Page 28

CHAPTER 28

LOGAN

I feel shockingly good for someone who got very little sleep last night.

After getting up, I comb through my apartment collecting everything purple and packing it into a black overnight bag. The only things I leave behind are the books because I’m intrigued. I want to see how things go for the duke and the governess, and whether the rest are just as hooky.

There’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy in my neighborhood and I stop by to get a few things. Once that task is completed, I make the drive to the Orlando Wild facilities in record time, basically arriving at the same time as Jose and Harry, the groundskeepers. I dig into my bag to find two bottles of orange juice, which I know they both like. It’s not my first time meeting them at the front doors.

The thing is that I didn’t want anyone to see me sauntering into the admin area, beelining for Rose’s cube the way I am. That’s too… boyfriend-y. And I’m not in the mood to be teased.

Predictably, the marketing office is empty. I park myself on her chair and note that it doesn’t squeak. I’m glad she has a sturdy one that won’t leave her on the floor all of a sudden.

Unzipping the bag, I extract the two things I left at the top—a small chocolate box and a blank purple card. I pluck the latter and look around her desk for a pen. It takes little effort, since she has a mug stuffed with pens and pencils. I grab a random one and start writing.

I pause because it feels weird to write in purple ink.

She won’t mind, though, not when literally this whole tiny space is decked in that color.

“At least she’s easy to please,” I muse to myself.

Rose,

I’m sorry about the mess last night. Your things are in the black bag under your desk. Hope the chocolates make up for things a bit.

Logan.

I stare at the note. I can’t help but cringing at how cutesy my handwriting looks with this pen. And of course cheap chocolates from the drugstore don’t compensate for shit. She should sue me for the emotional distress my parents put her through last night. Or at least send me an invoice for the dinner.

Hastily, I fold over the note and tuck it under the chocolate box. It’s unwrapped, so she won’t think I’m hitting on her or something. That would definitely send her running for the hills. Who in their right mind would want to go out with such a messed up guy?

I tuck the bag under her desk so it can’t easily be seen by anyone passing by, and beat it all the way to the locker room. I’m going to do a light workout until people start arriving, and hopefully that’ll reset my brain until I’m forced to be social.

*

A couple of hours later, I sit at the back of the room behind the rest of my teammates for a meeting with the manager and coaching staff. But where I expect Rob Beau to kick it off with the highlights and lowlights of the last series, as usual, he catches me off guard with a different topic.

“Gentlemen and lady,” he says, tipping his hat toward Hope, who stands near the end of the staff line. “As you are well aware, trades are already happening all across the league.”

I’m calm. Beau wouldn’t break the news that I’m seeking one when I haven’t told anyone myself.

Well, anyone other than our social media manager, who is surprisingly tight lipped for someone whose living is made off broadcasting stuff online.

“And if you take a look around, you’ll notice that some of your teammates are missing.”

There’s definitely not thirty nine guys sitting in front of me. We’re missing Stewart, left outfield, one rookie and one call-up from the minors. As the rest of the guys take stock of their surroundings, the realization starts to hit them.

“Ah, shit! He didn’t even give me a heads up,” one of Stewart’s buddies says.

“Who’s next? Starr?” another wonders. “Because if he goes, we’re toast.”

“No, we’re real toast if Kim bounces,” a third adds.

That makes a few of them turn back to make sure I’m still here. Thomason, one of the young pitchers, visibly sighs in relief.

The conversation snuffs out as Beau’s voice rings again. “We have traded Stewart and Gonzalez, plus a draft pick, and sent Harrison back to the minors in order to make what is no doubt the best acquisition of the season.”

My eyes widen slightly. That’s high praise from the most level headed and strict manager I’ve ever worked with. Every guy in this room is constantly on a quest to get a crumb of Beau’s interest—forget scoring such compliments from him. That’s basically a unicorn.

So who the hell did we acquire? Babe Ruth himself?

Beau nods toward the end of the line, and the last staff member reaches for the door to open it. We all—and that includes myself—crane our necks to get the first glimpse of this mythical acquisition.

Someone at the front drops back on his ass. Another drops an early what in the actual and someone else whistles.

Since I’m all the way at the back, I get on my feet and try to angle myself for better view, but everybody’s doing the same damn thing and soon, I have even less visibility than before. All I know is that everyone is losing their collective shit and that freaks me out. I don’t know that many players who can cause a reaction like this, but one of them is definitely my asshole brother.

Except that out of all the seasons he’s had the chance to do this just to spite me, he never has. So why would he trade over here now? And especially when Cade Starr is proving himself to be the dark horse of the season, enough to rival Lewis.

It can’t be him.

Please , I go as far as praying, don’t let it be him .

One by one, the guys start taking back their seats until I’m the last one standing and?—

What the shit.

The new guy makes eye contact with me, what with me sticking out like a sore thumb.

I raise my eyebrows, because this is legitimately the last person I expected to see coming to this organization. Slowly, I retake my seat as well.

“Everyone, let’s welcome Miguel Machado, the newest member of the Orlando Wild family.” Beau finishes that concise little speech with a clap of his hands, and is quickly joined by the staff.

The players are slower to catch on, and the one who kicks us off is Lucky Rivera pumping his fist in the air. “World Series, let’s go baby!”

And that sends the room into absolute mayhem.

Hats and shirts go flying in the air, and the screaming is so deafening that I have to plug my ears with my fingers.

This completely derails the meeting and no one really pays attention as Socci and McDonald try to talk about the previous series. It’s only when McDonald switches to some highlights from Machado in his previous team that people start settling down.

Leaning to the side, I pluck my phone from my back pocket and text Kaplan the news. It’s the kind of big shit that he should know about because this potentially changes things. It’d be absurd to leave the team that has one of the best pitchers right now, and now also has the freaking MVP of the league—who is the top hitter all across the board.

My pulse spikes at the realization that maybe I don’t have to leave. Maybe it doesn’t make sense anymore. And if so, maybe that means that I can… I drop my phone on the table and shake my head.

Why am I thinking about Rose now? This has nothing to do with her.

When the meeting ends, I join the crowd in exiting the room, dragging my feet to allow myself more time to think. I can definitely ride out the rest of this season here and reevaluate my priorities afterward. Rivera wasn’t entirely wrong in assuming that acquiring Machado makes us a strong contender now. I’d be a fool if I change teams now and then the Orlando Wild wins the whole damn show.

A hand falls on my shoulder, stopping me on my tracks. I lift my eyes from the floor to Beau’s face.

What’s with the twinkle in his eyes?

“Hopefully this makes you reconsider, hmm?” He pats my shoulder and leaves ahead of me.

I stand in the now empty room and narrow my eyes at his retreating back. Did he… Nah. There’s no way he’d severely set the team’s budget back to acquire Machado just to get me to stay.

Would he?

“Wait.” My brow furrows. “This damn old man would.”

My phone buzzes and absentmindedly, I take it out again. The words on the screen barely register and I have to reread them several times.

Kaplan

Shit. This is a game changer

“No shit,” I respond aloud.

Tucking my phone away, I finally get my legs in motion to head back out to the locker room.

As expected, a crowd has gathered around the latest circus attraction. Some of the guys at the back notice my approach and let me through, and I weave my way to the front to see if this is the good kind of crowd—the eager beavers—or if this is the bad kind—a mosh pit waiting to happen.

But I don’t have to babysit anyone. In the middle are none other than the newest Wild player holding up a jersey with his last name in the back, standing in front of a locker that has newly been adorned with the same information, and our social media manager interviewing him with a professional camera.

My eyes zero in on Rose. From where I stand, the camera obstructs most of her face, but there’s no mistaking the giggles escaping her lips. Like she’s freaking delighted to be in the presence of Machado.

Something unprecedented happens then—the full force of it catching me by surprise. I grit my teeth so I don’t say shit. Tighten my fists so I don’t move a muscle. And I hope with all my damn might that none of these hawk-eyed assholes realize that I’m standing here, losing my mind because Rose is smiling at another guy.

And most of all, so that she doesn’t notice that I want all of her smiles to myself even though I don’t deserve them—don’t deserve her.