The Grumpy Player Next Door: Copper Valley Fireballs #3

by Grant, Pippa

  Some pitchers make it to their late thirties, but that’s assuming no injuries. No accidents. No freak twists of the world throwing a curve ball at my plans.

  No getting tired.

  I don’t want to stay in until my late thirties. I don’t want to leave baseball broken and cranky and sore and needing constant painkillers on top of my anti-anxiety meds. I want to leave while I’m still in good shape so I can enjoy the rest of my life in relative comfort.

  And what then?

  I shrug out of the light jacket I’m wearing and toss it onto the back of a chair, because what then? always makes me break out in a sweat.

  Plus, it’s three or four years away.

  Practically a lifetime.

  And I’m not looking at Tillie Jean while all this shit is rolling through my head.

  Swear to god, I’m not.

  Fine.

  Fine.

  I don’t want to be looking at Tillie Jean, but she’s so fucking comfortable and confident that it’s hard not to trust that everything will be okay when she’s around.

  I don’t know how that happened, but it did.

  Cooper shoots a glance at my jacket. “You’re seriously hot in here too?”

  “I’m always hot.”

  Tillie Jean finishes off her drink and leaps up, swaying for a second before getting her footing. “I was only looking at your new tattoo,” she tells me. “Also, you have pretty good form for a guy who hasn’t balled a thrown in hic! months.”

  “Thank you.”

  She twirls in the center of the room, dancing to some music only she can hear.

  Cooper’s making a career out of grimacing today.

  Trevor’s working on the giggles more.

  And Tillie Jean keeps talking. “Did you know Thorny Rock kept a pet sea turtle? He named him Bob and tried to bring him with when he moved to Shipwreck before it was Shipwreck. Bob’s buried with Thorny Rock’s treasure.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Cooper mutters.

  “Yep. He did. I know because my paintbrush told me.”

  “I need a beer. Max, want one?”

  I’m not driving. My shoulders aren’t hitching at the sight of Tillie Jean. I’m feeling weird and warm and unusual, but not anxious, and I’ll stop at one. “Sure.”

  Cooper heads to the kitchen that lines one corner of the massive open room.

  Tillie Jean stops twirling as she gets close to the empty fireplace, and looks me dead in the eye. “How do you just get naked in front of the whole world?”

  I almost reach for my T-shirt hem to show her, except I still have a single shred of common sense keeping me from being a total idiot. “I work hard and look good.”

  She licks her lips and winks at me. “Yeah, baby.”

  “Knock it off, TJ.”

  She rolls her eyes at her moody brother, and yes, Cooper is definitely in a mood.

  Not normal.

  Makes me wonder what else is going on with him.

  “For realsies,” Tillie Jean says, swirling closer to me now. “How do you not think, Maxy Max, everyone and their mama’s gonna see your junk hanging out and compare it to every other junk they’ve ever seen, and it might not measure up, and they might tell you so?”

  “No more alcohol,” Cooper says.

  “No, top her off again,” I say. She’s funny right now. I don’t know who I am and what I did with the old Maxy Max, but tipsy TJ is unexpectedly amusing the hell out of me.

  In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her drunk.

  Over-caffeinated like that night at The Grog, yes. Lightly buzzed, occasionally.

  But not drunk.

  She doesn’t make a habit of this.

  She’s not my father. “And to answer your question, Trouble Jean, I know my junk looks good.”

  She squints at me, but only with one eye. Wonder if she’s seeing two of me. “I’ve seen a lot of junk,” she starts, but Cooper cuts her off with a noise that’s somewhere between a grunt and a coyote howl.

  “Don’t make me call Mom,” he says.

  She blows a raspberry, then whips her phone out of her pocket, loses her grip, and sends it scattering across the floor. “Sham.” Her nose wrinkles. “Dit. Sham. Shap. Doot. Gah. I can’t say cuss words!”

  Trevor giggles again, and next thing I know, I’m snickering as I retrieve her phone. “Try fuck.”

  “Do not say fuck around my sister,” Cooper growls.

  “Duck!” Tillie Jean cries. “Shoop! Kama-chameleon!”

  “Llama-ka-leemons!” Trevor agrees.

  They both explode in a fit of laughter. I’m grinning as I take the beer glass Cooper hands me. “What’s with the bad mood?” I ask him.

  “Nothing.”

  Right. Like nothing ever puts Cooper Rock, smiley-happy-annoying one, in a bad mood. “Accidentally hook up with a cousin or something?”

  He shudders. “No.”

  “Fireballs aren’t trading you, are they?”

  “No. Fuck, no. Where’d you hear that?”

  “Didn’t. Just don’t know what else would put you in a bad mood.”

  He shoots a look at his sister, who’s now sitting on the arm of Trevor’s chair and whispering something to him.

  Okay, yeah.

  I can see how that would put him in a bad mood.

  It’s putting me in a bad mood.

  Cooper can’t threaten Trevor with anything if he touches Tillie Jean.

  Not if Trevor’s done.

  And honestly?

  He’s a good dude. If I had a sister, I’d let him date her.

  Fuck. Now I’m scowling too. “Where’s Robinson?”

  Cooper hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Hot tub.”

  “With three of our cousins,” Tillie Jean adds. She hiccups. Then laughs. Then hiccups again. “You should go join him, Growly Bear. Steal all of our cousins away. Make Cooper blow steam out his nostrils. He could stand in for a mascot when Addie’s done chewing him up and spitting him out. Without a costume. He’d be the mascot Cooper Chewed-Up Rock.”

  One, I’m twitching at the idea of flirting with any of Cooper’s cousins, but not with Tillie Jean.

  Two— “Coach Addie’s giving you shit?”

  “She says his swing needs work.” Trevor snorts. “No one ever tells Cooper his swing needs work unless they’re trying to get under his skin.”

  Tillie Jean nods. “Well, he did hook up with her baby sister…”

  “I did not. Jesus. Does she even have a baby sister? I thought she only had brothers.”

  Trevor and TJ both crack up so hard that TJ almost falls off the side of the chair.

  Cooper makes his annoyed noise again. “I’m gonna dunk both of you in the hot tub and not feel bad when you drown.”

  “She really say your swing’s shit?” I ask.

  “She said I have room for improvement and that I don’t trust myself enough. Maybe she wants to show me how to tag a runner out at second next? Maybe how to do a few somersaults? Some flips?”

  Huh. I’m laughing. Again. “You gonna get her traded too?”

  Tillie Jean snort-laughs. Trevor tilts his head, moves, winces, and leans back again. “You can’t get a coach traded. We get a new catcher yet?”

  Cooper grunts.

  I grunt in return.

  We need a catcher. Heard rumors management was looking at some guys in our minor league affiliate team, but we haven’t heard anything else since Jarvis got traded for a draft pick after the season. People think pitchers are the most valuable part of a team, but we go to shit fast if our catcher isn’t worth a damn.

  And Cooper needs a good catcher too, since he’s the one snagging throws from home when runners try to steal second.

  “We should consult the mascot cards,” Tillie Jean announces. She lunges for a set of Go, Ash, Go cards on an end table and holds the deck to her forehead. “Meaty the Meatball, tell us who will be the catcher to Max’s naked pitching? Ooooohhhhm… Oooooohhhhmmmm… Ooo
oohhhmmm…”

  “She’s usually so funny,” Cooper mutters.

  “She’s very funny,” I tell him. Weird, since drunk people normally annoy me.

  “Meaty the Meatball says we must play three rounds of Go, Ash, Go, then do a bat spin race, and he will not tell us who the next Fireballs’ catcher is, but he will tell us we’re doofuses. Hic!”

  Her cheeks are flushed pink, and her eyes are the kind of glassy that often puts me on edge, except she’s also smiling.

  She’s smiling so bright and happy, like instead of alcohol turning her into an asshole, it’s turning her into a brighter, happier version of herself.

  Magnifying what’s already there.

  And what’s already there is already fucking spectacular.

  I eyeball the beer that I have yet to take a sip of and wonder what too much of it would say about me.

  Probably that you’re a fuck-up who would only dim her light, the beer suggests.

  Officially decided—I’m not drinking that shit today.

  I set it on an end table and hold out a hand to Tillie Jean. “C’mon, then. Let’s see if you’re right. Hundred bucks says I kick your ass in this game.”

  “Two hundred. And a back rub.” She winks. “You’re gonna make me empty my entire piggy bank today, Max Cole.”

  Cooper growls.

  I snort and dig deep for what I hope is a convincing, “Dude. You think I’m gonna touch your sister?”

  He gestures to her. “She’s the best you’re gonna get here, so yeah.”

  “Not true.” TJ’s dancing again as she slides out of yet another chair. “Dita’s a tiger in the sheets. Which you’d know. Mrow.”

  I wouldn’t put it past Cooper to be into one of the older ladies around here, but the way he spits his beer out in horror makes it pretty clear he’s never considered that as an option. “I’m calling Mom.”

  “Good. She’ll tell you to quit being a ninny.”

  “Last time she got drunk, she streaked through Sarcasm and left boob prints on all the dusty cars on the street,” Cooper mutters to me.

  “Oh my god, I was nineteen when I did that. And you were egging me on.”

  And I’m suddenly incredibly uncomfortable in my jeans. “Were you naked too?” I ask Cooper.

  “Yes,” Tillie Jean stage-whispers.

  He glares at her. “No.”

  “He was, but he can’t tell the baseball gods that, because he’s afraid they’ll go back in time and hic! take away his dream.” TJ pats my chest with the cards. “Play me, Max. Play me for dinner.”

  “Can’t. Signed a contract. I owe Cooper backrubs if I play you for dinner.”

  “Ew.”

  “Exactly.”

  We grin at each other.

  “But I can play you for the joy of kicking your ass,” I tell her.

  “Trophy! Stinky Butt, get one of your old Little League trophies. We need a prize!”

  Trevor snores.

  Cooper’s eyes both visibly twitch.

  And Robinson knocks on the back sliding door in nothing but wet swim trunks. “Hey, can we get a towel out here?”

  Cooper looks at me.

  Then at Tillie Jean.

  Back to me.

  I lift my hands in surrender. “We won’t start without you, dude.” And then I crack a grin. “Strip Go, Ash, Go is way more fun when you have to watch me get naked.”

  Am I pushing it?

  Yes.

  But for the first time in years, tossing shit like this makes me feel normal.

  Home.

  Like I might have found a place I truly belong.

  24

  Tillie Jean

  I don’t know who’s knocking on my door, but whoever it is will die.

  Dead die.

  Monday can die too. I hate Mondays.

  Or possibly I hate hangovers.

  Is today Monday?

  I don’t know. It’s Blursday. Let’s leave it at that.

  No, wait. It’s Sunday. Day off. Thank goodness.

  But someone’s still banging on my door.

  I lift one corner of my sleep mask and cautiously pry open a single eyeball. My brain’s not swishing around in my head, which is a good thing, but the soft light peeking through my curtains stabs my eyeballs and makes me mutter a curse that I shouldn’t say in Long Beak Silver’s presence if I want him to not repeat it in front of a bunch of preschoolers.

  “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty,” a voice that is definitely inside my house and definitely male and which definitely does not belong to one of my brothers calls. “I have to give Cooper proof of life or he’s coming down off his mountain to splash you with cold water.”

  Am I dressed?

  Do I care?

  Would seeing me naked render Max helpless to resist my body and make him determined to cure my headache with a few dozen orgasms like the one he left me with before going off to get that delicious no-tan-line tan?

  Could I handle moving my head enough to enjoy sex right now?

  Am I mad at him for leaving after that orgasm? Do I have any right to be?

  Do I care?

  Maybe I want to be mad.

  But probably not.

  “Mmfllbub,” I say.

  “I’m coming in, and I’m not looking at you other than the proof-of-life picture, and I’m bringing aspirin and water and a country loaf from Grady.”

  When did I get home last night?

  Did I call Chester and tell him that I know he gets his magic potluck macaroni salad from the grocery store?

  And why do I keep picturing Cooper riding Ash, the dragon mascot, while Luca Rossi slaps Glow the Firefly’s ass?

  Right.

  Too many rounds of Go, Ash, Go.

  “Fresh bread?” I croak.

  “Came out of the oven an hour ago. He was going to shove it in your mailbox. I offered to keep it warm.” Something shuffles in the room, and I peer out from under my sleep mask again in time to see Max setting a plate and a glass on my nightstand beyond the gauzy pink curtains.

  I mumble something else that probably sounds like oh my god I love you, but then Max lifts his phone. “Smile.”

  The flash pierces my skull and murders me in my bed.

  Okay, not really.

  But it hurts like hell, and I can’t see the aspirin or the bread.

  Miracle bread.

  Beautiful, delicious, stomach-healing bread.

  My brothers are sometimes the best.

  “You’re a disaster, aren’t you?” Max says.

  I grunt something in response and try to fling my arm just right to grab the bread.

  Bread first.

  Yeasty, nutty, delicious yummy bread.

  Miss.

  Miss again.

  I whimper.

  Risk opening my eyes one more time to try a puppy dog face at Max.

  He’s not growly today. It’s weird.

  If anything, he’s relaxed and happy and looking at me as if we’re friends.

  What the hell happened yesterday? I know I didn’t black out, even if I had weird dreams after getting home last night.

  With a ride from Georgia, thank you very much. Not a ride from Max.

  I remember that part.

  “Need help?” he asks.

  He very much needs to not give me that half-smile and aim kind eyes my way.

  “Please?” I whimper. I try to add coffee, but my words don’t work like that.

  My mouth.

  I mean my mouth doesn’t work like that.

  Not right now.

  He grins a little more as he hands me a slice of the bread. I chomp into the crusty part and sigh in utter heaven, letting my eyes drift shut again while the yeasty deliciousness floods my mouth with something much better tasting than whatever died in there last night.

  “Grady makes the best bread,” I say.

  Maybe.

  I’m still gnawing on the bread, and I think my words come out sounding like something a neand
erthal woman would’ve said to her husband when he left his rock tools hanging out all over the cave.

  “Were you honestly that upset at getting a citation that you had to get plastered yesterday?” Max asks.

  Oh. Right.

  My cousin gave me a citation yesterday. I swallow, and I form real English syllables. “Nuh-uh. Didn’t want Trevor to drink alone. Poor Trevor. He gives good hugs.”

  Max makes a noise.

  I slide a glance at him. “You give good other things.” What the hell do I have to lose?

  Other than him being nice to me like we could be friends for the first time in my entire life?

  He ignores my comment, and I let my eyes drift shut again.

  But only for a moment.

  The him being quiet part, I mean.

  “You’re a funny drunk,” he says softly.

  “Thank you?”

  He hesitates. I don’t see it so much as I feel the weight of the air shifting around me. I lift one eyelid again.

  He’s sitting against my closet door, and he meets my gaze for half a second, then drops it. “My old man…wasn’t.”

  I picked up on that right before Thanksgiving, and I’ve read enough articles about the team to know that people compare him to Luca Rossi all the time, but where Luca’s father is a shithead former athlete who pops up whenever Luca does something awesome, and only then, in the hopes of getting accolades himself, Max’s dad is nearly always quoted as being an absent figure in his life, but not before the articles mention that his mom died young in a car crash.

  It’s like the reporters are saying there’s a deeper story here, folks, and we’re gonna find it.

  “Are you worried you’ll be like him?” Smooth, Tillie Jean. Smooth. Hit the guy in the gut when he brings you bread and aspirin.

  And I don’t think I’d be holding back if he’d brought me coffee either.

  But Max doesn’t flinch. He just shakes his head. “Got my own problems. Being him isn’t one.”

  “What are your problems?”

  Those deep brown eyes shift up at me again. “Are you still drunk?”

  “If I say yes, will you spill all your secrets?”

  “If you say yes, I’m getting all of your secrets.”

  “Who are you, and what did you do with Max Cole?” I gasp and sit straight up in bed, even though it makes my head feel like someone took a meat cleaver to it. “Oh my god. You’re Max’s secret evil twin. Except possibly his secret angelic twin? What’s your real name, and what did you do with my growly bear next door?”