Page 32

CHAPTER 32

LOGAN

“H ow does it feel like to work together with your romantic partner under such an intense scrutiny?” the columnist asks us, and I make sure to keep my expression the same. Like I’m considering his question carefully and not like I want to turn around, walk out of the premises, keep going until I’m no longer in Orlando, and don’t stop even as I reach the Caribbean.

Rosalina is better trained for this, and she has no issue with responding right away. “It works out really well on a professional level. Logan’s focus on the game is unbeatable. I think if aliens suddenly land on the field in the middle of a game he would still play without making a single error.” Here she gives out an adorable little chuckle and even looks at me like she finds me genuinely endearing.

I can’t help but stare at her, wondering if she shouldn’t have become an actress instead.

Then she continues, returning her attention to the SPORTY Magazine dude. “The scrutiny part has been harder to deal with. I even had to make my social media accounts private. But if anyone so much as looks at me funny in real life, Logan’s immediately on it.”

“So Logan, you’re the protective kind of boyfriend?” The reporter grins.

Right now we’re in a conference room by the clubhouse, and Rose sits on a chair next to mine. My arm is on the back of her chair—her idea to show we’re comfortable in each other’s space, not mine—and I observe her expression as she waits for my answer. A remnant of her earlier amusement remains, but it seems to ebb the more the seconds stretch.

The answer comes with vehement force, though. “Yes. I will protect Rose from everything.”

Including myself.

I did the right thing by warning her off. She needed to understand that I’m not the right guy for her. That as much as I piss and moan about my bizarre family, I was raised by them. That she’s better off without any of my bullshit in her life. I would just drag her down with me and for what? So I can touch her and kiss her like I’m dreaming about every night? That’s not a good tradeoff for her.

The camera guy recording the interview makes a face like he thinks I’m as sweet as a puppy, and boy is he wrong. He has no idea that I’m on a constant war between my need for Rosalina Mena, and the traumas that make up who I am. That would actually be a way more interesting story for this damn magazine.

Someone knocks on the crystal door behind us and Audrey Winters from PR pokes her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, just wanted to give you a heads up that the photographer is all set up and ready to start.”

“Excellent,” the reporter says, shutting his notepad. “Let’s get that going, and if I come up with any further questions I will ask you between shots. Does that work?”

“Of course. Thank you,” Rose responds all polite.

I get up first to pull the chair away from her, and I hang at the back of the group, the PR rep taking the helm.

Rose walks just ahead of me and my last name and number at her back taunt me. I know that her wearing my jersey is a crucial part of the ruse, a social signal that she’s mine, but it feels almost cruel now. I wish I could just rip off the shirt from her and burn it to ashes. That nothing of me haunted her any longer.

I rub my chest. It feels hard to breathe and I force my lungs to expand, trying to catch the vital oxygen I need for my brain to keep functioning. It would be way too juicy for this magazine to catch me in the middle of an attack.

The air outside restores me much quicker, though. The green was freshly mowed and watered this morning, and the smell permeates the air. A sunbeam hits directly into the dugout and I turn my face to it, hoping the warmth chases away the cold claw in my chest.

Heavy steps approach and then a camera shutter goes off. I crack an eye open and find the photographer aiming his massive professional camera at me. Here we go, I guess.

“Hi Logan, Rosalina, my name is Reynaldo and I’ll be your photographer today.” He first shakes my hand and then Rose’s. “Were you briefed already on the kind of photoshoot this is?”

“Yes,” Rose chimes in with a smile. “We’ll reenact one of our videos that went viral, the one where I was recorded interviewing Logan.”

“That’s right, but also…” Reynaldo smirks a little. “We’ll have to offer some fan service.”

I do my best to stifle a sigh, but every single person around me can read my mind, or so I guess from their shared amusement. Even Rose.

Motioning at myself, I ask in a deadpan, “What should I remove?”

“Your agent made us include a clause to keep your pants on, does that help?” Winters asks, doing her best not to laugh at me.

“She gets to keep everything on, right?” I ask Winters while pointing at Rose.

“Yes. She’s not the athlete we’re showcasing here,” Reynaldo explains. “Though, we definitely would like a few shots of you two just being a normal couple.”

I catch myself in time before snorting. There is nothing normal or couple-like between us.

“Like what?” Rose tilts her head at the photographer.

Dude waves his hand in a no-biggie kind of way. “You know, a little flirting, light kissing, that kinda stuff. Nothing terrible that kids can’t see.”

Kissing?

I look at her from the corner of my eye. Her smile has frozen and sure enough, she slides the exact same look back at me.

“Kissing…” She trails off.

“Shall we get started?” Reynaldo signals at me. “Logan, first I’d like to get some action shots of you in full gear practicing with your teammates. Then when you work up a sweat we can move on to the shirtless takes.”

I nod, disinterested but cooperating because I don’t want any backlash for my partner-in-lie.

“In the meantime, I want you to act like you’re recording him for your videos,” he instructs to Rose. “I’ll stand at a distance and capture you both. Does that sound good?”

“Of course!” Rose is all rainbows and sunshine about this, confirming why I have to play nice. This is all for her benefit and not mine.

We end up using the minutes it takes to put on all my catcher gear to start the whole thing. Rose starts a conversation with me about what we’re going to eat after the photoshoot and I play along as the photographer starts snapping pics. I guess this must count for the flirting part, but with literal lenses pointed at me, I can’t ask her what we’re going to do about the kissing part.

Too soon I jog out to the field. The rest of the guys are in the middle of fielding practice, so I head over to the bullpen where it should be quieter. This forces the practice to pause for safety—no one wants fly balls conking someone’s head, and especially not SPORTY people’s heads when they’re the team’s biggest sponsor. But the entire team and staff know that today is going to be disruptive with this whole thing and that the sooner we get through it, the sooner we can all get back to real practice. So the pitching coach immediately finds me one of the rookies to throw balls at me so I can pretend like I’m doing what I get paid for.

“Throw slow, I need to watch out for the guests,” I tell the rookie before crouching into position.

Meanwhile, Rose is off to the side, her cellphone up as she pretends to record me. And then there’s Reynaldo and his two assistants pointing reflectors at us for the pictures. It’s ridiculous.

And yet, that’s the easiest part of the whole thing. Where it starts to get dicey is when Reynaldo notices that some weak pitching isn’t enough to make me break a sweat, and that I’ll need makeup assistance.

Practice goes to shit after that, because I’m taken to the dugout to divest of my catcher gear—and my top—so that a makeup artist can oil me up. The catcalling is pretty deafening.

“Hey, you missed a spot!” one of the guys instructs at the poor woman who is rubbing baby oil on my chest with surgical gloves on her hands.

She takes it seriously and observes my chest to find whatever spot that jerk refers to. As she rubs even harder, I’d give her props for being a professional if it wasn’t because her entire face is flaming red.

I lift my eyes from her, ignoring my heckling teammates, and I can’t find Rose right away. I tense, wondering if she abandoned me to these wolves, finally sick of this entire mess.

But then I find her standing next to Reynaldo, watching as the makeup artist runs her hands over my stomach.

Rose’s brown eyes are dark as she watches every motion. It’s too far to hear what the photographer says to her but I’m a pro at reading lips. He’s telling her not to be jealous, that Carly—I assume that’s the makeup artist—is a professional and she’s not really groping her man—Rose’s.

First, Rose is not jealous. Like me, she’s probably just wondering why I couldn’t oil myself up. Second, I’m not her man. At this point, Rose would probably like to toss me over a bridge on I-4.

“Turn, please,” Clary or whoever instructs. Sighing, I obey and rub my face.

It takes a while to finish my back and my arms. Afterward, I walk out of the dugout wearing my team jersey open at the front, and as the light hits my bare skin I have to admit that it does look like a sheen of sweat, and not like I’m trying to audition to be a nightclub dancer.

“Hey Logan,” Lucky Rivera calls out and I make the mistake of making eye contact. “You know what I’ve always thought about you?”

“No,” I growl.

He answers himself anyway. “That you’re a pretty sleek guy.”

To my surprise, the first person to join in his guffaws isn’t his best bud who already went through this humiliation, but Miguel Machado. That sends the rest of the team into peals of laughter, like this ridiculous dad joke is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

I slice my thumb across the air in front of my neck. “You’re all dead, you hear me?”

But they don’t, they keep ribbing off me even as I join the photographer. Somehow, Rose’s mood seems to improve as I approach, like the thunder on my face amuses her.

“Ready for part two?” she asks me.

I shake my head, unable to utter a word.

“Rose and I were discussing about the next stage,” Reynaldo says to me while motioning at his assistants to move. “Let’s head over to the water coolers so you can pour some water on your face.”

My eyebrow twitches. “Okay…”

I follow, resigned to my fate. Rather than keeping pace with the rest, Rose hangs back next to me and I can feel her eyes on me—somewhere. There’s a lot to look at right now.

“About the kissing pics…” She clears her throat and faces out to the front once I’m looking at her. “I was thinking about-to-kiss might do the trick just the same.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she repeats. “I’ll talk with Reynaldo about it while he snaps thirst traps off you.” She breaks into a little jog to put some distance between us, like she can’t stand to breathe the same air as me for a second longer.

My shoulders slump.

Sure enough, Rose chats Reynaldo up about her little plan while I pose for some saucier pics that consist of me squirting water into my mouth, trickles traveling down my chest and belly, and more shots of me sleeking my damp hair back. The reporter joins in to ask if we have issues with PDA, and Rose smoothly explains that part of her job is keeping media family friendly, and all that.

So here I am, holding very still while Reynaldo takes pictures of every angle as Rose and I don’t kiss, but look like we’re about to.

Rose’s back is against the cushioned barrier between the field and the stands, face angled up and slightly tilted to the side. Her lips are parted just a notch, plump and a tad damp like they’re ready for a taste. Her hands rest against my chest—under the open shirt—where she can no doubt feel just how violently my heart beats inside.

Those dark eyes that drive me wild lift from my mouth to my eyes. I have to grit my teeth to remind myself that this isn’t real. That I’m not actually about to crash my lips on hers.

It’s just really damn hard when our breaths keep mingling, when I have one arm propped against the wall so I can keep her cornered, when my other hand is on the curve of her waist over her leggings. My thumb has a mind of its own and sneaks under her shirt, tied at the front again, finding bare skin right away.

I’m not strong enough to stop it from stroking, even as Rose tenses and her eyes widen.

“Logan…” I don’t know if her whisper is an admonishment or a plea. Instead of pushing me away, she grabs harder onto my chest.

“I told you, didn’t I?” I whisper back, turning my face until our noses bump. “I can barely control myself around you anymore, Rose.”

“Can you guys get closer?” Reynaldo asks a second later.

Rose gasps as I pull her right against me. Her nose bumps into my lips and it’s torture to just not kiss it. It’s even worse to have her pressed against me and be unable to do anything else. But if that’s a metaphor of the situation I’m in, I wouldn’t know one if it hit me in the face.

Here she is, the woman I want, right in my arms. And when Reynaldo declares that the photoshoot is over, I must cut her loose and keep her at arm’s length forever. That’s the best I can do for her, and I hope one day she understands that.