Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Scottie
Kayla leaves before me.
Everyone leaves before me.
My fingers type out the world’s most overengineered itinerary.
Every day for the next six weeks is meticulously planned out.
There isn’t a moment of downtime, which should reduce any and all of Lucas’s jokes about my favorite food or comments about my cat.
I’ve mentioned both once, maybe twice. I don’t know why he’s treating casual observations like classified intel on a girl who asked to be redacted.
Like he’s the only person who knows she doesn’t really want to be ignored.
My typing trails off as I think about the flirty expression on his face, the way he was watching my lips, not like he wanted to kiss me, but like he wanted to make me smile …
Nope. Not going down that road.
I order my fingers to continue, and with each click of the keyboard, I feel my spine straighten. Who cares that he remembered a couple of things about me or that he wanted to make me smile? All it proves is that he’s not a total jerk. It doesn’t mean anything.
When my phone vibrates, I ignore it. Three minutes later, it vibrates again and again. I look down to see a message on the Quinn family thread—Jake included, as always. We don’t have a thread without him.
Mom
Just read a very flattering post about everyone’s new favorite “couple.” Well done, Scottie and Jake! Your father and I are so proud of the work you’re doing to help the world see the Jake we know and love.
Dallas
You don’t have to use the air quotes, Mom. We all know what’s going on.
Hudson
I don’t mind the air quotes. It makes the whole thing less gross.
Dad
Come on, Hud. The article was very nice. Have you read it? Here, I’ll copy and paste it.
Dad
[Link: “The Bad Boy and the Girl Next Door: How Scottie Quinn Is Showing the Softer Side of Jake Rodgers”]
Dad
It says: “When a reporter questioned Rodgers’ history of self-sabotage, Quinn stepped in like a protective Mama Bear.
She may look polished, but she’s got fire in her.
Has Jake really turned over a new leaf, or is she just a temporary safe place for him to land?
Either way, the Firebirds’ front office has to be breathing a sigh of relief that Jake Rodgers is finally on the sweet end of the tabloid circus. Swipe to see their most iconic kisses!”
Dad
Isn’t that nice? Don’t they make it look good?
Dallas
Gross, Dad. You didn’t have to include the pictures of them kissing. I’m eating.
Hudson
Can one bleach one’s eyeballs?
Mom
Oh, you boys would think Scottie kissing anyone is gross.
Hudson
Because it is.
Dallas
Especially when it’s with Jake. Right, Jake?
Scottie’s Boyfriend
yes
she’s a terrible kisser
but she’s a great actor
thx scot!
Scottie
I hate you all. Except Marisol and Mateo.
Marisol
Thanks for leaving us out of this. Your nephew is on your side, btw.
Scottie
He’s an angel. You two get a pass. The rest of you are dead to me.
Mom
Don’t be like that, sweetie. Jake is family, and family helps each other. You’ve always been the glue. We’re so thankful you’re helping him right now.
Dallas
Have you thought maybe we’re glad HE can help HER?
Scottie
Help me with what??
Hudson
Your social life is a disaster. He’s making you look good.
Scottie’s Boyfriend
Mom
Don’t let your “brothers” get you down. You’re a great sister, Scottie.
Dallas
Again, you don’t need the air quotes, Mom.
Hudson
No, she kind of does. Because without them, Scottie’s kissing her brother, which is illegal in at least 48 states and nasty in all of them.
Dallas
On second thought, good use of air quotes, Mom.
Scottie has notifications silenced.
I could say something.
I could tell them I’m tired. That I don’t actually want to be the glue tonight. Or ever again.
I don’t.
I put my phone face down and tap three fingers between my brows, trying to stave off the deepest, angriest elevens any woman has ever had. I’m too young for elevens!
Jake is family, and family helps each other.
You’ve always been the glue.
Mom’s words feel less like praise and more like a permanent assignment I stupidly volunteered for, because it’s easier to be needed than to be seen.
Because it’s easier to never ask for something than to risk no one answering if you do.
The glue that holds him together, though, does nothing to keep me from falling apart. I’m Jake’s safety net—the one strung across the gap so he doesn’t fall, even if that gap is growing and threatening to swallow me whole.
I’ve been strung across it since before I even had braces.
I look at the beautiful color-coded calendar in front of me, at the itinerary that shows Kayla was exactly right to pick Scottie Quinn for this job, and my gaze sharpens.
I hit print on my computer and head out to the industrial printer in the dark hallway.
The blue light of the softly purring machine reflects off my glasses.
I put my hand on the glasses stem, about to remove them when I pause.
Then I take them off and stuff them in my laptop bag.
It’s not like anyone’ll see me at this hour, anyway.
But a phantom weight lingers on the bridge of my nose. Without the frames, the world is a little clearer but also less clinical. It makes me feel exposed—like I’ve left my professional mask on the printer tray next to the scrap paper.
My six-point plan and coordinating calendar prints three perfectly collated copies—one for me, one for Kayla, and one for Lucas. I could email it to everyone, but physical copies are more tangible. A physical packet will tell Lucas “I’m your handler, not the girl you joke about cake with.”
Once I drop Kayla’s copy in her box, I take the back stairs down to the service level, my platform sneakers clanging against the metal treads. When I’m in my heels, the sound is sharper and makes me feel powerful.
Tonight, it just makes me feel loud.
The service level is a maze of cinder block and exposed pipes. The cleaning crew is still at it, the air thick with disinfectant and floor wax, industrial buffers droning over black rubber mats.
I pass through the inner lobby where a guard is slumped behind the security desk, the glow of CCTV monitors reflecting off his glasses.
“Still at it, Miss Quinn?” he calls. “That boyfriend of yours don’t mind?”
“My only date this week is paperwork,” I say, holding up Lucas’s itinerary. “I need to drop this off for one of the players.”
“Well, watch out near Tunnel Three,” he says. “Lucas Fischer’s been in there since eight. Sounds like he’s trying to throw a hole through the vinyl.”
I give him a tight laugh and keep moving.
The hallway narrows as I approach the clubhouse wing, motion-sensor lights flicking on ahead of me and snapping off behind me like the darkness is keeping up.
The player mailboxes line the wall just outside the locker room doors.
Typically only locals and guys rehabbing will report before Spring Training, but the Fischers’ camps are good for the team and the community. They’re also the most popular players on the team, so they already have actual letters in their boxes. Logan has a couple dozen, at least.
Lucas has three boxes full.
I stare at the boxes. Blink at them.
This shouldn’t be a surprise. He has almost a million followers on ReelTime alone. Fan mail comes with the territory. And so what if half the letters smell like perfume or come with handmade beaded necklaces? Women could be mailing him engagement rings, and it wouldn’t change the facts.
I’ve been assigned to help him.
We’re not a thing.
I will not be jealous.
I’m just placing his itinerary on top of the tower of fan mail when the air in the corridor shifts. A split second later, a pulse vibrates through the soles of my sneakers.
THUNK.
The sound echoes down the long concrete hallway leading to the batting tunnels, cutting through the mechanical hum of the building.
In a stadium this empty, every sound is magnified, and this particular sound—wet and heavy—hits less like someone practicing and more like someone working out his personal demons.
I look at the glowing exit sign over the lobby doors. I should leave …
THUNK.
A sharp, frustrated yell gets cut off by the heavy acoustics of the tunnel.
The guard said he’s been in there since eight. It’s almost ten now. My gaze jumps back to the itinerary I just put in Lucas’s box. If that man blows out his rotator cuff because he’s having a late-night meltdown, my career hopes will melt all the way down with him.
And that’s the only reason I grab the itinerary out of the box and storm toward Tunnel Three.
The temperature drops ten degrees when I approach it. Green netting lines the cavernous tunnels, and buzzing fluorescent lights make everything look like a noir film.
At the far end of the third lane, I find Lucas stripped down to a charcoal-gray shirt that’s turned black with sweat where it drips between his shoulder blades.
He’s throwing into a nine-hole net—a vinyl target with cutouts where the strike zone lives—aiming like he’s trying to thread a needle through concrete.
I stay in the shadows of the doorway for a beat, watching him. Gone are the flirty smile, the cake jokes, the easy cockiness I bet he’d unleash so fast if I ever agreed to a date with him.
In its place is an intensity I haven’t even seen from him on the mound.
His windup is a study in controlled violence—the high kick of his lead leg, the way his body coils like a spring under tension, and then the explosive uncoiling as he drives toward the plate.
His release is so fast, my eyes can barely track the white blur of the ball before it’s gone.
The Rapsodo chirps beside him.
I glance at the screen—and freeze.
102
My jaw drops.
That’s not bullpen work. That’s not “get your reps in” velocity. That’s closer heat. That’s end-of-game, no-one-is-touching-this stuff.
And he’s doing it alone. At ten o’clock at night.