“And if you just so happen to avoid spending more time with your ex, even better, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll grab the merch.”
We duck into a service hallway leading to the dugouts. Some of the players are hanging out in warm-up jerseys, including Lucas, who’s standing half in, half out of the dugout—a Mudflaps baseball cap backwards on his head, looking like trouble with a capital T.
“Scottie Quinn! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Lucas says, trotting over for a hug.
She could not look less interested.
“You’re sweaty and not my type, Lucas. Keep walking. Oh, but sign some jerseys and hats first.”
“Turn around and I’ll use your back as my table,” he says with a grin.
“Did Logan steal all the oxygen in the womb? No.”
“I’m going to win you over eventually,” Lucas says as he scrawls his name.
Scottie huffs and shoots me a “Seriously? This guy?” look.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement—Aldridge, walking with Ronnie and yesterday’s photographer, giving them a tour like he’s some benevolent king surveying his domain.
Ronnie eyes me and my jersey.
“I think you’re wearing the wrong team,” she says with a laugh.
I paste on a smile and grab one of the hats Lucas just signed, stuffing it over my curls. “No, I didn’t. I’m supporting my husbandandmy team. I’m efficient like that.”
Aldridge’s mouth tips into a smirk. “Kayla has a soft spot for lovable losers,” he tells Ronnie.
She winces. I’m not sure if she’s worried about a PR nightmare or if Aldridge’s comment was as gross to her as it was to me.
But then she claps her hands, like inspiration has just struck. “Let’s pivot. What if we do a ‘Who’s winning the breakup?’ angle today? Aldridge in his office—busy, successful. Kayla in the VIP Suite—strong, independent. Very organic. Very real.”
I stifle a groan.
“Let’s capture big emotions,” Ronnie is saying to the photographer. “We want longing. Triumph. Regret. All that good stuff.”
Aldridge chuckles under his breath, low and smug, like he’s already imagining the headlines.
I want to kick him in the shin. Or maybe the throat. Either would work.
But more than that, I don’t want to get sucked back into worrying about image and perception at the cost of everything that’s real.
I pull out my phone and text Sean.
KAYLA
Wish you were here. Miss you.
I wait a full minute.
Nothing.
Not even the little dots.
I sigh and look out at the field, trying to ignore Aldridge when he jokes about "needing someone who could keep up with the pace of success" and pretends he’s talking to the rep, not me.
