The Grumpy Player Next Door: Copper Valley Fireballs #3

by Grant, Pippa

  Cooper eyes me like I’ve lost my marbles. And my balls. “Tillie Jean. Did you break into Max’s house?”

  “That’s what sisters do, right?” I interject.

  Tillie Jean peers up at me, the moonlight catching her bright eyes and the shadows making her lips look even fuller. “Have you been drinking?”

  Don’t kiss your sister, Max. Don’t kiss your sister. I grin, then boop her nose. “Yes, but I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, you are, baby.” She winks.

  My dick springs to life. He’s forgotten that we’re sisters. Brothers.

  Brosters and sibyl-ings.

  Huh.

  I’m funny in my brain too when I’m tipsy.

  But not drunk.

  Never drunk.

  Cooper wrenches us apart. “TJ. Quit flirting. Jesus. Max, dude, you okay?”

  “I always wanted a normal family.” Good god. Who am I? Did I just say that out loud?

  “Are you cracking?” he mutters to me.

  Am I? Probably. “You—” I poke him in the shoulder with a finger, or maybe two fingers “—are my broster. And that makes your sither my sither.”

  He tilts his head. “Is this like that time in San Francisco when you did two shots and demonstrated that you have the tolerance of a thirteen-year-old girl?”

  “I wouldn’t challenge some of the thirteen-year-old girls I know,” Tillie Jean mutters.

  I giggle. “I challenge you.”

  What’s a cat that prowls good in the moonlight? That’s what TJ is. She’s like a cat. A sexy, sleek, prowly cat who’s sneaking up on my good intentions with that amused smile that makes her look like one of those super porny drawings of women in short skirts with big boobs and open blouses.

  Tillie Jean—my sister by way of making my dick behave—crosses her arms. “I accept. Coffee-drinking challenge, coming right up.”

  “To a hole.”

  “Did you slip him an edible?” Mackenzie whispers to Brooks. “He’s as funny as you on magic brownies.”

  Cooper hands Tillie Jean a glowing ball and mutters something to her.

  She shoves him away. “Ha. You just don’t want to get beat by your baby sister.”

  “You’re my baby sister.” I try to lift a finger but it’s full of golf club, which means I lift the club and almost take out a shrubbery. Shrubbery. Heh. That’s a good word. “Annoying. And younger. And annoying. And younger. And hot. Because I’m hot. So my sister’s hot.”

  Cooper claps me on the back. “Pick your hole, man. You’re gonna kick TJ’s ass. I can feel it.”

  “I’m hot.”

  “You usually are,” Tillie Jean mutters.

  Fuck.

  Fuuuuuuck. I’m really hot. This shirt is hot. Pants too.

  “Here we go,” Brooks says.

  “Hey, Max, bud, we have some decency laws here in Shipwreck.” The other woman—oh, it’s Georgia, Grady’s baker—holds my shirt out to me.

  I look down, and I grin. No wonder I feel better. Shirt’s all gone. “Ooh, daddy looks good.” I pump one pec, then the other, making my chest dance.

  Robinson cracks up. Brooks is howling. So I reach for the button on my jeans.

  Tillie Jean grabs my hand. “C’mon, Max. I have a hole you’ll love.”

  “I don’t like your holes, Tillie Jean. You’re my sister.”

  “Right? I don’t like your holes either.”

  She’s still holding my hand—gripping it, really—and her hand is warm and soft and strong and everything a good hand should be. I stumble over the flat ground, and that’s bad, Max.

  Bad Max.

  Can’t wipe out Tillie Jean.

  But she’s like a tree.

  Deep roots.

  Steadies me. Peers up at me. Her hands on my skin. “You’re only pretty because I’m hot,” I tell her. “Good genes runses in the familieses.”

  She smiles. “You’re a mess.”

  “You’re a mess,” I mimic.

  Her face twists comically.

  I grin. “Heh. Made you tongue-tied. Three hamburgers and a garden gnome say I can get a hole in one on this hole.”

  I point, and I have no idea if I’m actually pointing at a hole.

  Probably not, considering she doubles over laughing.

  No, that’s a hole.

  “You think you can get a hole-in-one on the hurricane hole?” she asks.

  “I’m a winner, baby. Sister. Baby sister.”

  “You are seriously in some kind of mood tonight, aren’t you?”

  I poke her shirt. It’s a good shirt. I like it.

  It has Fearlessly Me scrawled across her boobage under her jacket that’s hanging open.

  I like her boobage. Good boobage clearly runs in my family.

  “I,” I tell her, “am also meerlessly fee.”

  “Is someone recording this?” Georgia whispers behind me.

  “Hurricane me to the point,” I order.

  Tillie Jean grips me by the shoulders, turns, and gives me a gentle shove, and whoa.

  Look at that.

  I was already at the hurricane hole.

  “How much did he have to drink?” she whispers to Cooper.

  “Two beers,” he whispers back.

  “And a tot of shequila,” Robinson adds.

  “Shequila!” I crow.

  God, that’s funny. Robby’s a funny kid. I’m a funny kid. I kick ass at minigolf. Tillie Jean has an awesome ass.

  “Okay, Growly Bear,” TJ says. “Take your shot.”

  “You got it, Trouble Jean. I’mma gonna kick your booty to there and back.” I swing my club, hit my ball, and I miss.

  Wait.

  What? “Why do I have two balls?”

  “Because only real men have three,” Brooks replies.

  I snicker.

  Cooper and Robinson snicker.

  Tillie Jean grabs me by the hand and guides me to aim at the other ball, and huh.

  That one connects.

  But it doesn’t go very far.

  “Are you sure you want to play me?” she asks.

  “Oh, yeah, baby. Baby shister. I’m gonna play you so good.”

  She lines up and takes aim with her glow-in-the-dark pink ball—heh, just like her favorite glitter, and her bedroom. I like her pink bedroom.

  I whack off while I’m thinking about her pink bedroom.

  Shh.

  Don’t tell sober Max I admitted that.

  Ping.

  Her fuzzy pink ball sails into the shipwrecked ship, shoots out the other side, bounces off the wall, dips into the swirly whirly of death, shoots out onto the lower level, bounces around the corner, and then plops right into the hole.

  “What the fuck?” Cooper yelps while Georgia and Mackenzie explode in cheers. “Tillie Jean. Are you sharking us? You out here all summer practicing? Not. Fair.”

  “Not fair,” she mimics back to him with a grin.

  “Foul,” I call.

  “Holes in one are not fouls, big brother. But nice try.”

  “Yep. And now you have to do her laundry for a week for trying to cheat,” Georgia adds, like Shipwreck has rules about punishments for cheating.

  “He is not touching her laundry,” Cooper growls.

  “Oh, please.” Georgia gives him a playful shove. “Get over yourself, Rock.”

  “No one touches my sister’s underwear.”

  Tillie Jean laughs. “You are such an ass when you’re drunk.”

  My whole body goes stiff.

  Not loose. Not happy. Not anything other than drunk ass. She’s right. Cooper’s drunk.

  But more—I’m drunk.

  I’m drunk. And acting like a fool.

  Like an ass.

  I drop my club. Need to get home.

  Now.

  And throw up.

  Alone.

  “Max?” Tillie Jean calls.

  She was right there, but now I’m moving, and she’s not there, and what the fuck is this pirate ship doin
g in my way?

  “This way, dude.” Cooper grabs my arm, and I don’t want it to be a lifeline, but it is.

  It fucking is.

  Because he’s Cooper. And he knows. He knows everything. And he’s still here.

  He was here when I went full-on, can’t-breathe, catatonic with a panic attack the night I pitched my first no-hitter not long after I got to Copper Valley—Jesus, the questions—you here to turn the Fireballs around, Max? Max, you carrying the team out of this pit of loserdom all by yourself? How’s it feel to get the biggest win Copper Valley’s ever seen, Mr. Cole?—and he was here when I passed out and he was here when I woke up in the trainer’s room, and he was the guy who drove me to my first therapy appointment with nothing more than a dude, if it was your ankle, you’d go to a doctor. No shame in doing the same for your brain.

  I don’t hate Cooper Rock.

  I want to be Cooper Rock.

  But I never will.

  12

  Tillie Jean

  An ode to coffee on a bright Saturday morning:

  Coffee mocha latte

  Espresso yum yum yum

  Give me hazelnut and French vanilla

  To get me through this run

  “Come on, Dita, you’ve got this,” I pant as I jog mostly in place and backwards with Dita and Vinnie, who are walking slower than snails for the last quarter mile of Shipwreck’s annual Scurvy Run.

  Yes, the Scurvy Run.

  We run a 5K the Saturday before Thanksgiving every year so we remember to eat our vegetables and not get scurvy. I know. It’s dorky.

  It’s also fun, and we tend to raise a lot of money for charity, plus, we follow it up with a food cart vendor feast in the park.

  Usually Cooper and Grady would be with me, but Cooper’s MIA after last night’s drunken glow-in-the-dark putt-putt game that he and Max abruptly left early, and Grady didn’t want to leave Annika early this morning, since she’s apparently having a morning sickness day. I’d put a hundred bucks down that he shows up to serve Crow’s Nest donuts and muffins, but that he doesn’t hang out at the park any longer than about half an hour, except I know literally no one who would take that bet.

  My parents, grandparents, friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, and the Fireballs players who showed up to participate this morning—Trevor, Robinson, Brooks, and Luca Rossi, who drove in from the city early this morning with his girlfriend—have all crossed the finish line.

  Mackenzie and Henri walked the race, and they finished twenty minutes ago too.

  I’m starting to think Dita and Vinnie are trying to see how long I can jog with them before I drop dead of exhaustion.

  Heh.

  Like I’d show up for the Scurvy Run without beefing up on coffee first. I could do this all day.

  Though I’ll hurt like Captain America’s stuntman tomorrow.

  And no, I don’t want to talk about why I like to keep up with the back of the pack.

  It has nothing to do with seeing Max running backwards and encouraging the slowest pitchers during warm-ups a couple years back when I was in the city for a ball game and got into Duggan Field early, for family hours, before they opened the doors to fans for the day.

  Nothing at all.

  That would be like admitting my brother has influenced me over the years.

  Hmph.

  Brother. Whatever.

  “She’s evil,” Vinnie pants.

  “I know,” Dita agrees on a gasp. “I hate her.”

  We’re about two inches from my driveway, which means we’re two inches and the width of my front yard from Max’s house. “Join the club, my friends. Get those knees up! You can do it. We’re not letting you give up when we’re this close.”

  “Can you imagine—” gasp pant “—what would happen—” pant pant “—if TJ and LBS—” gasp groan “—had a love parrot?”

  “Dita Angelina Kapinski!” I gasp in mock outrage. “Hush your mouth. Even if Long Beak Silver were a shape-shifting parrot, he would never be my type.”

  Max’s front door opens, and Cooper sticks his head out. His hair’s standing at all angles like he slept over, and he rubs his face like he’s not sure what he’s seeing.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” I call. “So nice of you to show your face for the Scurvy Run. You wanna come help me motivate these two so we can get to the food?”

  “Did you just say you want to sleep with Long Beak Silver?” he calls back.

  I flip him off.

  And again, since I have basically zero experience doing it even if I can line up garden gnomes—shudder—in the shape of a fisted hand with a middle finger up, I end up showing him a pinky on one hand and my index finger on the other.

  “I got your back, TJ,” Vinnie says. He flips Cooper the double bird.

  “Good man, Vinnie. Good man. Now lift those knees and let’s get going. Can you smell those donuts? If you don’t move it, they’ll be gone before we get there. You know Grady’s gone as soon as his food is.”

  Cooper disappears back into the house.

  And finally—finally—Dita and Vinnie and I make it to the park.

  Dita collapses dramatically onto a park bench at the edge of the festivities.

  I might collapse dramatically next to her. This is what I get for my pride refusing to admit I need to exercise more before I run a 5K at half a mile an hour in forty-degree weather.

  “I can’t feel my legs,” she gasps.

  “Like I need a doctor can’t feel my legs, or like wow, that’s good, I always wanted jelly for legs can’t feel my legs?” I ask.

  Which is a massive mouthful when I’m panting like this too, for the record.

  “The second. And I still hate you. But I also love you. Don’t ever change.”

  That’s a relief. “You kicked booty, Dita. Way to go.” I try to lift a finger to signal Grady to bring one of his donuts over, but I can’t lift my hand, so I try a Jedi mind trick.

  It doesn’t work.

  Instead, Cooper shows up next to us, bottles of orange juice in hand. “Drink up, me hearties. Yo ho ho.”

  “How—” Vinnie bends over and pants too “—the fuck did—” and now he’s wheezing “—you get here first?”

  “Dude.” Cooper bends over to peer into his face. “Your pulse okay? You gonna pass out? Drink something. I walked and I got here before you. Jesus. Don’t do the 5K if the 5K’s gonna do you up the ass instead, you get me?”

  “Fuck off, Rock.” Vinnie glugs the orange juice, then plops onto the bench on Dita’s other side.

  “Tillie Jean,” Dita pants, “he stinks and I can’t move. Make him move.”

  “Cooper,” I pant. “Make him move.”

  He pins me with a glare, looking so un-Cooper-like that I stop panting.

  “How much coffee have you had today?” he demands.

  “Enough to clean me out before my run. You’re more or less dead to me for Jell-O-ing my toilets, by the way. I expect a gift certificate for Sienna Bordner’s housecleaning service for Christmas. Weekly, Stinky Booty. I want weekly maid service.”

  He doesn’t smile.

  And now I’m seriously concerned.

  I down the orange juice in one long gulp, then give Dita a shoulder bump. “Stay here. I’ll bring you a donut. Or the next best thing.”

  And then I join my brother and smother him with a hug, since it’s not often I’m the sweaty, stinky one. “Aww, my favorite brother,” I say. “Right behind Grady and Max.”

  “Don’t start, Tillie Jean.”

  “What? I have the best brothers in the world. Why wouldn’t I want more?”

  He untangles himself from my grip and looks up at the overcast sky as he turns and heads toward the food tables. “I’m not telling you this,” he mutters.

  “Clearly.”

  “Look, Max grew up…”

  “With a shitty home life,” I prompt.

  His face dances in irritation. “Right. You read all the articles about him.”

  �
��I read all of the articles about all of you.” Mostly so I have a reason for reading all of the articles on Max. But I didn’t just tell you that. “Go on. Quiz me. I can even tell you what Darren had to bring home from the ballpark for Tanesha every night when she was pregnant and why Francisco keeps an Easter egg in his locker.”

  “Wait, you know about that? He’s never told us why he keeps that egg in there.”

  I smile mysteriously.

  He shakes his head. “Not the point. Point is, I need you to quit flirting with Max. You’re not…helping.”

  “I’m not flirting with him anymore.” Final decision. Right now. Mostly because I was possibly offended that he thinks of me as a sister after he kissed me once and tried again. But I’m also rapidly figuring out that no good comes from me getting any closer to Max Cole.

  I fuck with his head. I don’t know why, or how, but I know I do, and I know that having their brains fucked with isn’t good for anyone on the team, and therefore, it’s not good for the team as a whole.

  “That got old since he’s next door every day,” I add.

  Uh-oh.

  Cooper’s giving me the flat, I don’t believe you glare. “Nothing ever gets old with you.”

  “Not true. I outgrew my addiction to Lucky Charms.”

  “After you ate too much of it while you had a stomach bug.”

  “Maybe I flirted with Max while I had a stomach bug and now the thought of him makes me turn green too.”

  “Tillie Jean, do not fuck with him. This isn’t a normal off-season. Last year? Last year, we had nothing to prove. Yeah, we knew things would be different since the new management would care and want us to win, but nobody expected us to make the play-offs. We just had to win a few more games, which was almost a given with fans coming back and us knowing we’d all get fired and the team moved to Vegas if we couldn’t pull it off. And you know what? We’re professional athletes. We like winning. Of course we were gonna win more. This year? This year, there’s pressure. Like we need to win it all pressure. And nobody feels it like the pitchers. Lay off, okay? Be a friend, not a pain in the butt.”

  “Do you know what relieves pressure?”

  My brother glares down at me with that do not sleep with my teammates glare that he’s worn since we were all old enough to understand what sleeping with was.