I slow down, hoping he won’t notice me, but he does. He looks at my mug and then smirks before looking up at me. I wait for him to walk downstairs, but he gestures for me to go first.
“I’m fine,” I say. “After you.”
“No, I insist,” he says. “Even if I am a rude, classless, overpaid punk.”
I flare my nostrils but jog down the stairs past him. I refuse to worry about my pace the whole time. I run the stairs more than a professional athlete thanks to my ultra paranoid roommate. If he’s chomping at the bit to pass me, he’ll live.
At the fourth floor, I hold the door open for him—go manners!—but he winks and then continues downstairs.
Hewinks.
One conversation, one argument in an airport, and now he seems intent on messing with me. We don’t even know each other. We’ve never met before today, because it’s not like most stats nerds sit around the clubhouse chatting up players.
Who does he think he is? Walking into the fitness center, I can’t help but wonder where he’s going. Running outside, probably, so he can revel in fawning fans.
Okay, I’m being catty.
The weather is gorgeous out, and the Uber driver told me that nearby Pinnacle Peak has tons of pretty trails. Also, he played for the Diamondbacks before getting traded to theFirebirds last season. Maybe he used to live in this area and wants to reconnect with nature.
I start running on a treadmill that’s up against floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The fitness center overlooks a gorgeous golf course. I wonder if any of the people I see down there are Cooper. But no, he wouldn’t be running toward a golf course.
My feet pound on the treadmill deck, and my curiosity gets the best of me. I pull him up on Instagram.
Wow.
He’salreadytaken a selfie outside the hotel with a fan and shared it to his stories. And, naturally, it’s a woman. And she’s gorgeous.
I’m glad I don’t work directly with players. My dad and brothers have always warned me against them, but it’s a warning I don’t need. I would rather date the abominable snowman than a hotshot like Cooper Kellogg.
CHAPTER THREE
COOPER
“I’m such a huge fan, Coop. We’re all rooting for you to make a full recovery,” the very tan woman I just took a selfie with says.
“That means a lot,” I say with my signature grin. She turns her attention to her phone, and I’m 99% sure she’s going to give me her number. I bolt before she can.
I run hard and fast for the first half mile, wanting to get as much distance as possible between me and potential fans. But soon, my feet find a familiar rhythm that calms my racing thoughts.
It’s good to be back in Phoenix. The bone-chill of Chicago makes my elbow ache enough to needanothersurgery. I grew up in a border town in New Mexico, so mild, dry winters feel familiar to me. Because we didn’t have our own MLB team, my family cheered for the Diamondbacks. Getting to play for the team I love for the first seven years of my career was a dream come true. But I may have not quite been the dreamtheywanted. I wasn’t a bad teammate, or anything, but I’ve had a target on my back since I was on the cover of Sports Illustrated in high school. And let me tell you, I’ve had fun with that target. Sometimes at the expense of the team, as the woman in the airport suggested.
The woman in the airport. And the lobby. And the stairwell. She’s like a pretty little pest that can’t stop buzzing around my head. Those blue eyes of hers saw too much. And that mouthsaidtoo much. She said she works in baseball, and considering the entire Firebirds organization—from Single A to the Majors to our international affiliates—has meetings here this week, it’s safe to assume she works for the Firebirds at some level. She must belong to the most long-suffering department in the business, because she’s insufferable.
The stuff she spouted is nothing new; in fact, it’s getting old. I’d normally keep my disguise on, but I couldn’t with how wound up she was.
Maybe I shouldn’t have kept winding her, come to think of it. Her neck was so red when she was ranting about me, I probably should have kept quiet and at least listened politely.
Or not.
I’m not trying to make my team hated; I’m trying to make baseball fun again. Other sports have so much tradition around celebration, and baseball has a tradition of being “too good to celebrate.”
Too boring, more like it.
Kids don’t watch baseball to the same degree anymore. There’s a reason more and more people are getting into teams like the Savannah Bananas. They make baseball fun.
And so do I.
When the Diamondbacks traded me, it was because they couldn’t afford me. But not all of Arizona was sad to see mego, and it’s because of my “attitude” about the sport. I’m not respectful enough. I don’t venerate it like some holy institution.
