by Liv Morris
“We should’ve waited.” I straighten my dress and try to fix the rat’s nest on my head. I open the door to the bathroom and leaning against the wall across from me is the makeup artist and my hairstylist with knowing smiles on their faces.
Busted.
***
“Welcome Brady Luck and his lady luck, Cali Jones,” Ella announces to the crowd. I may pass out.
“You’ve got this, baby,” Brady whispers as he grabs my sweaty hands and walks me out onto the stage. The crowd is standing and clapping, but the sound seems distant to me, like I’m not in my own body. I should’ve brought a flask or two.
“Have a seat, you two.” Ella shakes our hands and we sit on a loveseat-sized couch next to her while still facing the audience.
Someone starts yelling, “Lucky. Lucky. Lucky,” and Brady throws the crowd a big smile and air kiss with his hand to his mouth. A couple women try to catch it, and I get it. He’s fucking hot, and hot at fucking.
I try to concentrate while Ella asks Brady some basic baseball questions about the Series, but my eyes keep wandering to the camera. I probably shouldn’t be looking at them directly, but I can’t help it.
“Cali,” Ella says, and I turn back to her, realizing I was staring, open mouthed, at Camera One. “It’s her first time on TV. Let’s hear it for Chicago’s lady luck.” The crowd claps, but it’s not as wild as it was for Brady. Makes sense since ninety-nine percent of the women here probably hate me or want to be me.
“I have to admit, I’m super anxious,” I giggle, my tone panicked.
“Well, everyone’s saying you’re the person who’s broken the curse.” I glance at Brady, my brows knitted.
“The curse?” I mouth to him.
“The Curse of the Billy Goat,” Brady says, and I exhale, relieved Ella hadn’t dug around and found out about Brady’s cock curse. I immediately worried she knew about our fake engagement too.
“Fans are saying you’re the best hope of ending it since nineteen forty-five.”
“Wow!” I exclaim. I didn’t realize everyone felt this way about me. Brady’s ban on media worked to keep me in the dark.
“For everyone not familiar with this legendary curse,” Ella explains, “the Curse of the Billy Goat started when Billy Sianis brought his goat inside Wrigley to watch game four of the nineteen forty-five series. And game four is exactly what Brady is playing tonight. Coincidence?” she asks the audience, who begins to clap wildly.
“The problem started when Billy’s goat got gruff, or at least began to smell gruff. Both were kicked out of Wrigley and Billy left the stadium, saying, ‘The Cubs, they ain’t gonna win no more’.”
“So, on behalf of our Chicago staffed show, I think you know who we’ll be rooting for.”
“Thanks, Ella.” Brady squeezes my hand and smiles down at me. I think we survived—or I did. He takes all the media stuff in stride.
“So, when are you two tying the knot? I haven’t heard anything about a date being set.” Ella gives us a wink and I want to disappear into the couch.
“Nothing’s set yet,” Brady responds with his standard answer, and I exhale.
“Keep us posted.” Ella leans over toward us. “And I thought I told you to stay out of the janitor’s closet before the show.” The audience laughs at her comment.
“It was the bathroom,” Brady says in our defense, and I’m about to die. My mother, all the office staff, and the entire country just found out we fucked backstage before the show.
“Well, you know what they say about people when they fall in love.” Ella turns to the audience. “They have a lot of sex.” The world around me begins to spin and I start to see spots. Shit, I’m going to pass out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cali
“You feeling better now?” Eve, Jimmy’s wife, asks me as I enter the box suite for the wives and girlfriends at Wrigley. “I’m worried about you.”
“It was a day of double humiliation.” I lower my head in shame. “Not only does everyone know we messed around in the bathroom at Ella’s show, I passed out cold. It was only for a second, but still.” I close my eyes and shake my head, hoping the memory will dislodge from my brain. Sadly, it’s still there to torture me.
“You should’ve seen Brady’s face when you fell like a limp doll onto his shoulders,” Eve says, inching closer to me. “He was as pale as a ghost himself.”
“I am mortified, if you want to know the truth. Utterly ashamed to show my face.” I point to the sunglasses and ball cap pulled down to my nose in true Brad Luciano style.
“Nonsense, dear,” Eve asserts while locking elbows with me and leading me toward the special bar. “It makes you more endearing. Even the haters love you now. It’s like you and Brady are Chicago royalty. Our own version of William and Kate.”
“I’ve never wanted any of this, Eve, and now people thinking I’m the one who might break the curse? It’s too much pressure. If they lose, I’ll be blamed. Someone has to be the scapegoat, if the goat curse remains.”
“Funny, they’re saying it’s more the love Brady has for you.”
“The love? You know the truth about us. Brady’s a player and I’m a fun distraction. There’s no love, just lust. Lots and lots of it on his side.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he’s threatened to pummel Mitch. I guess you heard about the news today.”
“Yes, but Brady didn’t say a word earlier at the show. It never came up.”
“So like him. He’s fiercely protective of those he loves. He feels it’s his battle.” She pats my hand. “When players like Brady fall in love, they’re the last to know. I’ve seen it countless times in the leagues.”
Could Eve be right? He hasn’t mentioned our arrangement in weeks and it feels like we are living together like an engaged couple. I even trust him when he’s out of town and with the other guys on the team. But if they win tonight’s game, what will tomorrow bring? Will Heather have movers carrying my things back to my old place? Tears start to well up in my eyes.
“I don’t know, Eve,” I say in a scratchy voice, trying to keep from crying. I swore I wouldn’t let him have a piece of my heart and I failed. Instead, I think he has all of it. “After the Series, I’ll be wiped out of his life.”
“Don’t be so sure. What you need right now is a strong drink.” I look around at the bar. I do want to drown my worries in some vodka.
“What are you having tonight, Cali?” the bartender asks. We’ve become acquaintances over the last couple months. “The usual?”
“Sure, but make it a double.” He nods his head and fixes me a strong screwdriver. I have an hour before the game starts and should pace myself, but everything about today is telling me to get rip-roaring drunk.
***
Taylor walks through the box suite entrance about fifteen minutes before the game starts and finds me next to the buffet. Feeling tipsy, I load up my plate with traditional Chicago foods, like meatballs and chili-covered fries, choosing the delicious, greasy hangover-type food as a preemptive strike. I need something to fill my stomach or I’m going to get sick.
“Hey, Cali,” she calls, waving to me. I raise my plate at her and she comes up beside me, giving me a much-needed hug.
“I’m glad you finally made it.” Taylor has been my plus one in the special wives and girlfriends box suite at every home game. I told Brady I needed someone from my world there for support. I was thrust into his life, both figuratively and literally, and having someone from my life would help keep me from snapping under the pressure.
“Great performance today on Ella’s.” Taylor grabs a plate at the end of the buffet table and joins me. “I mean, I knew you were nervous, but wow, that was worse than you falling at Brady’s feet. You okay now? They interrupted Wheel of Fortune after Ella’s was over to report on your condition.”
“I’m fine. I was super stressed and forgot to breathe. Basically, I hyperventilated.�
�� I really want to change the subject. “We need to get you a drink.”
“Next stop.” She piles some potato salad on her plate, along with some barbecue chicken wings. “So, this could be the game.”
“And Brady’s got a chance at MVP if they win.” Butterflies start fluttering in my stomach again. “He’s taking the game in stride, though. Nothing seems to rattle him.”
“He’s got MVP in the bag. Everything in his game improved the day you became his fiancée. Still no date?” She eyes me and I look away while shaking my head.
Leaving Brady in the next day or two will break my heart, but at least I won’t have to lie to my best friend anymore. Fuck, this whole fake relationship thing has become so confusing. My feelings have overridden all logic and contracts, but I knew this was going to happen. I started falling in love with Brady the second I met him as Brad Luciano—the man without the big ego who actually needed me.
When the players start to warm up on the field, everyone in the suite takes their seats. Game time is only minutes away. I wipe my palms over my jeans.
“Guys in baseball uniforms,” Taylor sighs while tilting her head. “It’s the tight asses in back and the bulging cups in front. I hardly ever look above the belt.”
“Spoken like a real dude,” I tease, though I’ve never heard a man complain about a woman focusing only on his assets.
A few of the Yanks walk out onto the field and Mitchell stands not too far from Brady. He’s not directly approaching him, but it’s clear to me he wants to be seen.
“Do you see that?” I say, nudging Taylor and pointing in Brady’s general direction. “Check out third base.”
“Sorry, I was staring at the second baseman’s butt,” Taylor laughs, but then abruptly stops. “What the hell is Mitchell doing?”
“Oh shit,” I cry out while grabbing a hold of Taylor’s arm. “He’s walking toward Brady and yelling at him.” For the second time today, my head starts to spin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Brady
“Hey, Luck,” someone shouts from behind me. I spin around to see it’s none other than Cali’s piece of shit ex, Mitch Davis. Fucker’s delicate toe must be feeling better. “You stole her away from me, asshole.”
“Fuck off, Davis. She was never yours to lose,” I say, turning back around to face the field.
I don’t want to give his ass the time of day. Plus, I know he’s just trying to get under my skin. The crap he said to the press about Cali was directed right at me. My agent told me to ignore it and I agreed—until the last out is made in the Series. After that, the gloves will come off. My hand tightens into a fist at the thought.
“Like hell I will.” His voice sounds closer as he speaks. I glance over my shoulder and sure enough, he’s two steps behind me. Coach runs out onto the field toward me, his eyes full of panic.
“Davis, get off the fucking field,” Coach screams while waving an umpire over to where I stand by third base.
I place my glove on my hip and face the bastard, ready for a showdown, but Coach moves between us. “No way am I letting you get kicked out of this game over a woman,” Coach says to me. “Head back to the dugout. Warm-ups are over.”
Davis gives me a death stare as I walk away, and I gladly return it. Once in the dugout, I throw my glove at the wall, fucking pissed I couldn’t punch the shit out of Davis. He deserves a black eye or two for the shit he’s been spewing.
“Hey, guys.” I get the attention of Lance and Shaun, my posse. “Davis has to go down today. I don’t want him getting on base. If he gets anywhere close to third, I may end up kicked out of the game.” The guys nod their heads and look at each other, a silent agreement being made between us.
Lance is the starting pitcher for today’s game and Shaun covers first base. Between us, we’ll keep him off the diamond.
***
The first eight innings are deadlocked. No one has scored on either team and only two guys have gotten on base for Chicago. I’ve been up to bat twice and struck out both times.
The tension is high in the dugout and stands. Fans and players are on edge with a buzz of anticipation humming in the air. Coach has chewed through two bags of sunflower seeds and has gone silent as we approach the last inning.
If we lose today, we are still two games ahead in the race for the World Series, since it’s the best out of seven games—and winning the Series without at least one loss is rare for any team. If we take it all in the first four games, it would be practically unheard of, but we want to do the impossible and break the goat’s curse once and for all.
We are at the top of the ninth inning and Davis is up to bat. Lance’s first pitch to Davis is low and inside, but he swings at it anyway and misses.
Davis steps away from the plate and eyes me, then points his bat at the left field stands, signaling his intended target. Cocky asshole.
Lance glances at me from the pitcher’s mound. “Strike his ass out,” I call out to him, and he responds with a quick head nod.
The next pitch is perfect and Davis swings with a grimace on his face. He makes ear-splitting contact and I watch the ball sail out to left field, flying over the ivy-covered back wall.
“Dammit to hell,” I hiss at the motherfucking homerun. I kick the dirt and walk away from third, not wanting to be anywhere near the asshole when he touches the base I protect.
Lance walks over to me from the pitcher’s mound and shrugs. “Fuck. Sorry, Brady,” he apologizes.
“Don’t worry, man. You’ve pitched out of your mind this game. I may still have one more chance at bat and we will not lose if I do.”
Davis has me all fired up. I want to pound my fist into something—like his ugly face—but that’s guaranteed to get me kicked out of the game. Fuck. I need to calm my shit down if I want to help Chicago win the Series tonight.
As Davis rounds third to run to the plate, he slows to almost a walk. “Luck,” he shouts. “Cali still bite her lip when she comes? Or maybe your dick doesn’t get her there.”
I throw down my glove and start to charge at Davis, needing to wipe the mocking smile off his face. “You’re a dead man, Davis,” I yell, but someone grabs me from behind and I stop in my tracks.
“Stop, Brady!” Lance shouts in my ear, gripping my arms. “He’s not worth it, man.” But I’m seeing red and want to make him pay for dissing my woman.
An ump appears in front of me and I straighten up. I have to. “Brady, you are on the edge here. Take your position or I’m kicking you out of the game. Consider this your only warning.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, nodding my head. He’s right. This isn’t the place for a street fight, but dammit, you don’t mess with what’s mine.
It’s a fucking miracle, but I keep a cool head until we have three outs and the Yanks’ ups are over. Our team heads to the dugout to get ready for our turn at bat. The mood as we enter the dugout is heavy with so much at stake. We’ve played like shit tonight—all of us except Lance, who’s only given up one run. At one to zero, it’s sink or swim time for Chicago.
“Luck,” Coach motions to me, “what the fuck is going on between you and Davis?”
“It’s about Cali.”
“A woman has you about ready to blow this game?”
“She’s more than just a woman—she’s mine.” Coach’s angry face turns into a sly smile.
“I fucking thought so,” he says, patting me on the back. “Do you hear yourself?” I nod at him. “Eve’s the only woman I’d ever think about losing my shit over in a game while bringing my team down with me, wanna know why?”
“Why?” I ask, knowing if Lance hadn’t held me back, I would’ve beat the shit out of Davis—and still may. The game’s not over yet.
“Because I love her more than this game,” he laughs, and his words hit me hard. Love. The four letter word.
“You think so? We’ve only been together two months.”
“So, she’s free to go after she meets the terms of the agreemen
t?” Coach asks in a hushed voice, not wanting anyone to overhear. “When she gets the last payment, she’s gone, outta your life. How does that sound?”
“Like fucking hell,” I admit, and rub my chest. I get this odd ache when I think about her not being at the games cheering me on or in my bed. Who’s going to fall asleep with me under the stars on my roof? God, I think I do love her.
“Well, don’t be a dumb shit and blow it,” he warns with a pointed stare. “Have you told her how you feel?”
“Well, no.” How could I tell her when I just figured it out myself?
“Jesus, youth is wasted on knuckleheads,” he mumbles under his breath. “First things first, Luck. Let’s get this team fired up. Wouldn’t it be funny if one curse helped break another?”
Gathering the players together, Coach tells us to forget the game and pressure and just remember why they’re here—the fucking love of the game.
***
When it’s my turn up at bat, Chicago has the bases loaded with two outs. It only takes one run to tie, two to win. The feeling of defeat has turned to wild chants and deafening cheers in the stadium. The place has fucking come alive.
I bound up to the batter’s box feeling like a grand slam is mine. It’s a life defining moment for me. I will either strike out and the game is over or I will help Chicago win the World Series.
I think back to where this journey all began. It was at my first little league game and the same love for baseball runs through my veins twenty years later.
I fix my gaze up to the box suite where I know Cali sits watching me. Pointing a finger in the air up toward her, I blow her a little kiss. The crowd goes fucking ape shit, yelling, “Lucky! Lucky!”
The first pitch flies by me and I don’t swing. The ump calls a strike, even though I thought it was too high. I let his call go; it ain’t worth stirring up shit. The next ball looks low and inside, so I swing and all I hit is air. Fuck.
It’s okay, I tell myself, the next one’s mine. And it better be. I have one more swing or strike left before I walk off the field and Chicago loses the game.
