The Setup Man (Catching Feelings #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Scottie

Ihate the way my fake boyfriend chews.

Unfortunately, his agent, my family, and the whole world expect me to hang on his every word with a doting smile on my face, which means I’m stuck watching him chomp a two-hundred-dollar dry-aged steak like it’s a cruddy piece of beef jerky.

If I were a better person, I’d think about what this says about how Jake grew up, about how once upon a time, getting enough to eat wasn’t a guarantee, and now he treats every meal like something to devour instead of enjoy.

I’m trying to be a better person.

Really.

We’re at The Grey House—a Michelin-starred restaurant in Charleston, where the very air smells like truffle oil and money.

Jake’s been looking around the restaurant wide-eyed, like even after seven years playing Major League Baseball, he still can’t believe the opulence of a place like this.

And maybe it’s the way the candlelight reflects in his brown eyes or the way he blinks too quickly that turns my irritation down from a boil to a simmer.

Then he catches me studying him.

“What are you looking at, four eyes?” he asks.

And my irritation is right back.

“You eat like a cow chewing cud,” I say with a smile that will fool any paparazzi or onlookers.

I tuck a strand of pale blonde hair behind my ear before adjusting my tortoiseshell glasses—glasses I don’t actually need but that feel like armor with my little black dress and killer heels.

I bring a dainty bite of pan-seared scallops toward my mouth.

“Also, if you really want anyone to believe we’re dating, you should try not insulting me in public so much. Turd.”

Jake snorts and saws his steak like a caveman. “Relax, Scot. Don’t be so touchy.”

“If I’m touchy, it’s because I’m stuck pretending to adore a man who thought flirting with his GM’s wife was a sound career move,” I say sweetly, taking another bite.

“You’re welcome, by the way. Anyone else would’ve let you get shipped off to the minors to teach you a lesson.

You should be on your knees thanking me for agreeing to this charade at all. ”

He stabs his fork into another bite of meat and points it at me. “Yeah, cuz that wouldn’t make the paparazzi freak out—me on bended knee in front of ‘the girl next door.’ I thought you wanted this done as soon as possible?”

I give a tinkling laugh meant to convince people that I don’t want to shoot lasers through him with my eyes. “On second thought, you can stay in your seat.”

“That’s what I thought, hot stuff.”

Not being able to roll my eyes at Jake is its own kind of torture.

My phone buzzes with a notification, and I discreetly check it under the table.

It’s from ReelTime, my social media platform of choice.

@TheSetupMan has shared a new moment

“I need to use the restroom,” I tell Jake. I set down my napkin, grab my phone, and calmly walk to the restroom. But the second I’m inside the stall, I feverishly click on the notification and scowl as the video takes too long to load.

The person in the stall next to me flushes, and I try not to bite my nails as I wait for my favorite face to pop up on the screen—

There it is.

Lucas Fischer, in all his wavy-blond-hair, brightly-blue-eyed glory.

Social media says we’re supposed to hate blond men, but the only thing I can hate about him is the fact that he hasn’t sent me a single text in over a month—flirty or otherwise.

The entire time Jake and I have been fake dating.

And let’s be honest: that’s such a green flag, I could puke.

Lucas smiles at the camera. He’s not wearing his Mudflaps jersey, but he is wearing a tight compression shirt in powder blue and athletic joggers in rust red—our team colors.

Around his neck are those chunky bead necklaces so popular among youth athletes right now.

Every time he runs a camp for kids, at least one of them gives him a Polly World necklace.

So naturally, he got some of his own made up and gives them to the kids now.

He’s so thoughtful, I could puke. Again.

He points at the camera his twin brother, Logan, is holding.

“What’s up, players? It’s your setup man, Lucas Fischer, here, and today, I’m gonna teach you about control.

” This video’s here, in South Carolina, not at the facility near his home in Chicago where he’s been filming all winter.

When did he film this? I narrow my eyes and spot a sponsor sign on the outfield fence that I know we only set up a few days ago.

A cold chill overtakes me.

He’s on the extended roster for our Major League affiliate. Is he already here to put in more training time before the season starts?

I’m going to lose him before he was ever mine.

“Pitching is all about control,” Lucas is saying. “Controlling the count, controlling the zone, controlling your emotions when you see her posting from a restaurant with her new boyfr—ANYWAY let’s talk about arm slot—”

My heart squeezes like someone just whipped a slap bracelet around it.

He’s so cute and funny, but I can’t laugh, because I don’t get to laugh.

I don’t get to squeal that he’s still thinking about me after five weeks.

I don’t get to wonder if it’s all for show, anyway, because his videos blew up last season while he was pining for me (and I say “pining” because he told me so.

Repeatedly). I don’t get to worry that he’ll be snatched off the market before this ruse ends.

I get to be the girl who looks out for her pseudo-brother, like always.

I’m “with” Jake.

Even commenting on one of Lucas’s videos could risk everything.

My heart cinches tighter and tighter as I watch him coach with the self-deprecating optimism that makes him so impossibly charming.

When I can’t take the pain of being squeezed anymore, I save the video, close out of my phone, and clutch it between my hands as I stare at the pressed-tin ceiling and breathing slowly in and out.

He’d just walk away anyway, I tell myself. He’s no better than anyone else who made you feel special for a minute and then forgot to come back for you.

I tell myself a variation of this every other day, when he posts a video.

Prescott Grace Quinn, stop moping and go and do your duty, already.

With a nod, I obey.

When I emerge from the stall, a woman in her early twenties is leaning against the sink counter, gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.

I wash my hands until she stumbles and bumps into me. “Sorry,” she slurs.

“No problem,” I say, reaching for a paper towel. I study her in the mirror. “Are you okay?”

She blinks at me slowly. “I’m … I think I’m fine? My friend left, and this cute guy bought me a drink, but...” She sways slightly. “I don’t feel so hot. He offered to drive me home.”

A chill washes over me.

“Did the bartender give you the drink or did he?”

“I … don’t remember.”

“How many did you have before he got there?”

She squeezes her temples. “Just a glass of red.”

“What’s your name?” I ask, deliberately keeping my voice calm.

“Olivia.”

“Olivia, I’m Scottie. Listen, I need you to stay right here with me, okay? Can you do that?” I pull out my phone and text Jake:

Scottie

Need you in the hallway outside the women’s restroom NOW. Bring water.

She nods vaguely. “My ride’s waiting ...”

“He’s not driving you anywhere.” I wet a paper towel with cold water and press it to the back of her neck. “Where’s your phone?”

She fumbles in her tiny purse and pulls it out. Her battery’s at 12 percent.

“Who can I call to come get you? A sister? Friend?”

“My roommate,” she mumbles, and I manage to get her to navigate to her texts before the bathroom door opens.

Jake fills the doorway, a glass of water in each hand, his face serious. No smirk, no attitude, just worry. The ice in the glasses clinks as his hands shake slightly.

“Is she okay?” he asks, anger rippling from him like heat off hot asphalt.

“She will be.” I hand Olivia a glass of water and have her take small sips. After she obeys, I say, “Jake, there’s a guy out there who’s planning to give her a ‘ride home.’”

Jake’s jaw tightens. “Point him out.”

“I will. But first—” I turn back to Olivia, who looks dimly aware of what’s going on. “I’m calling your roommate. Jake’s going to get us a quiet table away from the main dining room, and you’re staying with us until she gets here. Sound good?”

Her eyes fill with tears. “You don’t have to—”

“We do, actually,” Jake says, his voice gentle in a way I rarely hear. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Twenty minutes later, Jake has alerted security about the guy who almost definitely spiked Olivia’s drink, and Olivia’s roommate has arrived to get her. Jake helps Olivia out through a back entrance, and I hear him talking to the roommate before he sees them off.

When we finally get back to our table, more eyes are on us than before. Jake’s one of the biggest names in Major League Baseball, with a reputation for trouble that’s even bigger.

Tonight, at least, he’s proved that reputation wrong, not that anyone but Olivia and me will ever know.

“You were good back there,” I tell him quietly as we wait for dessert.

Jake shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “Jennifer Rodgers had no problem accepting drinks and rides from guys just like that,” he says.

Jennifer Rodgers is Jake’s mom.

I hate Jake’s mom. His dad, too.

My stomach twists, sick thinking about all the times Jake texted my parents asking for help when we were growing up. And I’m even sicker thinking about that period in ninth grade when he stopped, when things got so bad …

Point is, this is the Jake the press never sees.

The one who remembers what it’s like to be helpless.

To need someone and have no one show up.

I’ve known this Jake my whole life, which is a big part of why I couldn’t leave him helpless after his latest PR crisis.

My family practically begging me to is the other part.