by Grant, Pippa
Fan support’s waning for the home team.
The Fireballs are in danger.
“Where’s Mackenzie’s favorite seats?” I ask as we settle into the aging cushions at the narrow table overlooking the field, where Colorado is finishing batting practice.
She points to deep left field along the third base line. “She’s basically in love with Darren Greene.”
So, two season tickets for Mackenzie on the left field line. First time Sarah hits the bathroom, I’m ordering them up.
“What about you?” I ask her.
She frowns and takes a slow study of the stands. We’re between home plate and third base, with a clear view of the sun lingering over the hazy blue mountains to the west behind the bleachers, and an even better view of the infield and the Fireballs dugout.
“I never followed baseball until I met Mackenzie,” she tells me. “So I’ve never given it much thought.”
I drape my arm over the back of her seat and point out to the bleachers. “Ever sat there?”
“Once. The guys around us kept buying her beers, and we were both very happy by the time the game was over. Mackenzie caught a home run ball.”
“She get it signed?”
“No, we lost fourteen-nothing that game. She threw it back. After dunking it in a beer.”
“Ah. Bad luck seats then.”
“Definitely,” she agrees with a smile. “They have a four-and-twelve record when she gets seats near left field. Everywhere else is like one-and-six. But nowhere near as bad as the bleacher game.”
“But did you have fun?”
Her smile goes wistful. “I did. I think I needed baseball in my life. It’s normal, you know?”
“You never went to see the Dodgers or Angels play when you were growing up?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Once. The Dodgers. I was eight. All three of us went, and that was when Dad was doing the Stone McFlint series, and Mom had had two back-to-back blockbusters and more Emmy and Oscar nominations than she could keep track of, and we barely got into the stadium with all the paparazzi wanting pictures and shouting questions, and that was with a six-deep security detail. They both threw out a first pitch, then got invited into the announcer booth, and then into the owner’s box, and then to a box where there were some basketball players hanging out, and every time we switched boxes, they got caught up in people wanting autographs and pictures. Plus, they got a picture of me that looked like I was picking my nose, and when I went back to school a few weeks later, everyone made a big fuss of me being Booger-Eater Darling.”
“Not a great family outing, huh?”
She lifts her shoulder. “That’s the life of a Hollywood kid.”
I point out to center field. I don’t like that people can be shitheads, and I don’t want to dwell on it, or let her dwell on it either. “My favorite seats. Right there. As soon as we were old enough to hop the buses and the light-rail, before Bro Code, me and the guys from my neighborhood would get the cheap seats and hang out with all the bleacher bums a few afternoons every summer. Levi won fifty bucks off one of them once, betting Andre Luzeman would hit a grand slam. And Wyatt would always come up with different things we could spell on our chests. Got sunburned once, except the giant B.” I traced the letter over my chest and stomach. “We were Balls that day.”
“Of course you were,” she says with a laugh.
“Tried to do it again after we were all twenty-one. Got all painted up, reserved an entire row, dragged Cash’s brothers into it with us, Wyatt too, of course, and we all wore hats and sunglasses and these fake beards. Got the rattiest clothes we could find. Slouched. You know. The whole deal to go incognito.”
“Did it work?”
“Nah. First off, we got in the wrong order, so we were the Birefalls, and then, because we looked like really bad ZZ Top impersonators, the cameras zoomed right in on us. We’d hit the jackpot big time with the band the year before. Davis had just gotten his first tattoo, which was all over the tabloids, so between that and Cash’s nose, we didn’t even make it through the first inning before security was hauling our asses out of there to get us away from the fans who were getting a little rabid.”
She’s pensive again. “You chose that.”
“We did. Had a lot of fun. Still do. We talk sometimes about buying out an entire section of the bleachers just to try it again, but it’s not the same, being alone, just us. I like finding out the guy sitting in front of me collects signed baseballs and knows every player’s stats by heart. Or that the grandma two rows back is at her first game to give her first grandkid the birthday present of a lifetime. The realness of it. People being people.”
“You really like people.”
“People are fucking awesome.” They are. I don’t always trust them these days, but if I weren’t famous, I wouldn’t give it a second thought.
“What would you be if Bro Code had totally flopped?”
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come right out.
Because I’ve thought about it. Often, matter of fact, and more recently with Ellie’s accident putting a few things in perspective.
But I’ve never actually said it out loud.
A curious smile teases her lips. “What?” she asks again.
“It’s stupid,” I tell her. “I probably would’ve ended up working in middle management for my parents.”
“That’s stupid?”
“No. I mean, working for my parents wouldn’t be stupid. They’re rock stars. Not like, actual rock stars, not like Levi, but, you know, saving the world rock stars.”
“So what’s stupid?”
Shit, it’s getting warm in here. I glance back at the two bodyguards, who pretend they’re not listening.
“Are you blushing again?” Sarah whispers.
I scrub a hand over my face like I can wipe the pink away. “I wanted to be a doctor.”
“Why is that stupid?”
“Gotta be smart to be a doctor.”
“Being mildly clueless on social media is not the same as not being smart.”
“I was a B student at best.”
“And now you’ve seen the entire planet and launched a billion-dollar empire.”
“Building a fashion empire is not like brain surgery.” And it wasn’t even me. When the Giovanni of Giovanni & Valentino decided he wanted out, the empire crumbled, my non-compete clause evaporated, and Charlie suggested I sign on with an up-and-coming designer who needed some runway cred. I put my name on some loungewear, and it took off from there.
Not saying I didn’t have an eye for what the average guy wanted in casual wear and shoes and board shorts, and that I didn’t insist I’d only put my name on clothes that were actually comfortable to wear, just that it found me more than I found it, and I do a better job at hiring the right people and smiling pretty for the cameras in clothes I like than I do at being a fashion mogul.
“You wanted to be a surgeon?” Sarah asks.
“Nah, a pediatrician. More my speed, maturity-wise.”
She doesn’t laugh. “Can’t model underwear forever.”
“What? Of course I can. Got it all planned out. Underwear until I’m sixty, then I make Depends super sexy.”
“You could still do it.”
“Make Depends sexy?”
“No. Be a doctor.”
“Huh.” Right. Dr. Ryder. Not gonna happen. Even if I enrolled in college today, I’d be in my forties before I finished med school, and who wants a brand-new doctor who’s half-naked on all the billboards in town? “Oh, hey—look.”
I point to the scoreboard screen over right field.
Sarah glances over and does a double-take. “Is that—did you—” She whips her head around, looking at the sparsely-populated but slowly filling stands. “You got Persephone on the jumbotron.”
“Who, me? No way.” Of course I did. “She’s famous now. You made her famous. Bet they’re showing her all across the country.”
You can do it,
Persephone! flashes across the bottom of the screen under the live feed of the giraffe swishing her tail and pacing in her concrete enclosure at the zoo. The words of encouragement are followed immediately by Save the giraffes and an animal conservation website.
Sarah blinks quickly. She’s getting splotchy in the cheeks again, and her chin quivers. But she still turns in her seat to face me.
And then takes me completely by surprise when she cups my cheeks and presses a hard smacker right to my lips.
My body lights up like a match in the desert, flaring to life under her touch, and I know I need to let her go, to not take this any farther, that it’s not smart or even wise—she’s probably packing that taser—but I can’t help myself.
Her lips are so soft, her fingers brushing the shells of my ears, her breath sweet, her grip firm, and I haven’t kissed a woman in months.
Not like this.
And I don’t know why it’s different. Or maybe I do, but I like being in denial.
I angle my lips to capture hers, one arm tightening around her, the other hand resting on her thigh, and—
And no go.
She leaps back like I hit her with a branding iron. “Thank you,” she sputters. “For—for Persephone. And the giraffes. Have you ever thrown out the first pitch at a game? Both my parents did, that time we went. My dad made my mom go first so he could bumble his own pitch if she didn’t get hers close to home plate.”
I slink back in my own chair, feeling like an idiot.
Of course she doesn’t want to kiss me.
I turned her life upside down. I outed her identity. And I’m sucking her back into the spotlight to clear my name.
She’s not in this for anything other than the giraffes.
And I have to sit here pretending I’m totally into her for the whole game, because it’s a photo opportunity for the tabloids.
That she doesn’t even want to be at.
And it’s not actually all pretend.
Not for me. I’m feeling things.
I just don’t know if I can trust those things.
“Yeah,” I say. She’s squirming. I want to squirm, but I know better. “I’ve tossed the first pitch a few times.”
I easily roll into my favorite first pitch story—the one about me missing home plate and beaning the Fireballs’ dragon mascot—and I get my head back in the game.
This is about saving my reputation, my foundation, and my business.
It’s not about hooking up with the woman I’m supposed to be pretending to fall in love with.
No matter how much more I’m liking her every minute.
Seventeen
Sarah
It’s just for show.
This whole game and date are just for show.
Beck Ryder wasn’t kissing me because he likes me. He thought I was playing the part, and I flinched, which probably ruined whatever look he was going for, but I’m not an actress.
I’m just me.
“Do you like funnel cake?” I ask when an awkward silence falls between us, because if I’ve learned anything about Beck in the last two days, it’s that he’s always starving.
“Oh, hells to the yeah,” he replies, a full boyish grin taking ten years off his face.
Not that he looks old. He’s…what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?
Definitely old enough to not get excited like a puppy over funnel cake, yet here we are.
With him all but wagging his tail at the idea of fried dough and sugar.
He’s adorable. And with those sexy bedroom eyes—it’s a lethal combination.
He turns to the bodyguards.
“No funnel cake sold in the ballpark, Mr. Ryder,” the first one says.
“Can get a really good hot dog though,” the second one offers. “Or a hamburger or some pretzels.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Not the same. You want a funnel cake, Sarah?”
“I can settle for a pretzel.”
“But do you want a funnel cake?”
Twenty minutes later, ballpark security delivers a box of food.
And when I say box, I don’t mean a little grocery store rotisserie chicken-size box.
I mean a giant box. One of those suckers that’ll hold twenty reams of paper and apparently enough grease to slick a pig.
“Ah, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” Beck says.
He starts pulling out take-out cartons and bags, and the scent of fried food fills the air.
There’s fried chicken. Waffle fries. Funnel cake. Okra. Peach cobbler.
“Hungry much?” I ask him.
“Starving,” he replies. “You want a wing? Drumstick? We have to share the funnel cake. The cameras are watching.”
The cameras.
The same cameras that were watching the night I had my first kiss, which was broadcast via all of the gossip rags when it got awkward with a strand of saliva going between his chin and my mouth because I thought he was going for a kiss and he thought we were going for a hug, and I decided to go all out, and my freshman class had a field day with making slobbery nicknames for me for weeks.
I blow out a slow breath and remind myself I’m not fourteen anymore, and that I’m in control of this story, while Beck lifts the lid on the funnel cake, holds it to his face, and sucks in a deep breath over it. “Heaven.”
“You really like food.”
He breathes in again, nose right up in the fried dough, and I don’t know what comes over me, but I tap the carton upward, and he jerks back with powdered sugar on his nose, surprise giving way to an evil, evil smile.
“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, but I’m battling my facial muscles to keep from grinning back, because even if this picture goes all over the tabloids, I won’t be the only one looking goofy. He not only has powdered sugar on his nose, but his cheeks are dusted, and his stubble and one dark eyebrow look like they just survived a concentrated attack of flurries.
And he’s smiling.
He’s smiling so big, so uninhibited, with those eyes dancing with utter joy, that I’m in danger of jumping on the joy train with him.
“You know how long it takes to wash powdered sugar out of your hair?” he asks as he draws his finger over the top of the funnel cake.
I’m pressing myself as far back in my seat as I can get, knowing what’s coming, and unable to stop smiling back at him. “That assumes I care enough to wash my hair regularly. Ask my mom. She’ll tell you. It’s once a month for me.”
“Come here, Sarah. We need matching makeup.”
“Oh, no. It’s not even until you’re wearing some ranch dressing too. I’m still wearing some sriracha that I spilled last week during a game. See?” I point blindly to my gray shirt while he leans closer, threatening me with a powdered sugar finger.
“Looks clean as a daisy in springtime,” he replies.
“You didn’t even look.”
He lunges for my cheek, and I shriek and yank his hat down his face. He knocks his elbow on the table when he tries to straighten his cap, and the food skitters precariously to the edge.
I lunge for it, he thinks I’m starting a food fight, and we end up in a tangled heap of arms and legs with the funnel cake in Beck’s lap and a chicken wing down my shirt.
“Oh my god, get it out, get it out,” I’m shrieking as I laugh and bend over as far as I can go in my seat while I try to dig it out without flashing any skin.
“You need help?” he asks, angling his head to peer at my boobs, which are squished against my leg. “I could totally be a gentleman and help.”
“In your dreams, Ryder.”
“You know this funnel cake’s all mine now. It’s a rule. If you crotch it, you…huh. What rhymes with crotch?”
“Botch?” I suggest as I finally grab the fried chicken and pull it out from beneath my hem. “Flotch? Notch?”
“Yeah. You crotch it, you notch it.”
; My eyes go wide. “I don’t think that’s about funnel cake.”
He gives me the famous Beck Ryder smolder, and my body jerks to attention. You could notch me.
“You gonna eat that wing?” he asks. “The wings are my favorite.”
I settle back in my seat and hand it over to him. “I thought the okra was your favorite.”
“Favorite thing to sing about.”
I bust up laughing again, because what? “I’m beginning to understand why Ellie doesn’t talk about you.”
“Too much fabulousness. She’s never been able to deal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, okay. It’s because I made her sign a contract not to. I’m a terrible diva, and I don’t want anyone to know.”
“You’re a total goober.”
His face splits into a grin, and god, he’s gorgeous. “That’s what she says too.”
For once, I believe him. He snorts out a short laugh as he plucks a big piece of fried dough off his lap. “Hey, there’s a ball game going on.”
I glance out at the field. The scoreboard says we’re actually fighting a close game in the third inning. Mackenzie’s probably at the edge of her seat, biting her nails.
She gets so tense during the close games.
“Are you going to throw more food at me if I check to see if Mackenzie’s texting me orders to go to the bathroom?” I ask.
He sweeps another glance down my body, and a warm flush follows everywhere his gaze touches. “Maybe.”
“I know how to transport bees and hide a hive in your bed.”
His laugh is rich and long, and while I know we need to look like we’re getting along for the cameras—and yes, there are at least seven that I’ve been able to pick out, all pointed our way—it feels very, very real to have him laughing at one of my jokes.
“You’re not allowed to hang out with Wyatt. Ever,” he informs me.
“Too bad you’re leaving town and he’s moving in next door to me. Looks like you’re screwed.”
He just grins again.
Say what you want about the man, but you can’t deny he’s one happy guy.
Funny, that.
I ran away from the spotlight to find my happiness.
And here he is, basking in it. Happy about it. Even after having all manner of nasty things said about him in the last three days.
