Kathy walks by and I pull my finger out fast from the cord and give her an awkward wave, hoping she doesn’t notice my flush.
“You mean smart and sexy?” he asks. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“The latter, mostly.”
“So you admit I’m smart and sexy?”
“Did I?”
“You didn’t deny it,” he says. “But I do have something I need to talk to you about.”
I open a different tab. “The high schooler out of Montana you and Marty have been looking at, right?”
“No. This is way more important.”
“The fact that Doug hasn’t made any announcements about our pitching? What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t heardanything? Not even about my brothers?”
“The extended roster isn’t set till Spring Training,” he says. His voice sounds a little pinched, but he clears it. “Remember, there are a lot of moving parts.”
“Well, I wish this part would stop moving and get settled already.”
“Hey, your brothers will be okay. They’re top prospects with a major team. Things will work out.”
I exhale. I’ve been avoiding them since I got back, and not just because of Christmas. Because of baseball. I still feel racked with guilt that I didn’t advocate more for them, but the compromise plan Coop and I settled on is better for the team: trade for Colt Spencer, keep our veteran pitcher, and add my brothers to the extended roster. That will give them chances to actually play this season when a regular pitcher gets injured or we have a double-header. Coop is right. They’ll be okay.
“Okay, so what’s the important thing you needed to talk to me about?”
“This ‘Throwback Thursday’ picture of you from ninth grade that your brothers posted on social media. You look hot in braces.”
“I looked insane. And you can’t follow my brothers on social media!” I hiss into the phone. “They’ll know something’s up!”
“Their profiles are public, and I’m following under my private account. You know, the oneyoufollow.”
I redden like I’m sitting in front of a space heater.
In the weeks since we’ve been home, our communication has only ramped up. He followed me on social media under his private account that first night back, and we’ve both done extensive background checks by this point. I’ve looked at all of his posts—literally thousands—dating from before he was even on MLB’s radar. Pictures of him with his parents in what looks like a small apartment, but it’s cozy. There are countless posts of Coop in front of a beautifully decorated cake celebrating this win or that tournament. I assumed his mom bought them at first, but then I saw pictures of her and Coop baking together, even decorating some of the ornate cakes and later cookies together. Celebrating everythingCoopseems to be the theme of his mom’s life.
A couple of weeks ago, I probably would have seen his mom’s doting as a contributing factor for his arrogance.
Now, I know how sweet it really is.
In scores of photos, he’s beaming in front of banners, balloons, and streamers, all in that same small apartment family room. There are pictures outside of the house, too. Some with his friends and teammates, some with his dad, some selfies. But the pictures with his mom are onlyeverat home.
Then, within the last two years, the pictures with her shift from that apartment to a bright, beautiful home. The furniture is identical to the furniture in the apartment at first, but the most recent pictures show some changes. What hasn’t changed, though, is that big smile Coop wears when he’s with her. I can’t tell if he’s the happiest version of himself with her or if he’s determined to look like the happiest version of himself with her.
I’m gripped with curiosity daily. I press him for info when we text at night, but he isn’t as forthcoming as I’d expect.
At the same time, I’m riddled with nerves, knowing Coop is liking and commenting on photos of me with my family. I’mworried my dad and brothers will notice that he’s gone back through my posts. But that’s dumb, isn’t it? It’s not likethey’regoing back through my stuff to see if Coop is. And his private profile isn’t under his name, anyway. It’s a baseball moniker—@can_of_corn96—referring to an easily caught pop fly.
He especially likes the pics with my mom and me. Everyday, he screenshots a new picture and sends it to me with comments. He sent one, “You’re her mini me!” text, but then he added, “On a scale of 1-10, how awkward is it that I have a crush on your mom?” and I laughed enough that the comment didn’t sting the way it normally does.
“I can’t comment on fan photos,” I say as Doug walks by my office. “You have the wrong number.”
“Wow. It’s like that, is it?”
