Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Scottie
The camp starts at nine a.m., so naturally I’m at the stadium at seven.
The service entrance smells like dew, a scent that belongs to the early hours of the day. My badge beeps me in, fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and my boots echo down the concrete corridor as I mentally prep for the conversation to come with the facilities manager, Sam.
I emailed Kayla and Sam last night to make sure the location change can happen after lunch. Kayla won’t care at all, but Sam is going to give me a headache. His crew is already stretched thin replacing the turf. I get it. But these camps are what keep us paid during the offseason.
I unlock my phone as I cut through the tunnel toward the field, breath fogging faintly in front of me.
It’s cold in that damp, low-forties way that can chill you to your bones if you’re not wearing enough layers (which I am).
Dew darkens the grass under the stadium lights, and somewhere behind the scenes a cart rattles past, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the quiet.
I scan my inbox as I walk, responding with one hand while my other holds a day’s worth of water in a stainless steel tumbler. I force myself to take a long drink.
Am I trying to finish off my water so I can spend the rest of the day drinking caffeine?
Yes, yes I am.
I just wish I had that caffeine already pumping through me, because I see Sam up ahead right now.
He’s a big, beefy man who looks like he could erect a stadium with his bare hands, and he’s already in motion.
He snaps directions at two guys wrestling with a stack of cones and barks to another about keeping Gate C clear when his radio buzzes.
I can’t hear what’s said on the other end, but Sam lets out a harried breath and presses a thumb to his radio.
“No, I don’t care if the vendor’s early—tell them they can’t unload until the dock’s cleared,” he says, lowering the radio and cursing under his breath.
My stomach knots.
Last season, Sam took the stadium from something resembling an abandoned bomb shelter to a state-of-the-art professional facility. But mid-season, the league wanted some PR opportunities with Kayla’s snooty ex, and I arranged a few last-minute cosmetic updates before he arrived.
It turned into a logistical nightmare—signage rushed, contractors stacked, timelines that only made sense in my head.
When it all fell apart, Sam tore me a new one. I never told Kayla because—bless her heart—she would’ve blown up and fired him on the spot, not realizing Sam was the best facilities manager in a hundred-mile radius.
Sam didn’t quit. But he came close.
I really need him not to quit now. Whether or not he yells is less of a concern.
I smooth my expression before he sees me. He has a way of looking at me like he thinks I’m one cup of coffee away from a mental breakdown. If this is about to go sideways, it won’t be because I let a single emotion show on my face.
“Morning,” I say, matching his pace.
He grunts, squats down, and adjusts a sprinkler head by a fraction of an inch.
“Did you see my message last night?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” he says, walking six feet and then squatting to adjust another sprinkler.
“Okay, great. I just wanted to talk through the timing for this afternoon, because I know you’ve got pitchers in early and—”
“It’s already done,” he says.
I stop short.
“What was that?” I ask, catching up. “What’s done?”
He finally glances at me, his thick eyebrows lifting like he’s talking to a child.
“The camp rotation. You want the kids in the practice facility after lunch but ‘promise they won’t mess up the turf.’ I already told the Fischers I don’t have the manpower to get it set up till tomorrow, so they said they’d take care of it.
Said I’d thank them when I didn’t have to deal with kids cutting through live bullpens all day. ”
“The Fischers … said they’d take care of it?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “The loud one’s been here since five, but the other one showed up a half hour ago.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
He gestures ahead with a cone. “The quiet one’s dragging the L-screens out to the Annex. Should be pretty obvious in a minute.”
I follow his line of sight—and there it is. A new path taking shape along the edge of the stadium, cones marking a clean, intentional route toward the service gate. Purposeful. Planned. Already happening.
Sam studies my face. “For what it’s worth,” he adds gruffly, “it’s a pain. But it’s safer. Cleaner than yesterday.”
“Right,” I say. “Thank you.”
He grunts and peels off, already back on his radio.
I stay where I am, stainless steel tumbler cold against my palm, watching the path take shape without me. The work I came in early to do is already done. The stress eating a hole in my stomach has vanished.
I’m not a reliever cleaning up someone else’s mess.
Lucas didn’t ask me how to handle Sam. He didn’t loop me in. He didn’t even wait. He just … did it.
Which is generous. And competent. And makes me feel like I missed a step.
If he can do this without me, then what exactly am I contributing?
What am I supposed to do if I’m not needed?
My phone buzzes.
Kayla
Morning! I’ve already made some shifts in ops, so don’t worry about anything in the office. You’ll have a couple of other guys on your list when you get to Arizona, but for now, Doug and I want you all in with Lucas.
I look back toward the field, toward the practice-facility path, toward the quiet competence unfolding without fanfare.
Toward the man who just solved a problem without asking for permission or forgiveness.
… I want you all in with Lucas.
Gee, thanks, Boss.
***
I don’t talk to Lucas at all through the first rotation. He’s too busy with parents when I arrive. And at least a couple of the moms look like they want to sink their teeth into him.
During the break, a kid tugs on my sleeve.
“What’s up, buddy?” I ask as he sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
“I lost my water bottle. Are there more waters somewhere?”
I’m just leaning down to point in the direction of the waters when he sneezes—loud and wet—right on me.
“Bless you,” I say with a grimace I hope no parents notice. I wipe my face with the back of my coat sleeve. “And use some hand sanitizer while you’re at it. It’s over there, too.”
He just sniffs and runs off.
Man, kids are gross.
When I stand back up, I see Logan coming over to me.
Wrong brother, I tell the universe.
“Morning, Scottie. Good call on moving the camp,” he says, folding his arms and following my gaze to his brother. “It was giving me a mini panic attack every time we took the kids through a bullpen.”
I snort. “If only your brother worried as much.”
“He thinks risk is better managed than avoided.”
“Ew,” I say.
“Tell me about it.”
I glance at Logan, wondering how anyone could ever confuse these two. They’re both beyond handsome, obviously, but Logan’s light is muted, while Lucas’s shines so bright, he could guide a lost ship back to sea.
Does Logan see that, too? Does he ever wish he could let himself be so unfettered?
“You’ve gotta stop messing with my brother,” Logan says.
“What?” I blurt. Maybe he’s not as fettered as I thought.
“I don’t know what possessed you to date such an enormous tool when you seem so smart, so let me be clear. You can’t invite my brother out to ice cream while you’re seriously dating someone else.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It is, though. You can say it was about work or saving his arm, or whatever, but I watched you all last season. The way you shut everyone else down faster than a sold-out coffee cart while you practically dared Lucas to keep trying. You got his number, Quinn. Now lose it.”
This is so unfair, so unjust, so … unintentional but true.
“That’s not what I was trying to do,” I say softly.
Logan stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care if you’re trying to figure out how you feel about Lucas or if you just like being liked.
And I don’t care if you’re in some bizarre Twilight situation and you’re torn between the two of them.
I care that you stop getting in my brother’s head.
Everything’s going to change for him this season, and if he’s too busy thinking about your lopsided love triangle to get his head in the game, I’ll make you regret it. ”
I scoff. His words make me feel like I’m sinking into the ground, but I’m too contrary to take it, well, sinking. “How so?”
“I’ll sic my sister on you. You’re tough, but she’s got big-sister energy, and the internet tells me big-sister energy trumps little-sister energy every day of the week.”
I breathe out a laugh. It’s hard to get mad at him when he’s right and when he’s being a lot nicer about it than he could be.
“I promise I won’t lead him on.”
“Thank you.”
“Can we talk about the Twilight reference?”
“Depends. You Team Jacob or Team Edward?”
“Team Edward.”
“Then no.”
I whip my head around. “You seriously liked Jacob for Bella over Edward?”
“No. We both see things the same way, so there’s nothing more to say.”
I look at him. Study his eyes on his brother, the set of his jaw. And then I burst out laughing. “You’re different than I thought.”
He turns to face me. “No, you just never thought about me. And you can stop thinking about me. I don’t want your triangle to become a square.”
“There’s not even a triangle, Logan. Your geometry concerns are noted but unnecessary.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He gives me a nod and walks off to talk to the kids.
I don’t talk to Lucas until lunchtime, when he shows up holding a steaming cup of coffee from Meant to Bean. My pulse quickens. The drink smells dark and minty and makes my mouth water.
“What is that heavenly smell?” I ask.
He hands me the cup. “It’s called the Bean There, Done That.”
I take an eager sip, trying to ignore Logan’s warning voice in my head. Then I exhale a sigh. “It tastes like a completed to-do list.”
He laughs. “That’s probably the peppermint.”
“Or sorcery,” I say.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he says, reaching for something in his back pocket. It’s neatly wrapped in the kind of tissue paper stores use for breakable items.
I unwrap it. And then chuckle. “A whistle?”
“Told you I’d bring it.”
“I’ll need it. You’ve got exactly ten days before you’re expected in Mesa,” I say, holding the whistle in one hand and the coffee in the other.
“That’s just ten days to prove to me—and to Doug—that you won’t be a PR nightmare when you step off that plane in Arizona.
So if I say we’re doing three hours of interview simulations today, we’re doing three hours. ”
“Blow the whistle and I’ll be there,” he says.
I’m aware that I’m being chattier than normal, especially after what Logan said. I wonder if part of me is doing it to spite him or to prove to myself that I haven’t been stringing anyone along. Or maybe this fluttering in my belly …
It’s caffeine, Scottie. Get over yourself.
That’s right, it’s coffee, mixed with gratitude and a splash of relief. My morning didn’t implode. Anyone would be a bit giddy after expecting the worst and getting a delicious peppermint mocha, instead.
If I’m more talkative than usual, what does it matter? I’m just being friendly—
I almost laugh out loud.
I’m competent. Pushy. Sometimes a little nosy.
But friendly?
Ha.
“Too strong?” Lucas asks, eyeing the coffee before smiling at me.
My phone buzzes, and Jake’s name flashes on the screen. I stuff my phone back in my pocket before Lucas can ask.
“Uh, no, it’s good. Good choice,” I say. Then I gesture to the kids behind him. “I’ll walk around and film some stuff for socials in a bit.”
“Be sure to get my good side,” Lucas says, popping his collar.
“Which side is that?” I ask.
He walks backward, arms spread out. “Take your pick. The camera loves me.”
“Not as much as you do,” I shoot back.
The worst part is that he’s right. As I film him throughout the day, he really doesn’t have a bad side.
Not just physically, but emotionally. When kids throw tantrums, they roll off his back.
When parents demand special treatment, he listens without getting flustered.
He doesn’t give in or back down, but he finds a way to keep peace, too.
He’s almost impossible not to like.
It’s the end of the day before I call Jake back.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
“At work,” I say.
“My girlfriend should have called me back.”
“Contrary to what my family thinks, I do have an actual job.”
“I was at lunch with a reporter,” he says. “He asked how I felt about all the Triple-A players who flirt with my girlfriend.”
I snort. “What players?”
“You tell me.”
A few of the moms have noticed me now, and at least one of them seems to have pieced together that I’m the woman dating Jake Rodgers. She’s showing them something on her phone, and one of the women is looking at me.
“Jakey,” I say, adding some honey to my voice. “I only have eyes for you. But let’s talk about the endorsement. I am so proud of you!”
“Let me guess: someone’s eavesdropping. Yeah, well next time, be this guy in the moment, will you?”
“You got it, babe. Miss you! Talk soon!”
I have to force myself to keep the smile on my face, to pretend I’m wistful about how much I miss my boyfriend. I’m not going to say it’s torture, only because I’d hate to minimize the experience of anyone who’s actually been tortured.
It’s simply vile.
And when my eyes turn to Lucas, I realize I’m exactly like the other women here: staring at a hot baseball player like I haven’t spent my whole life knowing better.
I look anyway.