Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LIESEL
“ D o you know what was even more fun than my dad coming to watch me deliver a major presentation to my entire organization in front of the owner?” I ask Juliet. I got home earlier in the day, but she got home from her shift at the hospital at ten p.m., an hour ago. “Him asking my boss on the flight home if he can trade her seats because he ‘misses his baby girl so much.’ Those are his exact words. To my boss. ”
Jules clutches her stomach, whether from actual pain due to all the ice cream we’ve eaten or from laughing herself to pain, I’m not sure. “No, Papa Fischer! Bad!”
“I know. And you should have seen the way he acted around Coop. He was like the Joker, or something. It was so humiliating.”
It’s late, but my body was starting to adjust to Arizona’s earlier time zone, so I can’t sleep. And because Jules doesn’t work tomorrow, we’re halfway through watching the Twelve Dates of Christmas while we talk .
I don’t love Christmas movies anymore, but this is one my mom and I watched together a lot. And the fact that I’m mostly talking to Juliet rather than watching makes it slightly more tolerable.
“How did you leave things with Coop?” I show her the texts, and I watch her grin grow and grow some more. Then I pull up a picture I sneakily took of him yesterday with his ridiculous face tattoo.
“What is going on here?” she asks. “Is that a Yeti tattoo?”
“Yes,” I giggle, taking back my phone. “He’s so much goofier than I expected, but he can also be surprisingly level-headed.”
“Lee, what are you gonna do? You like Coop.”
I rest my head on the couch and yawn. “I’m not allowed to like Coop.”
“You’re allowed to like whomever you want to like.”
“Fine, I’m not allowed to date him. And honestly, I don’t even know if I want to date him. He’s still Cooper Kellogg, the guy who’s dated half of the female A-list celebrity population. He’s still an arrogant hotshot.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself.”
“I don’t have to tell myself anything!” I protest. “Why should I go down a road I already know is a dead end?”
“Because it might actually be a cul-de-sac. And everyone knows those are prime real estate.”
Coop and I text so much at work the next day, we may as well share an office. I only see him once in a hallway with Doug, and we share a friendly smile.
“Hi Doug,” I say. “Hi Coop.”
Doug smiles and looks at Coop, who keeps his expression neutral.
“Hey, Liesel,” is all he says. But when we pass, he makes sure his pinky grazes mine, and I feel the tingles for the rest of the day.
This goes on for the next two weeks.
TWO.
WEEKS.
Every day is a study in comportment, discretion, and restraint.
Especially restraint.
Doug can’t know we’re talking. He can’t see us together.
Fortunately, he also can’t read our texts or hear more than half of a phone call either of us takes.
Coop calls me a lot .
“Hello?” I answer while I’m running numbers on potential high school draft picks.
“Well hello, Ms. Fischer. You look beautiful today.”
I glance around to make sure no one’s walking by my door. “Can I help you with something?”
“Sugar Plum, you could help me with a lot.”
“Why are you like this?” I ask, smiling and wrapping the phone cord around my finger like a girl in an Eighties movie.
Kathy walks by and I pull my finger out fast from the cord and give her an awkward wave, hoping she doesn’t notice my flush.
“You mean smart and sexy?” he asks. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“The latter, mostly.”
“So you admit I’m smart and sexy?”
“Did I?”
“You didn’t deny it,” he says. “But I do have something I need to talk to you about.”
I open a different tab. “The high schooler out of Montana you and Marty have been looking at, right?”
“No. This is way more important.”
“The fact that Doug hasn’t made any announcements about our pitching? What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t heard anything ? Not even about my brothers?”
“The extended roster isn’t set till Spring Training,” he says. His voice sounds a little pinched, but he clears it. “Remember, there are a lot of moving parts.”
“Well, I wish this part would stop moving and get settled already.”
“Hey, your brothers will be okay. They’re top prospects with a major team. Things will work out.”
I exhale. I’ve been avoiding them since I got back, and not just because of Christmas. Because of baseball. I still feel racked with guilt that I didn’t advocate more for them, but the compromise plan Coop and I settled on is better for the team: trade for Colt Spencer, keep our veteran pitcher, and add my brothers to the extended roster. That will give them chances to actually play this season when a regular pitcher gets injured or we have a double-header. Coop is right. They’ll be okay.
“Okay, so what’s the important thing you needed to talk to me about?”
“This ‘Throwback Thursday’ picture of you from ninth grade that your brothers posted on social media. You look hot in braces.”
“I looked insane. And you can’t follow my brothers on social media!” I hiss into the phone. “They’ll know something’s up!”
“Their profiles are public, and I’m following under my private account. You know, the one you follow.”
I redden like I’m sitting in front of a space heater.
In the weeks since we’ve been home, our communication has only ramped up. He followed me on social media under his private account that first night back, and we’ve both done extensive background checks by this point. I’ve looked at all of his posts—literally thousands—dating from before he was even on MLB’s radar. Pictures of him with his parents in what looks like a small apartment, but it’s cozy. There are countless posts of Coop in front of a beautifully decorated cake celebrating this win or that tournament. I assumed his mom bought them at first, but then I saw pictures of her and Coop baking together, even decorating some of the ornate cakes and later cookies together. Celebrating everything Coop seems to be the theme of his mom’s life.
A couple of weeks ago, I probably would have seen his mom’s doting as a contributing factor for his arrogance.
Now, I know how sweet it really is.
In scores of photos, he’s beaming in front of banners, balloons, and streamers, all in that same small apartment family room. There are pictures outside of the house, too. Some with his friends and teammates, some with his dad, some selfies. But the pictures with his mom are only ever at home.
Then, within the last two years, the pictures with her shift from that apartment to a bright, beautiful home. The furniture is identical to the furniture in the apartment at first, but the most recent pictures show some changes. What hasn’t changed, though, is that big smile Coop wears when he’s with her. I can’t tell if he’s the happiest version of himself with her or if he’s determined to look like the happiest version of himself with her.
I’m gripped with curiosity daily. I press him for info when we text at night, but he isn’t as forthcoming as I’d expect.
At the same time, I’m riddled with nerves, knowing Coop is liking and commenting on photos of me with my family. I’m worried my dad and brothers will notice that he’s gone back through my posts. But that’s dumb, isn’t it? It’s not like they’re going back through my stuff to see if Coop is. And his private profile isn’t under his name, anyway. It’s a baseball moniker—@can_of_corn96—referring to an easily caught pop fly.
He especially likes the pics with my mom and me. Everyday, he screenshots a new picture and sends it to me with comments. He sent one, “You’re her mini me!” text, but then he added, “On a scale of 1-10, how awkward is it that I have a crush on your mom?” and I laughed enough that the comment didn’t sting the way it normally does.
“I can’t comment on fan photos,” I say as Doug walks by my office. “You have the wrong number.”
“Wow. It’s like that, is it?”
I snort. “It is, in fact.”
“Then let me get to the point. We need to go on a date.”
“Do we?”
“Like Santa needs Rudolph in the middle of a blizzard.”
“I thought we weren’t … doing that,” I say.
“By that, you mean dating? I’ve asked you out fourteen times in fourteen days,” he says. “We both know we are on different pages.”
“I thought you wanted to be careful.”
“Careful, sure,” he says. “I won’t make out with you at home plate during the middle of work. In a broom closet, on the other hand.”
“Are you trying to get me fired or yourself killed?”
“We both know Doug won’t fire you . And I have nine years left on my contract.”
“So it’s a death wish then?”
“There are worse ways to go.”
Coop is incorrigible.
I am intensely attracted to that part of his personality.
I never went on a single date in high school. Not one. Even with my mom encouraging me to go to dances or try to put myself out there, the threat of the Fischer Men was too much.
College wasn’t much better, because my stupid brothers were there with me, and they made sure everyone knew I was off limits.
I went on a handful of dates then. I even managed to sneak in a few kisses with some accounting majors and an engineer, but let me tell you: not one of them played a sport. And none of the guys I’ve dated since have, either. Athletes are trouble.
I just wonder if it’s the good kind, or not.
“Keep dreaming, Buddy,” I say.
“I will, Sugar Plum.”
The day before Christmas Adam—December 22 nd —I’m in my apartment pulling up a sugar cookie recipe, when I get a new text from Coop. It’s a photo of me at my kindergarten Christmas recital. I have pigtails, an emerald green velvet dress with tights, and I’m playing the triangle.
Cooper
Little Liesel is biiiiig cute.
Liesel
Didn’t I say you’re not allowed to look at Throwback Thursday posts??
Cooper
Too late. You are *working* this triangle. It’s my new phone wallpaper.
Liesel
Tell me you’re lying.
Cooper
But *that* would be lying.
Liesel
You’re lucky I haven’t made my wallpaper the picture of you with those jingle bells stuck in your nose.
Cooper
You *should* make that your wallpaper. That picture is solid gold.
Liesel
Why haven’t you posted it to your public page, then?
Cooper
IDK. Baby Coop was so heartbroken.
Liesel
Aw. Your face was so red from crying. :(
Cooper
I thought it would make my mom laugh. I had big visions of walking around the house tricking her into thinking Santa was coming. She laughed at first and sent the video of me jingling and jangling to my dad. But then when she told me to get them out and they wouldn’t, she panicked.
Liesel
That’s hilarious. Poor Momma. Did she take you to the hospital?
Cooper
No. That’s part of why she panicked. My dad used to be a long haul trucker, so he wasn’t home to take me. Her social anxiety kicked in kind of hard.
Liesel
I’m sorry.
Cooper
It’s okay. She searched for what to do and found out if she blew air hard through my mouth, they’d pop out on their own. Disgusting, but it worked.
Liesel
Haha. That’s nasty, but sweet. I want to give Baby Coop a hug.
Cooper
Nah, Baby Coop thought girls were even worse than snotty jingle bells.
Big Coop would take one, though.
Liesel
You do not quit, do you?
Cooper
Not since I met you.
*GIF* of man biting his lip
Liesel
*snort*
Cooper
What are you doing right now?
Liesel
I’m about to start baking for Christmas Adam.
*face palm emoji*
Cooper
You’re baking Christmas stuff and didn’t invite me?
Liesel
Jules and I were going to make them, but she got called in to work. #ERNurseLife
Cooper
Liesel Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies Fischer. Invite me over now.
Liesel
Why?
Cooper
Have you not looked through my instagram? Christmas is my middle name! And I’m a WIZARD at baking. A North Pole Elven Wizard.
Elvish?
Elverino?
Liesel
Elverino for sure.
Isn’t all that baking your mom?
Cooper
She taught me everything she knows. I’m not kidding. Send me your address.
Liesel
You are to use this for emergency purposes only …
Twenty-five minutes later, Coop is standing in my kitchen.
Cooper Christmas Kellogg is standing in my kitchen, wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt that says “Wanted: The Wet Bandits,” along with mugshots of Harry and Marv from Home Alone.
My mom got my brothers and me that same sweatshirt two Christmases ago.
If the situation weren’t so dire, I would let myself panic. I would overthink inviting him over. I would feel the rising swell of grief and loss, and I would distract myself and shut the feelings out completely.
But this is Coop, not my brothers. There’s no baggage with him. He doesn’t remind me of my mom and everything I miss. If anything, he makes me wonder if I’m not missing something else, entirely.
Like how imposing yet natural his buff, six-two figure is in my kitchen.
“I see you’re wearing my hoodie,” he says, putting his hands in the oversized pockets and tugging me forward.
It would be so easy to kiss him, I think as I look at his lips.
“I wanted to make sure you remember that I own you,” I say archly.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? That’s what you think this gesture says?” he asks, raking his eyes over me.
Holy freaking fruitcake, is it ever hot in here.
“So about those cookies,” I say, stepping to the counter so I can create enough space between us to breathe.
Coop joins me at the kitchen counter, close enough that our arms are touching. It’s a decent sized space, and I have all the ingredients out and ready.
“All right, what do we have going on here? Classic sugar cookie recipe?”
“Yup.”
“Give me an apron, and let’s go to work.”
“You want an apron?”
“What am I, a boxcar hobo? Of course I want an apron.” He turns his baseball hat around, and I want to run my fingers through the hair that peeks out. “Do you not wear an apron when you bake?”
“Never. It’s flour. Who cares?”
“I never pegged you for an outlaw, Sugar Plum.”
“An outlaw? It’s an apron.”
“I notice you have no problem with me calling you Sugar Plum.”
I close my eyes but laugh. “Can we just bake?”
He opens the small pantry closet and puts on Juliet’s apron. It’s red with white frills and says “Mrs. Claus” on it. (Yes, Nate has one in his apartment that says “Mr. Claus,” although it lacks the frills.)
Coop grabs one of our kitchen towels, and the next thing I know, he’s standing behind my back, putting his arms around me. He bends his face right next to mine, and I glance back at him, trying to remember how to breathe.
“What are you doing?”
Then he ties the towel around my waist, giving me a mock half-apron. His thumbs skim against me, and even though a layer of thick cotton separates his skin from mine, I feel the heat of his touch like it’s direct contact.
“There,” he says, his words puffing deliciously against my ear. “Now we’re ready to bake.” He pats my hips, and I sway. “Don’t worry. I’m with you.”
I’m not sure if that’s the most comforting thing any man has ever said to me or the sexiest.
But as Coop gets to work creaming the butter and sugar, I think it may be both.