Page 11 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

Blythe scrunches her nose. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” Mesa waves her off while taking a sip of her drink and crossing her legs. “Just caught the end of the game.”

I must look like a dumbass as I continue to stare at her. She pulls the sleeve of her cardigan down until it covers most of her hand, then bunches part of it into her fist.

“What game?” Heston asks.

Gage perks up as well, and we all go silent, waiting for her answer.

“Oh. It was Cougs at River Bluff. Do you follow JuCo ball?”

I look away instantly. My hand flexes around my phone so hard I think a vein might pop. A deep crease forms in the center of Warren’s forehead. When Gage makes eye contact with me, he lifts both eyebrows.

“Tripp does,” Heston offers.

She smiles with an adorable gasp. I nod when she turns in her seat to face me. This is just a weird coincidence, and part of me doesn’t even believe her. It’s another one of her jokes.

“Who’s your favorite player?” I test.

She huffs. “You did not just name five players me.”

Shit.

I don’t look away as she stares a hole through me with narrowed eyes. I’m not sure why, but I have a feeling this will not be the last time Mesa calls me out on my bullshit. It doesn’t sting. It lights me up, my veins feel like they’re on fire, and I want her to do it again.

“Unintentionally,” I say with a shrug. “Humor me.”

“Rash is the easy choice, but Ladd is my favorite.”

“You don’t say.” I cross my arms, chew my gum, and pin her with a look that says prove it .

Mesa picks up her phone and turns it toward me with smugly raised brows. The home screen wallpaper is a selfie. There’s a Cougar sticker on her left cheek. She’s standing on the dugout steps in between first-team All-American Corbin Ladd and color commentator Meg Riley, of all people.

Her T-shirt in the picture says Who’s Your Laddy in bold black lettering.

“Cool.” It’s the only word I can come up with. Once would have got my reaction across just fine, but my lapse in logical thought makes me say it twice more like it’ll sound less lame the second or third time around. “Cool, cool.”

Now would be a good time for her to rub it in that she was serious by crossing her arms or flipping me off. Instead, we glare at each other until both of our mouths lift in matching smiles like we’d held out too long in a playful staring contest.

“I’ll be at the rubber match tomorrow,” Mesa says after clearing her throat and finally breaking our eye contact.

“What time?” Blythe asks. “I need to drop off some paperwork at the hospital near there.”

“Plan on leaving around ten,” Mesa clarifies. “It’ll be a quick turnaround because I have a lot of work to get home to. If you don’t mind going to the game after you’re done with your paperwork stuff, you can totally ride with me, though.”

Blythe smiles with an excited nod and then finishes the inch of champagne left in her glass. She stands from the couch, and Gage’s hand wraps around hers. His telling grunt is the universal sign for bedtime.

“You should go too, babe,” Warren says to Savannah. That idea doesn’t put an immediate smile on Sav’s face, but she warms up to it after a few seconds.

“You’re all welcome to tag along if you want,” Mesa suggests. “I get ten or so reserved tickets for every home game. It’d be fun to have some friends there since it’s the last game I’ll be attending for a while. My work schedule is about to be insane.”

Interesting.

The worry is evident in the way she puffs air into her cheeks as she slowly scoots back into her seat. There’s a weight to her last sentence. I can feel it.

Curiosity outruns my common sense, and against my better judgment, I take the offer. “I’ll go.”

Savannah speaks up a second later. “Me too. Yay, sports.”

Mesa’s easy smile is softly amused instead of annoyed by Sav’s obvious lack of genuine enthusiasm for anything game-related. “Perfect. This will be fun.”

“Are you a season ticket holder or something? Why do you have a stack of reserved tickets for home games?” I ask.

I don’t pay too close attention to the way her face lights up hearing my continued interest on the subject of baseball. Or try not to, anyway.

“My mom is a color commentator and always hooks me up,” she explains.

Mom? There aren’t many women calling college baseball games. I only know of one.

“Riley?”

Mesa answers with a proud grin. “Yes, that’s her.”

I clench my jaw, hoping it’ll hide the shock in my reaction. My head thrums with a loud beat.

She has no idea how many nights I’ve listened to her mom’s play-by-plays.

In my younger days, the games weren’t video streamed.

If we weren’t at the field, Riley, as they address her on air, was always cued up on my radio.

She taught me a lot about the game that way and always had me laughing with her dramatic reactions.

As a fan, I’d like to pull up a chair and gush over this girl’s mom. Maybe talk shop about the series with her. But I’d like not to embarrass myself even more.

My lips purse and I curtly nod, hoping to convey that I’m simply impressed by this new fact, and not at all internally reeling. The breath in my lungs eventually releases, and I push back my hat.

“Welp. See ya tomorrow, then,” I state as I retreat to my room. “Shotgun.”