My throat thickens. “It’s December 9th. Mom always had the tree up the day after Halloween.”
“Yeah, and it was a family tradition to do ittogether. You’ve been avoiding coming home?—”
“I’m not avoiding coming home,” I lie a big, huge lie. “I don’t get months off for vacation when the season’s over like the rest of you. And I’m Juliet’s maid of honor. I’mbusy.”
Lucas nods, but he’s clearly not buying it. He blows a raspberry. “So how’s the staff retreat?”
“Not bad,” I say.
“You’re not dating any players, are you?”
“No, I’m not dating any players.” I roll my eyes. “Players don’t attend staff meetings, anyway.”
“Unless they happen to injure their elbow and get a special assignment with the GM …”
I blink tiredly. “You’re so overprotective, it’s adorable. Like a big, dumb golden retriever who thinks he’s a German Shepherd.”
“Lee,” he says in his sternest “big brother” voice.
“I’m not dating Cooper Kellogg!”
“Really? Then why did a fan share a picture of the two of you together on social media?”
“WHAT?”
I swipe out of FaceTime and to social media. A few quick searches, and …
I gasp.
This picture is from only ten minutes ago, when Coop and I were walking through the hallway. I knew this would happen! He’s giving me that mock sexy, flirty look, and I’m glaring at him, but somehow it looks … playful. Coy.
The fact that we’re standing so close together when no one is actuallythatclose to us is a coincidence. There were throngs of people! Throngs!
“This istotallyout of context. He was elbowing me to make itlooklike he was joking about something he wasn’t joking about. If the fan had taken another photo a second later, it would have shown me practically vomiting on his shoe.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. You know I can’t stand Cooper Kellogg. He’s the worst,” I say, but it feels like lip service after working together last night. He still has the biggest head of anyone I’ve ever met, but he’s not abadguy. He’s simply a bad ambassador for the game I love so much.
To old timers, at any rate.
“So what were you two doing?”
“Work. He’s helping with scouting, and I’m in analytics. That’s the job. We’re looking to fill Coop’s spot, and that utility player I discovered from Costa Rica is at the top of our list.”
He nods. “How about the rest of the lineup?”
My chest grows hot. My brothers have never pressured me to put in a good word for them or put them on the GM’s radar. But I can’t tell if it’s subtext on his part or a guilt complex on my part that makes me feel pressure to do everything I can to promote his career.
“I’m not sure. We have some trades and moves in the works, but it’ll be the GMs call.”
“Doug’s the best, man. You’re so lucky to work with him.”
More guilt. More pressure. Is this a friendly conversation, or is he hinting at something? An image of my mom crying happy tears when my brothers were drafted springs to mind, followed by her grabbing my hand.
“You’re the best sister they could have hoped for. I know you’ll always take care of them.”
And suddenly, the pressure and guilt are more than I can stomach. I’m not taking care of them. Yes, I managed the family’s schedules better than a personal assistant. I made sure they had forms and waivers and applications for every league, every tournament, every time. I ordered groceries to keep the junk out of their diets that wouldn’t help with their training.
