walks by, and Marty puts his glass down and grabs another. “Too many people.”
I look past him to see Liesel grinning at something Braden says, but her gleaming eyes find mine.
And she plays with that earring again.
I’m hungrier than ever. Famished .
“Mind if I join you two?” a woman says.
Marty looks at me, holding my gaze for a beat too long. I try to beg him with my eyes to stay so I can go. But he says, “Sorry, I was just on my way … over there.” And he walks off.
Thanks a lot, Marty.
“Sure thing.” I look at Liesel before turning to the woman.
“Your girlfriend is lovely,” she says.
“She wouldn’t like you calling her that, but I agree.”
“Lovely or your girlfriend?”
“The latter. The compliment is true, regardless.”
The woman smiles. She’s in her early 30s and very pretty. If I hadn’t just been looking at Liesel, I’d probably flirt with her, but as it is, nothing else will satisfy my appetite.
“I’m Kayla,” the woman says, holding a champagne flute in one hand and shaking my hand with the other. “I’m the new owner of the …” she pauses, “Mullet Ridge Mudflaps.”
The Mullet Ridge Mudflaps are famous for a few reasons: one, their name. It’s like calling them the Mullet Ridge Mullets. Two, the billionaire Carville family just bought them. And three, the team has been the worst in the minor leagues for the last ten years. I wouldn’t be surprised if the previous owner paid the Carvilles to take it from him.
“You’re Kayla Carville?” I say. “I don’t mean this in a rude way, but the Mudflaps aren’t a Firebirds affiliate. What are you doing here?”
“A few friends and I are here for a spa retreat. It’s my bachelorette party.” My eyes drop to the huge rock on her left hand.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. When I heard there was a baseball meeting in town, I thought I’d try my luck at recruiting help.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Terribly,” she says. “Everyone views me as the competition.”
“Can you blame them?”
She taps her glass. “Only if I try really hard.” I chuckle. “I’ve given you my name, but I didn’t catch yours,” she says.
“Cooper Kellogg.”
“What do you do, Cooper?”
I grin. I’m not used to being a stranger to people, especially at a baseball event.
“I’m a player. But I injured my elbow, so I’m working with the front office this next season while I rehab.”
“Are you good?”
I can’t help laughing. “Ask my not-girlfriend.” We both look at Liesel, who gives a tinkling laugh at something the dork she’s talking to says. At least it’s not Braden now. I glance back at Kayla, who’s as well dressed and upscale a woman as I’ve ever seen. The idea of her owning the Mullet Ridge Mudflaps is hilarious. “I’m sorry, but you don’t seem happy to be here.”
“I’m not un happy.”
“I can see that.”
She purses her lips. “Let me put it this way: I don’t know anything about baseball, but my dad thought buying me a team would be a good birthday present. I would have preferred a pony.”
“Do you ride?”
“No. And I’m allergic to horses.”
I cough a laugh. “Do we have a Ted Lasso situation on our hands? Are you looking to hire someone terrible so you can tank the team, but you’ll end up coming around and showing us all you have a heart of gold?”
“Excuse me? I happen to have a heart of gold already. It’s huge. Everyone loves it,” she says in mock outrage. Liesel glances at us, a thin line between her eyebrows. “And no, I don’t want to tank the team. I don’t know what to do with the team. We’re evidently the laughingstock of the league.”
“Yeah. Your name has two mullets in it.”
“I fail to see the problem,” she deadpans.
“Ha. I see what you did there,” I say. I like this woman. I don’t want to flirt with her or date her, but I like her. “Well, I can tell you this much: you need a good GM and an even better coach.”
“Okay.”
“And pitchers. Get yourself some all star pitchers. I’ll deny this if you tell my not -girlfriend over there, but as much as I think runs win games, pitching wins championships.”
“Pitchers. Those are the guys who throw the ball at the other guys?” she asks. My eyes turn into saucers. “I’m kidding.” The corner of her mouth raises. “Thank you. Now, if I were going to find good pitching …”
“I can’t help you there. I just recommended Colt Spencer over the Fischer brothers. Willingly. I clearly can’t be trusted.”
She nods, looking deep in thought. “Well, thank you, Cooper. I appreciate you taking a minute away from ogling your date.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I still ogled her a lot.”
She laughs, showing a smile worthy of a young Julia Roberts. “Good luck,” she says, and she walks off.
And my attention turns right back to Liesel. Liesel talking to some probably-attractive-if-he-weren’t-so-punchable dude. There are a fair number of women here, but Liesel puts them to shame, which explains all the men flocking to her.
Darn it.
Things would be so much easier if she weren’t so … flirt-able. Tease-able.
I’ve given her a wide berth all night, but I’m done being polite. I march past the people trying to grab my arm and am almost to Liesel when?—
“You’ve been busy all night,” Doug says, standing in front of me.
Special characters appear in my mind in place of all the curse words I want to say. “Hey, Doug. Yup. Busy night.”
“You and Liesel did good work,” he says.
“Yeah, she’s really smart.” I steal a glance at her. “Even if she hates me.”
He claps my shoulder. “She hasn’t gotten to know you yet. You’ll win her over.”
I look at him. “You wouldn’t care if I tried something with your lead analytics manager?”
“Whoa. Who said anything about trying something? I thought you were talking about working together.” Doug takes a long drink from his glass and then stares me down. “I’d care a lot. Her dad is an umpire. If you mess something up with her, he could take it out on you every time you’re at the plate, to say nothing of the team.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m sitting out this next season. Gives me a lot of time before we have to test that theory.”
Doug looks alarmed. But when he sees my grin, he chuckles. He doesn’t know the grin is fake.
Disappointment sinks into a pit in my chest. Liesel is the first woman who’s interested me in years. I first talked to her in the airport because she was watching a sports channel instead of a Christmas movie. Almost nothing is more attractive than a woman who knows baseball.
But then when she had such strong opinions—opinions that revolved around me —I couldn’t stop myself.
Because the only thing I find more attractive than a woman who knows baseball is a woman who doesn’t care who I am. Funny enough, those two don’t intersect much.
Except for in Liesel.
Talk about irresistible.
Doug swirls the ice in his glass. “I gotta ask, though: what was going through your head when you recommended your ol’ buddy Colton Spencer? Marty and Kathy both said you prefer that Triple-A kid, Betancourt.”
I shrug, purposefully not looking at Liesel, but Doug chuckles, anyway. “That’s what I thought.”
“She has stats to back her up.”
“I know. They’re compelling. But is that what you want?”
A server walks by with something wrapped in bacon, and I take a couple from the tray and pop one in my mouth. I make every effort to seem casual, because I’m actually at war with myself.
I like Liesel. I respect Doug.
I want Liesel to like me. I want Doug to respect me.
But … I want to keep flirting with Liesel. I want to flirt and tease and laugh and make her laugh. I want to get her to glare at me with that half smile she’s trying to cover. And I want to talk with her. Get to know her. Watch her brain work in real time. I want her to push me. Call me on my crap. Make me think.
Heck, I want to kiss her.
Without Doug finding out.
I’m not an utter fool, though, so I say something that won’t get me in trouble. “Is acquiring Colton what I want?” I put another appetizer in my mouth. “I want to win. If Colton can do that for us, I can put up with him.”
Doug smirks. “Thanks for taking one for the team.” Someone walks by and Doug gets his attention, signaling that I’m free to go. But Doug looks at me before I walk off. “Coop, I meant what I said. Do not mess with her .”
My easy grin reaches all the way to my eyes. It’s a skill I learned when I brought home an honor roll certificate from school right after Mom was diagnosed. She was crying that she missed it, and I couldn’t handle her disappointment. So I smiled and hugged her and tried to hold back my own tears while telling her it was okay, it didn’t matter, she didn’t miss a thing.
“See?” I told her. “I’m smiling! It’s okay, Mom!”
“But it doesn’t reach your eyes,” she sobbed.
I didn’t even know what that meant at nine, but I learned fast. I practiced smiles in the mirror all night, and I promised myself that I would never be the reason my mom cried again. Even that young, I knew she was trying. Her condition wouldn’t let her do the things she wanted, and it broke her heart probably even more than it broke mine.
I made sure that when I came home from a game—win or lose—I acted as enthusiastic and positive as possible. The more bombastic I was, the more she cheered.
And soon, her tears were a memory, and my replays became more exciting to me than the games themselves. Because my mom enjoyed them with me.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Doug,” I say with my patented smile.
“Good man,” Doug says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I walk away from Doug and, more importantly, Liesel, and I keep that fake grin on my face until I’m out of sight. When it’s time for dinner, I start for a table as far from Liesel as possible, even though it feels like I’ve crossed over from being famished to positively dying of hunger.
When I’m about to sit, I make the mistake of looking at Liesel. Her eyes are searching, and I see her smile at her own team, assuming she’ll go sit with them, but she waves and keeps looking.
Until her eyes find mine.
Her expression shifts, and she shoots me a look—half wary, half challenging.
Don’t go over. I tell myself. Don’t go over !
“Is this seat taken?” I ask her.
She takes her napkin and drops it on the open chair. “Oops, sorry. It’s an otherwise full table, but I don’t think about others, so I like to put my stuff on chairs so people can’t sit there.”
“That’s okay,” I say, picking up her napkin and returning it to her lap, letting my finger skim her knees. “You’re only human.”
She shakes her head, but she has a saucy, exasperated smile on her face that makes my stomach growl.
I take the seat and move it ever so slightly closer to her.
It’s dumb of me, but hey.
I’m only human.