“What did he say when he …gaveit to you?”
“He said I didn’t seem happy and that maybe having a ‘hobby’ would help.”
A laugh explodes from my mouth. “I’m sorry, how rich are you guys that he thought a Minor League Baseball team would be ahobby?”
“That rich, I guess.” She shakes her head. “I tried to give it to one of my younger brothers, but my dad threatened to fire them and cut them all off. They’ve been sending me all sorts of ‘helpful’ tips, but frankly, they’re twerps, and I don’t want to listen.”
“Brothers arealwaystwerps. I have two—we’re actually triplets—but everyone calls them the Fischer twins, like I don’t even exist.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “The Fischer twins? Fischer brothers? Where do I know them from?”
“Nowhere,” I assure her, because if she doesn’t know baseball, she definitely won’t know a couple of minor league prospects. “But let me tell you, they act like they’re the younger brothers and the older brothers at the same time.” I launch into my rant, and Kayla nods and matches my experiences with experiences of her own, even though her pedicure is over. Her toes are red, but each of them has a Christmas tree on it, even her little pinky toes.
“And then yesterday,” I rant, “someone posted a picture of me with a colleague, and my brothers sent me a million warnings that I’m ‘not allowed to date baseball players.’ I’m not even dating the guy. We just work together.”
“Oh, is that Cooper … something? I wrote his name down. I’m having to write everything down with this blasted team. Cooper Kellogg!” she says. I grow warm. “You were the girl he was looking at all night long! That’s how I recognize you. I sneaked into that cocktail hour the other night to see if I could get advice on how to run a baseball team. Cooper was the only one nice enough to talk to me, even though he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”
I’m not just warm now. I’m burning hot. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Tell that to his face,” she says. “Sorry, bad joke. If you say there’s nothing going on, there’s nothing going on.”
“Well, let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye on almost anything.”
“Does that mean I shouldn’t take his advice? He said something about pitching winning championships.”
“Fine, he’s notalwayswrong,” I admit begrudgingly. “Definitely take that advice.”
She smiles. “You know, a little conflict now and then is good for a relationship. It means he cares enough about you to invest time into disagreeing with you.”
She looks at the gaudy ring on her finger, and I’m tempted to ask her if she’s okay. But before I can, an elegant woman pops her head around the corner, and her eyes land on Kayla. “Pardon the interruption, but sweetie, your stylist is ready.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be there in a sec.” Kayla turns toward me, and she fixes me with her full attention. “Liesel, talking with you has been one of the highlights of my week. Thank you for letting me interrupt you.”
“Thank you!” I gush. “I’m so glad I got to meet you. If you ever need baseball help, let me know.”
It’s a throwaway comment, but she takes out her phone, has me enter my number, and she texts me her contact info immediately. My phone vibrates beneath my leg, and I know it’s dumb, but it makes me feel special. Something tells me making people feel special is Kayla Carville’s superpower.
“Is there any chance you’re looking to become a baseball general manager?” she asks with no trace of sarcasm. “Or maybe a coach? I evidently need both, because ours are terrible enough that my dad bought the team for peanuts. Another present I would have happily taken over a baseball team: peanuts.”
I laugh. “I’m definitely not qualified for either, but please, text or call me anytime.”
“I will.” She gets up, and just before rounding the corner, she says, “Good luck with the overprotective men in your life. And if Cooper becomes one of them, I expect an update.”
It’s official.
I adore Kayla Carville.
I’m on an emotional high when I leave the spa. I feel refreshed, seen, and understood, and not even the constant reminders of Christmas can take that away. Hello, Christmas tree. Hello, oversized poinsettias. Hello, abominable snowman face tattoo?—
“Coop!” I stop myself before almost crashing into him. He fumbles with his phone, and it falls to the ground. I bend down to grab it for him, but he beats me to it. I only catch a glimpse of the video he’s watching—a drunk guy stumbling around like a fool—but Coop turns off the phone and puts it in his pocket.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Too many ‘drunk fail’ videos on YouTube?”
His laugh is weaker than I’d expect. I wonder if it’s because we both know people are watching us now. And by people, I mean my dad. And my brothers, thanks to every fool with a phone who posts pictures of other people online. I look around the mostly empty hallway. A few people with conference badges are on their laptops or talking on their phones, but the meetings are clearly still going on.
“What meeting did you just come from?” I ask.
