Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
COOPER
W hen Liesel and I see each other the next morning, I can’t tell which is stronger: my elation or her irritation.
But, then, like our wager last night, it’s probably a tie.
“Mm, mm, mm,” I say. I do a spinning motion with my finger. “Give us a little spin, Ms. Fischer. Let me see how good you look wearing my name on your back.”
“I’m not spinning,” she says.
“It’s cool. I’ll spin for you.” And because I’m me, I take out my phone and film as I walk around her.
“DO NOT POST THAT.”
“I won’t! Not everything belongs to the fans.” I grin as I record her. As satisfying as seeing my name on her back over that big number three, the hint of a smile peeking out from her scowl is even better.
She holds out her hands. “Happy now?”
“Immensely.”
“No one with an abominable snowman tattoo covering his entire right cheek should look that happy.”
“What do you mean? Post Malone is covered in face tats, and that guy’s always smiling.”
“You’re like Pre-Malone. No, Home Alone Malone.”
“Ha! I like that. Kevin!” I cry like I’m his mom.
“Give me strength,” she mumbles heavenward.
We walk to the ballroom, where breakfast is served. Today’s the last day of meetings, but because we don’t end until six tonight, most people I’ve talked to are flying home tomorrow. Including me and Liesel.
Do I plan to take advantage of another night with her?
Yes. Yes, I do.
Unfortunately, the moment we walk into the ballroom, Doug is on me like Jack on Frost.
“What were you thinking, Coop?” Doug asks.
“What do you mean?” I assume he’s talking about my face tattoo, but I’m not allowed to talk about it. So I gesture, instead.
He grabs my arm and smiles at someone who passes us.
“What’s with the Psycho vibes, Doug?” I ask.
“You were with Liesel Fischer last night.”
I have plausible deniability, so I don’t get flustered. “Yeah, we joined the analytics team for a team builder. What’s the problem?”
“You,” he says.
“Me?” A twinge of worry hits me. But I brush it off. “Why? Nothing happened.”
“Tell that to the representative from the Umpires Association.”
And now the twinge is a full body assault. I squeeze my eyes shut, pained. “You don’t mean what I think you mean.”
“You know I do.”
I open my eyes, and I spot Liesel looking at me from the buffet line, confusion lifting her brow. I give her a weak wave and an even weaker smile, and then I join Doug at his table.
I hate the glimpse of hurt I catch in her eyes, so I text her.
Coop
You may want to take the jersey off.
Liesel
Why? Are we okay?
Coop
Houston…
She’s piling her plate with fruit, but I see her look up. The hurt I saw earlier is even deeper now. But I don’t have time to apologize or text or even do anything but widen my eyes. Because the representative from the Umpires Association is right behind her, wearing a big, huge Momma Bear of a fatherly grin.
He puts his hand over her eyes, and roars, “LEE!”
She drops her plate with a squeak, grabs his beefy hands, and then spins around. “Dad?”
They hug tightly, and I swear I’m not imagining the glint of violence on Bruce Fischer’s face when he meets my eye.
“Did you see that, too?” I ask Doug.
“I think they saw it from space,” he says. He grips my shoulder. “I tried to warn you.”
He did. And in true Cooper Kellogg fashion, I didn’t listen. I turned it into a game. A show.
Unfortunately, the only audience that matters is the one person I didn’t want to hurt.
Liesel.
In case things weren’t already dire enough, Bruce and Liesel Fischer join Doug, me, our coach, and a couple of VPs at the large round table. Bruce positions himself on Doug’s other side, and Liesel joins him. That means that I can’t even look at her without him seeing. It also means I have both Doug and Bruce staring me down.
Let me tell you something about umps. They wear those huge pads, so they always look bigger and more intimidating than they really are. You could get a guy who weighs a buck fifty, and in pads, he looks like a gladiator.
Bruce Fischer without pads is bigger than any guy with. He could be John Cena’s body double.
I’m not kidding. The dude is huge. I’m six-two, and Bruce is a bit shorter than me, but he’s easily got thirty pounds on me, all of it muscle.
I may be a showboat, but I’m always respectful with umps, with a few minor exceptions when I’ve been upset. And sure, one involves Bruce, but people get heated all the time. He couldn’t have taken it personally, right?
Anyway, I’m polite with umps 99.7% of the time. I say hi when I come up to the plate, and if the pitcher throws something that seems outside of the strike zone, I ask, “Is that as far out as we’re going today?” Or “Is that the edge of your zone?”
And most umps will say, “Yup, that’s the bottom of the zone,” or “Nah, we got a couple inches still, Coop.”
And then I thank them.
I’ve been in the league for long enough that Bruce has officiated plenty of my games. He’s the best ump in the league, with a 96.5% accuracy rating. He’s fair, and consistent, and I’ve never seen him penalize a guy for getting frustrated with a call. Not even me.
Doug and Bruce greet each other like old friends, and then Doug says, “Bruce, you know Cooper Kellogg, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Bruce says. I stand up and shake Bruce's hand, hoping for the same fair, consistent treatment he’s always given.
But I’m not dealing with a major league umpire today. He squeezes my hand with his meat hooks, and then he squeezes harder.
I don’t make a squeal.
“Is that as far out as we’re going today, Bruce?” I ask, holding his eye even as the bones in my palm creak.
“Nope. I got another six inches buddy,” he says, murder in his eyes. “It’s gonna be a long day.”
That’s code if I’ve ever heard it.
He’s not going to make this easy on me.
When he sits down, I have exactly two seconds to tell Liesel everything I want to with my eyes. They’re wide and wild and I hope it’s enough to tell her how disappointed I am that our day has been ruined.
I can only assume I’m interpreting the way she twists her earrings and presses her lips into a thin line correctly: she’s resigned to her fate.
“So, Coop,” Bruce says when he’s spread his napkin across his lap. “Why is my daughter wearing your jersey?”
“For the same reason Coop is wearing a face tattoo and my analytics team looks like they lost a fight with a Christmas tree, Bruce,” Doug says. “They all lost a bet during their team builder last night.”
You really are the best GM in history, I think to Doug. Not that he can hear my thoughts, but hopefully he can feel my gratitude.
“What was the bet?” Bruce asks. He takes a bite of a breakfast burrito, and even the muscles in the guy’s jaw are intimidating.
“To see who would solve the most puzzles in the escape room. We all had wagers going,” Liesel says, exaggerating slightly. She points to Todd and the rest of his team. Someone’s wearing reindeer antlers and Todd has on brightly bedazzled glasses. Candace—wearing a Rudolph nose—seems a lot happier about Todd’s glasses than Todd does.
“So who won?” Bruce asks.
“Me,” I say … and then immediately wipe the smirk off my face.
“But you’re wearing a ridiculous tattoo on your cheek,” one of the VPs says.
“Your point?” I ask, and everyone laughs, including Bruce. Bruce's laugh feels more like the Grinch laughing at the pain of the Whos down in Who-ville, though.
“We tied,” Liesel corrects me. “Coop—er,” she adds. “ Cooper isn’t as dumb as he looks.”
Bruce chuckles and looks at his daughter, and her eyes meet mine for only a fraction of a second. Just long enough that I think she wants her words back. Or maybe I’m hoping. I might have laughed about that when it was just us, but now, in front of my boss and the people who control my fate, it feels mean.
She drops her gaze to her plate, picking at food without putting any of it in her mouth.
Bruce turns on me. “Oh, I don’t think Coop is dumb at all. I think he knows exactly what he’s doing. And like any good umpire, I’ll call him when he’s out of line.”
“So Bruce,” Doug says, not so subtly changing the topic. “What does the umpire association have for the team today? You’re not expanding the strike zone, are you?”
“No, it’s a presentation on the automatic strike zone software we’re testing in the minors, and if we have time, I’ll do a Q&A on ambiguous calls.” Then he pats his daughter’s back. “But mostly, I came to hear Liesel give her presentation on her new load management software.”
I look at a red-faced Liesel before I can remind myself I’m not supposed to look at her. I forgot she was presenting today. I only looked at the itinerary once, on my first day, and I didn’t know who she was yet.
Has it really only been two days since we met in the airport?
The airport …
She must be presenting about the spreadsheet she was working on in the airport! I want to say something. Tease her. Do a call back to our first conversation. But Bruce Fischer isn’t letting me get away with anything today.
Certainly not flirting with his daughter. Or even taking her mind off the fact that her dad’s embarrassing her in front of the entire Firebirds leadership team.
“Well, we’re glad you’re here,” Doug tells Bruce. “You’re on in five minutes, right? Need a hand getting things ready?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Bruce says. He takes a long drink of water, wipes his hands and mouth with his napkin, and then gives his daughter a kiss on her cheek.
“Knock ‘em dead, Dad,” Liesel says.
I don’t look at Bruce, because I’m almost certain he wants to do exactly that. To me.
“I’ll walk you over to the stage,” Doug says, standing and following Bruce. He turns his head and shoots me a look that’s half apology, half warning.
When her dad is far enough away, I want to take his seat and talk to Liesel, take every spare second we have to clear the air, but she sits stick-straight and looks down at her phone.
I sigh in disappointment.
A moment later, my phone vibrates.
It’s a GIF from Liesel of a guy with hugely wide eyes.
Liesel
AWKWARD!
I chuckle and respond with a GIF of a man sweating profusely.
Cooper
You think?
I hear her breathe a laugh.
Liesel
So, I don’t know if you know this, but my dad thinks that every single man is trying to date me.
Cooper
He’s not wrong.
Liesel
Oh, stop. I know you’re not trying to date me, but he doesn’t.
Cooper
He’s a smart man.
Liesel
Ha ha. Anyway, I’m sorry if he’s coming on strong. He gets a little overprotective.
Cooper
I hadn’t noticed.
Liesel
I didn’t know he was going to be here today.
Cooper
I think he wanted to surprise you. It’s sweet.
Liesel
Yeah, so is antifreeze, and that crap can kill you.
Cooper
Are you okay?
Liesel
I don’t know. I’m presenting something I’ve worked hard on to my colleagues, and my daddy’s here like it’s my kindergarten Christmas performance.
Cooper
He cares a lot about you to go out of his way like this. But I can see what you’re saying. I’m sorry it’s not what you wanted.
Liesel
Thanks. And I’m sorry I called you dumb. I didn’t mean it.
So she did feel bad about it. Relief floods me, but that relief is making the truth clearer than ever: I like Liesel.
The team owner stands on the stage and welcomes everyone to the final day of meetings. Then he introduces Bruce, and Bruce's eyes find Liesel’s. And mine.
I might like her a little too much.
My interest in Liesel only increases as she presents.
I’m not gonna lie: seeing her wearmy jersey in front of a huge crowd is blazing hot. But seeing her captivate an entire audience with her mind makes that blaze hotter than magma.
Her “load management program” is a system for monitoring the stress on players that will help prevent injury. She has up a spreadsheet showing this past season, with some players in green, others yellow, and others—including me— in red.
“These are, to borrow a term from Top Gun , danger zones,” Liesel tells the audience. Her dad is sitting back at the table with Doug and me, but we’re both too riveted to play his little psychological game of cat and mouse. (Or at least I am. I bet Bruce Fischer could play it in his sleep.)
“This year was our testing year—thank you to the Nashville Outlaws for being our guinea pigs.” We all applaud for the Firebirds Triple-A team. “Using wearable devices, we were able to monitor sprint speed and heart rate, as well as stress and player fatigue. With sensors and GPS, we also tracked game load, including swings, pitches, and fielding efforts. We measured playing time and the effect of various recovery protocols. And perhaps most importantly, we learned how to identify signs of overuse.”
She presses the clicker in her hand and advances to the next slide. It’s a picture of me. “Let’s take our most famous example,” she says. She turns around and points to my name on her back, and I can’t help reading into the gesture. She could have pointed to me, putting me in the spotlight and, maybe, in the line of people’s ire or disappointment. But instead, she kept the attention on herself. “We recorded every data point available from the season. We analyzed video from the playoff series leading up to his injury. We looked at the training and recovery reports. And plugging that into our load management program, we were able to show that Coop was in the red—the imminent danger zone—before we even made it to the playoffs.”
This earns a hush from half of the room and the frantic buzz of a hornet’s nest from the other.
A hand raises. “But we can’t just sit out our best players during the playoffs.”
“No, you’re absolutely right. But, we can do a better job of balancing rest and training. And we could have done a better job rotating players when the matchup was favorable.”
As she continues, Doug leans over to Bruce. “You must be proud.”
“You must need to give her a raise,” Bruce jokes. But then he looks at his daughter with a soft expression. “She’s just like her mom.”
When her presentation’s over, I sit in the ballroom until it clears out. Her fans have scattered to their breakouts, and even her dad’s doing a Q&A with the coaches and position coaches in another room. She’s taken an undue amount of time unhooking her laptop and putting away her notes, but I’ve gotten the feeling that she was waiting out the last of them, same as me.
The room finally clears, and I spring into action, running up to the stage and planting my left hand so I can hop up easily. She looks around nervously and then gives me a smile.
“How was it?” she asks.
“You’re even smarter than you are hot,” I say. “And that only makes you hotter.”
She rolls her eyes. “Enough. Was it okay that I used you as a case study?”
I lift an eyebrow. “You can use me anyway you want.”
“Good, because I bought some new duct tape, and I’m curious how effective it is at sealing people’s mouths.”
“Ooh, a little light kidnapping. Color me intrigued.”
She lets out a playful laugh. And then a sigh.
“Where are you off to next?” I ask. “Do you have a breakout?”
“No, I have a couple of hours until the next one. So I’m going to get a massage.”
“Tense now that Daddy’s here?” I wince and shake my head. “I didn’t mean that to sound rude. I would do anything to have my mom travel to see me.”
She puts her laptop bag over her shoulder, and we start walking. “She doesn’t come to your games?”
“Uh, no. But it’s not a big deal.”
“Is she … okay?”
I get what she’s asking. Her mom probably missed tons of her brothers’ games due to her illness. “She has a mental illness that keeps her from traveling. But it’s okay. I’m not complaining.”
Liesel stops me with a hand on my arm. “That doesn’t sound okay. I bet that’s been hard.”
I shrug. “Everyone’s going through something. But the Kellogg family is doing just fine. My mom is awesome. She does everything she can.”
She smiles. “It sounds like you’re a good son.”
“I try,” I say honestly.
At the ballroom’s double doors, we stop. As soon as we leave this room, we’ll have to separate. We can’t be seen walking together, or the fallout from my boss and her dad could be disastrous.
“Have a good massage,” I say.
“Oh, I intend to. Have a good … breakout? What are you doing next?”
“Whatever Doug tells me to do.”
“Well, enjoy.”
“Don’t have too much fun without me,” I can’t help saying as she opens the door.
She rolls her eyes but smiles.