The Secret Hook-Up

The day I interviewed for my position with the Fireballs, I was positive I blew it.

That I said all of the wrong things. That my philosophies and experience were insufficient for the highest levels of baseball. That I’d accidentally insulted the new owners. That I wasn’t good enough.

Considering that the Fireballs were the worst team in baseball at the time and had been for basically decades, it took a lot to feel like I’d bombed an interview with them.

I’d gone back to my hotel, called my favorite sister-in-law to vent, and then decided to hit a bar for a single self-pity drink by myself.

That’s the night I met Duncan.

He was jamming out on an acoustic guitar on stage, absolutely slaying some Levi Wilson pop song.

He stopped after two more songs, and since I had nothing more to lose that day, I waded through the crowd of women, and what I realized much, much later were hockey fans, to offer to buy him a drink.

Because he was cute.

And he could sing.

And I just wanted him.

He came back to my hotel room with me. We banged. I told him I’d never be in Copper Valley again. Before he left, he gave me his number and told me to ping him if I was wrong.

I had no idea he was the captain of the Thrusters.

When he popped a dimple as he grinned and told me he did as little as possible, I thought he was probably an account executive at some industrial firm or an engineer or a teacher who liked playing bars for fun when he wasn’t at work.

Much to my surprise, the Fireballs did hire me. It’s been the best professional situation of my life. I love the team. I love being on the ball field every day of summer. I love my fellow coaches and the team we’ve built and the support we get from management.

An even bigger surprise, though, came halfway into my second season. I was out on the field, soaking in the sun and smelling the grass and talking to one of my players about what he was likely to see from the opposing pitcher that day, when Duncan strolled out of the dugout in a Fireballs jersey. I was so startled to recognize the guy from the bar that I almost tripped while standing still.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

And I don’t trip.

Dislocate my shoulder, yes. Trip, no.

Our eyes met, and his jaw dropped, and I forgot what I was doing, which is the last thing I ever need to do on a ball field.

Standards are higher for me than anyone else on the coaching staff.

I don’t want to be that token woman coach. So I don’t fuck up.

Ever.

But while I’d kept his number and thought about him occasionally, I hadn’t texted him before that night.

Mostly because I don’t date.

But I had to text him, to ask him to please not mention that he knew me.

And when I said something along the lines of you didn’t tell me you were a professional hockey player, he responded something like you didn’t tell me your interview was with the Fireballs, but I’m glad it was. Wanna get a drink and catch up?

The right answer was no.

I picked the wrong answer because he was friendly and funny and flirty over continued text messages, and I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask him in person to please respect my professional boundaries.

And instead of setting those boundaries, I completely lost myself in enjoying what he called a cookie date at his place, and then we banged again.

And then kept seeing each other.

Casually.

I thought.

Until I got hurt while he was teaching me to ice skate and he offered to move in with me to help take care of me, since we’re going to move in together eventually, and I freaked out and said I wasn’t ready to be serious, and he freaked out right back and asked what the fuck we were doing if this wasn’t serious?

But that’s my world.

Baseball first, fun second, commitment never.

Not when I saw firsthand what blind commitment did to my mom. And not with my dating history.

And my dating history is exactly why tonight is going to be awful.

Tonight, I’m out of my league.

That interview that I was sure I’d bombed five years ago has ultimately led to me being in a private hotel suite with Waverly Sweet, international pop star and wife of one of my former players.

And my friend.

She’s helping me reposition my arm into a glittery pink sling that goes with the new dress she insisted one of her costume designers make for me when the truth came out about how I injured my arm four days ago.

I didn’t think a dress could be made that quickly.

Apparently anything is possible when you have enough money.

“Does this hurt?” she asks as she finishes tying the sling.

“Not at all.”

“Good. No one’s even going to notice you’re in it.”

“If they don’t look at me.”

She smiles. “They’ll all be looking at you.”

“Hooray.”

My sarcasm earns me a laugh from the shorter woman. “You just wait. You’re going to bring in more money than anyone else tonight.”

Baseball’s All-Star break started today, so those of us from the Fireballs who aren’t playing or coaching in the big game are still home here in Copper Valley for the city’s annual athlete charity auction to support local youth sports teams.

All of the local professional teams have players and coaches offering experiences. I’ve managed to avoid this for the past five seasons, but not this year. This year, I was selected as the Fireballs’ coaching staff representative.

“Yes, I’m sure an afternoon of playing Croaking Creatures at a teahouse will bring in the big bucks,” I mutter.

I was supposed to offer an afternoon of axe throwing.

Guess what’s not happening now?

“You’ll be shocked at how much you go for,” Waverly says.

“Do not bid on me.”

“I won’t have to. The minute you walk onto the stage, half the men in the room won’t be able to keep their paddles on the table.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Cooper yells from the next room.

“It wasn’t, but it could be, couldn’t it?” she calls back. “We’re dressed. You can come in now.”

Cooper sticks his head through the doorway, dressed up in a black tux. He looks at Waverly and smiles that dopey smile that he’s had ever since she gave him a second chance during my second season with the team. The season that Duncan happened. The first season the Fireballs went all the way and won the whole damn World Series.

“You’re wearing my favorite dress.”

She smiles back at him. “This is new. It can’t be your favorite.”

“It’s my new favorite. And you should definitely not leave this room without double the security agents. Actually, you shouldn’t leave at all. You should stay right here, with⁠—”

“Please don’t finish that,” I interrupt.

Cooper swings his gaze to me like he forgot I was here.

Which he probably did.

And then the asshole whistles. “Coach Addie, looking good tonight.”

Since he’s not one of my players anymore, I flip him off. Even my bad arm is still good for that.

Then I cringe. “Sorry, boss.” It’s not so much that I keep forgetting that Waverly talked the team’s owners into selling her a ten-percent stake in the club for Cooper as it is that it’s weird for him to have gone from player to part-owner in a matter of months.

“You’ll always be my coach first, Coach Addie,” he replies with a grin. “Flip me off all you want.”

“I won’t let him fire you for it,” Waverly adds.

He slips an arm around her and kisses her head. “She won’t,” he agrees. “How’s the arm?”

“Immobilized.” Waverly’s team also did my hair and makeup for me.

“If we win you tonight, can we take a rain check until you can throw axes again? My form needs work.”

“I’ll go throw axes with you when I’m better if you don’t bid on me tonight.”

“You’ll go throw axes with my wife because you like her better. Legit. I get it. I like her better than me too. But I’m never sure if I get to tag along. I wouldn’t want me to tag along if I were you.”

“I appreciate your self-awareness.”

He blinks once.

Waverly giggles.

I smile, which isn’t something I would’ve done four years ago. But the longer I’ve been with the Fireballs, the more I’ve felt like I’ve found where I belong.

Mostly.

I still have days where my old insecurities rear their heads and warn me not to get too comfortable. But tonight, I’m determined to simply enjoy what I can of the evening. “I would have fun throwing axes with you too, Cooper.”

“Hot damn, she cracked,” he says.

“Must be the painkillers,” I deadpan.

“Nah, it’s all of this Cooper Rock innate charm finally getting past your defenses.”

I like Cooper. Always have. He was talented enough to get paid five, seven, even ten times as much by other teams early in his career—winning teams—but he insisted on playing for the Fireballs because he loved them.

Even when they sucked.

You can’t buy that kind of love and loyalty.

And that made it easier to relax around him even when he was still one of my players. When a guy who loves a baseball team possibly even more than he loves his pop star wife repeatedly insists you’re the best batting coach he’s ever had, you start to believe him.

You know what he wants. He wants to win. He wants his team to win. There aren’t ulterior motives.

By extension, it was easier to make friends with Waverly than it was to get close to the other wives and girlfriends.

They’re all lovely, but my default friend group should not be my players’ significant others. And now that Cooper’s part-owner in the team, I know I should have better boundaries with Waverly, but she’s worn me down over the years.

“I’m not the same kind of woman in a man’s world as you are, but I know a little about feeling like the standards are higher for us than they are for other people,” she told me during the first spring training after she and Cooper started dating again. “So if you ever need an ear, you can have mine, okay?”

I’ve taken her up on the offer more times than I ever expected, and I’ve always been grateful for her support. She says having friends who treat her like a normal person is all she needs back, and after getting a front-row seat to her life while she accompanied Cooper on road trips the past few seasons, I get it.

She’s been a good friend.

Waverly’s security detail pops in and tells us it’s time to go. They escort us down to the ballroom in the Madison Towers Hotel, where there’s a roped-off VIP section that we access through a back door.

Jimmy Santiago, the Fireballs’ head coach, is already there, as are Tripp Wilson and Lila Valentine, the husband-and-wife team who hired me before they got married, when Lila inherited the team and was forced to take Tripp on as her president of operations.

Lila’s a redheaded bombshell in an emerald-green dress and a confident smile. Tripp’s exactly what you’d expect of a forty-ish former boy bander with two kids from his first marriage—fit, well-dressed in a custom suit, and starting to get a little more silver mixed in with his brown hair.

Tonight’s about having fun, but I’m still very aware of the fact that I’m on display tonight as a potential candidate to replace Jimmy when he retires at the end of the season. So when Cooper offers to get me a drink, I ask him to get me what Waverly’s having.

She introduced me to her favorite cranberry seltzers at Cooper’s retirement party over the winter.

Delicious, with no fear that they’ll leave me tipsy.

Tipsy is for not work hours.

Not when I’m hoping for a promotion.

It’s still an easy, comfortable atmosphere as I chat with my fellow coaching staff and a few other VIPs from around town who have been cleared by Waverly’s security team to be in the private section. Heavy appetizers are passed around by the catering staff. I’m laughing at a story the women’s soccer coach is telling Waverly and me about her daughter’s wedding when that spot between my shoulder blades starts itching. It’s that one that you can’t scratch even when you have use of both of your arms.

I glance around for something to rub it on, and that’s when I realize why it’s itching.

Duncan.

Duncan Lavoie is here.

While it’s no surprise, I hoped that hanging out in the VIP section with Waverly and Cooper would mean I could avoid him.

But based on the way he’s talking to the security guard, I’m gonna guess my luck has run out.