Page 24 of The Fall Classic

I take the carton from Logan and roll my lips together. “Well, that was awkward. I’m gonna go.” I spin on my heel, but Logan’s laughing.

“It’s not awkward!” he calls after me. “It was nice. I’ve always wanted to be complimented for more than my quick mind and powerful physique.”

I walk with my head ducked down, my face absolutely burning.

“See you tonight, Georgie!”

I turn around the building, grateful he’s going the opposite way so he doesn’t see me sprint to the coffee truck.

I set the cartons down, fumble for my keys, and hop up to the truck to check the espresso machine.

Cold.

Dang it.

I press my hand to the side of the machine. It’ll be twenty-five minutes at least before it’s back up to temperature. I’ll have to dump the first several pulls so I don’t serve under-extracted espresso and risk turning off loyal customers, and that means Marlowe’s going to see it on my reports.

I think about the way Logan’s face lit up when I blurted out about his eyelashes.

Worth it.

CHAPTER SIX

Georgie

The seats Logan got us are four rows behind home plate on the first base side, which is almost exactly where we sat last game.

When we first sat down, Lulabelle kept looking around us like someone who’s already graduated from reading Encyclopedia Brown to Nancy Drew, her brown curls flipping as she looked around. “How did you get these seats? These are for people who make a lot more money than you do. No offense.”

“None taken,” I told her. “And a friend who works with the team helped.”

We arrived early enough to see the players still in warm-up mode—stretching and tossing balls around. I scanned the field and saw the moment Logan came out of the dugout, holding a water bottle and looking around.

He glanced around the stands casually, but when his eyes found mine, he stopped, that crooked grin finding his lips. And he waved.

Lulabelle squealed and waved back. Then she grabbed my arm and yanked. “Is it Logan Fischer? Are y’all friends?”

I gave Logan a small wave, hoping the distance would be enough to keep him from seeing how red my cheeks were. “Yes. He’s a regular at Meant to Bean.”

She squealed and waved at Logan again, and he waved back before turning away to stretch. “Does he have a crush on you?”

“We’re friends, Lulabelle.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, plunging her hand into the kettle corn and stuffing it into her mouth. “Well, if you get married, I want season tickets.”

I didn’t respond.

Now, the guys have all taken their positions and Logan is warming up on the mound.

Most knuckleballers are starters, the Chicks have taught me, but Logan has a handful of strong, reliable pitches that have made him a solid closer for the last two seasons. The Firebirds’ GM is invested in Logan learning to master the pitch, and starting will only help that.

Something tells me the Firebirds are getting excited about him.

The ump calls, “Play ball!” and gives a ball to Rojas to throw to Logan. Logan holds his glove up to his face, and then I get the sense that he’s looking past his glove to me.

The pitch he throws seems to float, and the batter swings at where it should have been, but it moves to the side and drops so fast, it’s like it vanished before his bat could make contact.

Strike one! Lulabelle and I both cheer with the rest of the stadium.