Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lucas
My body’s still buzzing from the bullpen when I slide into the ice bath.
I inhale sharply and try to control my breathing while my body processes the shocking cold. The contrast hits hard—my muscles still feel hot and alive, like they’re smoldering under my skin, and then the ice clamps down, sharp and numbing in a way that makes me feel strangely light.
“Bro, you were insane out there,” Logan says, climbing into the bath beside mine. “Everything came out clean. You didn’t miss arm-side once.”
“I keep telling you: shut your brain off and just be the ball.” I settle deeper under the water now that I’m acclimating.
“‘Be the ball’?” Logan repeats. “I can’t look at you.”
“I just mean be present, dork,” I say. “Turn off your thoughts and be in the moment.”
“Some brains don’t have an off switch,” Logan says, shuddering as he forces himself down into the ice.
He means it as a joke, but there’s too much else there.
I hate when he gets so deep into his own head that he starts spiraling, especially when I can’t keep him from going under.
I’m used to dancing around his anxiety, but right now, I’m being selfish, too.
If I get into Logan’s head, I won’t be able to keep him out of mine, and if that happens, he’ll know everything, from how deeply my feelings run to the fact that Scottie’s nothing more than a PR fix.
And then he’ll see the way his human light bulb of a twin is flickering, and his worry will go from a quiet hum to a full alarm that wrecks his knuckleball completely.
Twin code is a dangerous thing.
Logan’s looking at me, and I realize I didn’t take his bait when he was teasing me about my brain having an off switch. I was supposed to joke about being dumb or say something about his mouth needing an off switch. All it takes is five seconds for Logan to turn introspective.
“If I wake up at night, I have a million thoughts immediately fighting for attention,” he says.
My brow wrinkles, but I try to smooth it before he notices.
“Look up guided meditation,” a voice says, and a moment later, Fletch is climbing into an ice bath across from us. He’s only a couple of years older than us, but an injury in the Majors pushed him into coaching early.
He gets into the water without as much as an intake of breath. He looks at Logan. “I have an ex-NFL buddy who swears by it. I’ll send you some info.”
“Thanks, Fletch.”
Fletch nods, his hair sticking out at wild angles in a way that looks intimidating with him staring me down. “Lukie, don’t ever be late for bullpen again,” he says.
“I know, I’m sorry, Fletch. Scottie missed our PR training yesterday, and Jake told me she was sick. He had to go back to Chicago last night so he asked me to check on her this morning.”
It’s close enough to the truth that I barely feel guilty stretching it, although I hate giving Jake any credit at all. It’s like I’m setting him up for a win he doesn’t even want, but how else can I give a version of events that keeps everyone safe? I have to hold everything steady.
But even with the ice numbing all other sensation, I feel Logan’s eyes on me. There’s no way he buys that I was only visiting Scottie as a favor to Jake.
He just doesn’t know what he doesn’t know—she’s not even dating the guy.
In fact, she likes me.
“Is Scottie doing okay?” Fletch asks.
“Yeah, her fever broke this morning, but she was dehydrated when I saw her. Good thing I had some coconut water on me.” That I bought for her. Yesterday.
But Fletch doesn’t need to know that.
It’s better this way.
“Glad you were able to help.” Fletch stretches out, leans his head on the back of the tub, and closes his eyes. “Don’t be late again. But if you’re gonna be late, make sure you throw like you did today.”
Fletch tilts his head toward Logan without looking at him. “You two know what the front office calls you?”
“The Setup Twins?” I guess, earning an ice cube to the head from Logan.
Fletch doesn’t smile. “Team Fischer.” He doesn’t say it as a compliment but a fact. “They don’t talk about you separately. They draft you together; they develop you together; they’re planning to call you up together if everything goes right. That’s not nothing. That’s rare.”
He closes his eyes again, done with the conversation.
I look at the ice.
Team Fischer.
Logan and I have been a unit our whole lives—same draft class, same bus rides, same everything. But hearing it said out loud by our manager feels different. Heavier.
I think about Scottie. About how long I’ve been carrying this.
About what happens to Logan if I drop it.
***
A half hour later, I’m walking up to Scottie’s front door with another twelve-pack of coconut water and some ingredients for a spinach omelet, because her fridge was bare except for expired condiments and a couple of take-out containers.
The bags weigh heavily in my left hand as I knock on the door.
A garbage truck rumbles down a nearby street, but it hasn’t reached Scottie’s yet.
And Scottie hasn’t reached the door yet. I reach for the handle in case she’s too tired to make it, and instantly the door flies open and Scottie’s standing staring at me with wet hair and wide eyes, the scent of lavender trailing behind her—along with pure accusation.
“YOU.”
I back up. “Me?”
“You … you … YOU!”
I glance over my shoulder then forward again, staring at the beautiful, wild woman in front of me dressed in kitten pajamas, slippers, and a robe.
“Me,” I say calmly. “Are you all right?” I reach a hand out to feel her forehead, but she knocks it away. Her eyes narrow to slits, which would be a lot more unnerving if her skin weren’t practically translucent from sickness.
“Yesterday, you … you …” Whatever she’s frustrated about, it’s making her almost incoherent. She drops her voice. “You talked to me.”
I nod, confused. “Yes.”
“You listened to me.”
I nod slower. “Uh-huh.”
“I said things,” she hisses, her voice more deadly than any snake’s bite, with an emphasis that tells me what’s going on.
She remembered.
She knows I know.
I smile—not as big as I want to, but I couldn’t wipe the thing off my face if I tried. “You said a lot of things. I didn’t realize you had such a thing for Liam Neeson.”
She makes a guttural scream that can’t quite get past the gunk in her throat. She slams the door.
I knock.
“How could you?” she shouts through the door.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. The grin comes back before I can stop it. Or maybe I don’t even try.
“How dare you gloat like this?” she demands.
I put an arm up to the doorframe, resting as I talk to her through the door. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she says before she starts coughing.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Don’t,” she yells through a cough.
I pause, waiting until she’s finished. I’m about to knock again when I hear a soft, rhythmic bumping sound. Is she hitting her head against the door?
I roll my lips to keep from laughing.
A minute goes by. Two.
I knock.
The door jerks open immediately, and Scottie looks at me coolly, the angry flush gone from her face, the blue under her eyes peeking back through.
“We have PR boot camp,” she says, letting me in. “Buckle up.”
***
Scottie’s PR training is ruthless in the most professional way—a study in tight answers, controlled pacing, smooth pivots that redirect without ever sounding evasive.
After two hours of training, talking, and practice, I’m sweating again—and not from conditioning.
“I feel like I’m missing something,” I say finally. “Can we reverse it? I ask, you answer?”
She studies me for a second. “Am I pretending to be you?”
“No, you be you. I’ll ask behind-the-scenes questions.”
She straightens slightly, shoulders back, expression neutral in that way that makes it clear she’s working, not flirting. Never flirting.
“Miss Quinn, you have a backstage pass to everything that happens with the Flaps. How are you feeling about the upcoming season?” I ask.
“Great,” she says. “Our guys are healthy and focused, and our coaches are world class. We’re ready to compete.”
“Nice,” I say. “I get what you were saying about being confident, not cocky.”
She nods. “Next.”
“What are the biggest opportunities you see in the Mudflaps organization?”
She pauses. “Learning how to trust each other in a short period of time. Minor league teams see a lot of change, so we need to build a culture that’s stronger than change.”
“Dang, that’s good,” I say, writing it down. The scratch of my pen across my notebook is the only sound. “I’m stealing that.”
Then I look back up, keeping calm, professional, but leaning forward like the reporters do when they’re sitting on a gotcha question.
“Some people say your relationship with Jake Rodgers seems a little … convenient. How do you respond to rumors that it’s more about image than reality?”
I don’t grin.
She doesn’t react. I keep my expression open, relaxed.
“I don’t spend much time worrying about rumors,” she says, though her gaze sharpens ever so slightly. “The people who matter know the truth, and that’s enough for me.”
“Got it,” I say, writing more notes. “You didn’t deny it. You didn’t confirm it, but you made it sound ridiculous, all the same.”
She nods, like her neck isn’t red, like her breath isn’t coming faster or harder.
“What would you say to people who think you and Jake are a terrible couple?” I ask.
She tilts her head slightly. “I’d say people are entitled to their own opinions. But it doesn’t affect me.”
“It … doesn’t … affect … me,” I echo, writing that down as if it’s a pearl of wisdom.
I look back up just in time to see her jaw tense. Just for a second. She takes one more breath. Not sharp. Quiet.
“And what do you say to the rumors that a player stayed overnight at your house?”
She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
“I’d say I had the flu and a friend came over because my boyfriend wasn’t available.”
Friend.
I write it down. I don’t know why. I don’t need to write anything down. My hand just needs something to do.
Silence stretches between us. It’s not awkward. It’s charged. And I’m sitting here with the word friend pressed flat into my notebook like a bug that just stung me.
Which of us is she trying to convince?
“That’s it,” she says with finality. “That’s all the time we have, guys. No more questions.”
I lean back, exhaling slowly, like I’ve just finished a different kind of workout.
“Wow,” I say lightly. “You’re right. I could hardly tell how you really feel.”
Her eyes flash.
Color blooms across her cheeks, fast and unmistakable.
“Training’s over,” she says crisply. “Go hit the showers.”
“Oh, I showered before I got here. So did you, come to think of it.” I push to my feet.
She stands up from her table and follows me into the kitchen, where she promptly pours herself water from her fridge pitcher.
“You need electrolytes,” I say, but she doesn’t listen. She drains the glass in one long drink. Then she sets it down firmly and looks at me … less firmly. In fact, she’s worrying her lip.
“What you heard yesterday wasn’t for you,” she says.
“I disagree,” I say.
“It could ruin his career.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone.” I keep my voice even. “But Scottie—Jake choked a teammate in the dugout last year. The worst thing that happened was … nothing. You don’t have the power to make or break him, no matter how much he needs you to believe you do.”
“He just got an Old Spice endorsement because of me.”
“Good for him. But he’d have gotten it in a stable relationship with anyone. You’re not the variable. You’re just the one paying the price.”
She shakes her head and looks at the floor, and something about the smallness of the gesture makes my chest ache.
“You don’t have a lifetime of experience saving him.”
“Neither should you!” The heat in my voice surprises me.
I try to dial it back but can’t quite get there.
“My sister spent years doing this for Logan and me. Worrying about us, protecting us, micromanaging our training schedules—like she’d made some oath she never actually took.
She was so busy being a mini mom, she stopped being our sister.
All it did was wear her out and drive us apart.
” I stop short. The hurt of it sits in my throat, lodged there. “I don’t want that for you.”
“It would hurt Jake if I stopped.”
“So?” The word comes out harder than I mean it to. “What about how it’s hurting you?”
She laughs. Just one short, flat sound.
“No,” she says.
Not “it doesn’t hurt.” Not “I’m fine.” Just—
No.
Like her pain isn’t even a category on the spreadsheet.
I’ve been around a lot of hurt in my life—Liesel’s avoidance, Logan’s anxiety, my mom’s long illness, my dad sitting at the edge of her bed on a thousand quiet nights. I know what it looks like when someone’s learned to live so far inside themselves that they’ve stopped expecting anyone to notice.
I just didn’t expect it to look like her.
“Your family,” I start. “Do they know what this costs you?”
She looks down and fidgets with a hangnail. Her veins are too bright through her pale skin. Her eyes well for just a second before she blinks the tears back.
“They don’t know,” she says quietly.
“Then tell them.”
“I can’t.” Her voice is barely above a breath. “If they knew how I’ve felt all these years—it would hurt them. It would hurt them too much.”
This woman.
When she’s not pushing someone toward something better, she’s making herself smaller so it’s easier for everyone else to swallow.
I take her hands before I’ve decided to. Just hold them until she looks up at me.
“Scottie Quinn.” I wait until her eyes are actually on mine. “The only thing that should hurt your family is how much they’re hurting you.”
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t pull away, either.
And I stand there holding her hands in her kitchen, the garbage truck finally reaching her street, the world outside exactly as loud as it always is—and I think about watching over her last night, think about my dad stroking my mom’s hair on all those quiet nights, and how painful it is to be exactly what someone needs …
And none of what they’ll ask for.