“You want to talk about your boy Cooper Kellogg? There are probably a half dozen players in the league who aren’t half as pretty who deserve twice the pay, deferred or not,” I say.
“You think he’s that good looking? It’s the jaw, right? He has a great jaw.”
If I were a cartoon character, steam would come off me. “Are you even a Firebirds fan?”
“You could say that.”
“We should have moved Cahill to third, called up a Minor League player, and waited a year to trade for Hideo Suzuki, instead.”
“Suzuki? You gotta be kidding me. Coop hit fifty-two homers last season, ten more than Suzuki!”
“Yet Suzuki batted in almost as many runs.”
“So now Coop is to be blamed for other players not being able to get on base?”
I wheel on him, staring Rudolph right in the face. Face Tattoo is a lot taller than me, and he’s still looking at the screen, the brat. The least he can do is look at me looking at his tattoo while I put him in his place. “Coop blew a kiss to an opposing pitcher after he hit a homer off him.”
The guy snorts, eyes fixed on the TV. “That was funny.”
“Then he did a backflip at home plate.”
“Funny and agile. Who knew Coop could do a backflip?”
“Everyone! Because he pulls that kind of crap constantly!”
“Crap? The fans love it.”
“The opposing teams don’t. It puts a target on the entire Firebirds lineup.”
“They were playing their biggest rivals. The pitcher was mouthing off all week to the press about how Coop wouldn’t get a hit off him. So when Coop launched a bomb, he played it up for the fans. Besides, you’re missing the point: he hit the home run.” He shifts, tipping his head to the side so I get even more of Rudolph. “And if you’re so worried about budget, keep in mind that following Coop’s little stunt, he sold more jerseys than any player in the league and attendance spiked for the rest of theseason. Guess who pocketed the lion’s share of that money? The team.”
I narrow my eyes and turn back to the TV. I never thought of it that way. The sportscasters have turned this into a piece about Cooper Kellogg’s historic rise. On the cover of Sports Illustrated at seventeen, hailed as baseball’s next big thing. The guy was famous before he even graduated high school. “It was disrespectful.”
“Ah. You’re a baseball purist.”
“So?”
“So you think the game should never change, even as the world does.”
“I don’t mind changes,” I say. “I mind hotshots.”
“Coop gets people talking about baseball.”
“No, he gets people talking about him.” I point to the screen. “Heaven forbid a week pass where Cooper Kellogg isn’t a bigger story than his team.”
“People love him.”
“People don’t know him like I know him,” I say, a jagged edge to my words.
A laugh jumps from his lips. “You know Cooper Kellogg?”
I glower, hating his line of questioning as much as his stupid tattoo. “Let’s just say I have personal experience with him.”
“Why does that sound like code for you hit on him, and he turned you down?”
My pulse hammers in my ears loud enough to block out all background noise. “It’s. Not.”
“Uh huh. Sure.”
