Why did Liesel’s dad have to show up and ruin everything? Why does Doug have to have such stupid opinions about umpires not putting a target on players’ backs? Why did I ever go out with famous women that Liesel could find online?
All through the next session—which Liesel happens to be at, mind you—she sends me screenshots of me with different actresses, musicians, and, okay, one model. One! But it’s not like anything went anywhere with any of them. They were for publicity. And curiosity, because come on, these women are famous and beautiful. But do I need to be reminded that I once went out with a woman who wrote a song about “athletes who put the word player in player?”
It wasn’t even about me! It was about some NBA jerk. But did that stop everyone from speculating? Besides, I was nineteen at the time. Nineteen year-old boys think famous people must be hotter and more interesting than non-famous people.
Stupid Cooper.
As if anyone could be more interesting than Liesel.
Her dad must be a mindreader, because every time his hot daughter texts me, he gives me a menacing grin that’s only used by professional wrestlers and serial killers, probably. My guess is Bruce Fischer could be either.
After the breakout, I avoid Liesel. But Bruce doesn’t avoid me.
“How’s the arm healing, Coop?”
“It’s fine, Bruce. Slow going, but my doctor’s pleased.”
“Tommy John’s surgery is a rough one.” He puts his arm across my shoulders, steering me in the exact opposite direction of Liesel.
“My next breakout is actually that way.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He leads me down the hallway and stops just past a twelve-foot Christmas tree. The thing may be tall, but it’s not broad enough to hide him.
“What are we doing, Bruce? My parents already told me about Santa?—”
“Stay away from my daughter.”
“Done.”
“Not just today, in general. In perpetuity.”
Annoyance flares in my chest. “I don’t know if you saw the press release, but I’m on the injured list for the upcoming season. Doug has me working as a special assistant overscouting. Scouting and analytics work together. I’m not going to stop doing my job.”
“You can do your job. And when the particulars of an assignment are over, you can keep your distance.”
I might be a punk, but I’m not typically a hothead. I’ve hid my emotions for years, not letting my mom see my disappointment, not letting her think for a minute that I’ve ever been hurt. Onthe ball field, I might be showy and larger than life, but I’m not impetuous or out of control. Usually.
“Bruce, you’ve been calling my games for a long time. What problem do you have with me?”
“My biggest problem is that you clearly have eyes for my daughter, and I don’t want that life for her.”
“What life?”
“You know what life.”
“Spell it out for me.”
“You have a stupid Christmas tattoo covering half your face. I’m not sure you can read it even if Idospell it out for you.”
“Then you should try.”
Bruce's eyes sharpen like knives. “The travel that keeps you away from your family. The stress to perform because you’re always in the spotlight. The attitude that you’re somehow better than other people because you’re famous. Thetemptationthat comes from being famous. How easy it is to give into temptation because you’re on the road and think no one will know.”
“Where I’m standing, you’re looking pretty hypocritical right now.”
“I’m not famous,” he growls. “I don’t face?—”
