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I opened the lid and found a bottle of Honeybridge mead nestled on a bed of confetti.
Holy shit. My heart beat faster. Flynn must’ve reconsidered and decided to accept my offer after all, and I could be out of town by sunset. My stomach flipped with a mixture of excitement and something that I refused to believe was disappointment.
I lifted the bottle out of the box to examine it and only then noticed the strange confetti sprinkled around the bottle: irregular specks of black-and-white paper and—was that brown leather?—that looked like it had been run through a woodchipper.
Beneath the bottle was a folded slip of paper I hurriedly opened.
“Dear FROG,” Flynn had written in his bold, looping scrawl. “I already savor my life. Hopeyousavorthis, since it’s as close to distributing Honeybridge mead as you’re going to get. Get used to losing, Rainmaker.—F.H.”
I closed my eyes, torn between pissed off and amused.
Say what you wanted about Flynn Honeycutt—and I could think of a few choice things to say, for sure—he said what he meant, and he stuck to his word. I admired that, even if it made me want to shake him.
The man was being an obstinate fool, ignoring all that Fortress was offering.
But damn if the fucker hadn’t also packed the bottle with the shredded remains of Fortress’s contract, leather folio and all, which was so perfectly vindictive I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing.
Round 1: Flynn Honeycutt.
But if he thought I was going to back down, he had another think coming.
I traced my thumb over the last sentence of his note.Get used to losing? I didn’t think so. I was just getting warmed up.
“Mother,” I called, striding back toward the dining room. “What time did you say that softball game was?”
Game on, Flynn Honeycutt. May the bestWellbridgewin.
* * *
“Score is tied, two to two! Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. Frog Wellbridge is up to bat!” Pop Honeycutt yelled into his microphone near the Honeycutt bleachers, clearly not understanding—or maybe not caring—how microphones worked. “Back in high school, Frog had great aim but tended to be a little overconfident, and he wasn’t the greatest at tracking the pitch before the hit. Let’s see what he can do against the Honeycutts’ star pitcher!”
I shook my head and exchanged a wry look with Kurt “Righty” Honeycutt, the Honeycutts’ left-handed catcher. “I don’t know if I appreciate Pop’s version of color commentary.”
“No shit.” Kurt grinned and rubbed at the collar of his orange Honeycutt T-shirt. “He’s the only person in town impartial enough to be a fair referee, but he insists on calling the game, too, and his memory is annoyingly long. Every time I’m up to bat, he tells the story about when I whiffed the ball twelve years ago. Gets in my head and throws me off.”
At least I wasn’t the only one.
I tapped the bat against my toes, right-left-left-right, the way I used to back in high school, tugged my Wellbridge-blue shirt down firmly over my tight pants, and settled down into a batting stance. The man on the mound flexed his broad shoulders, wiped his palm against his luscious bubble butt, and adjusted his baseball hat likeheused to do in high school… and somehow, I just knew, like I knew my own name, that he was gonna pitch low.
Flynn nodded at some signal Kurt threw him, reared back, and sent the ball arcing over the plate—low but way faster than I’d anticipated.
“Oooh, and Frog gets a strike! Is it just me, or is Firecracker…on fire?” Pop laughed at his own joke.
The man on the mound smirked, and I rolled my eyes, like the sight of that smirk didn’t instinctively make my stomach swoop.
Meanwhile, the Wellbridge fans in the bleachers and even the Wellbridge players on the bases erupted into loud cheers of “JT, JT, JT!” and “Close the deal, Rainmaker!” which was incredibly cringy… but I had to admit, it was a nice change to be well known. Back in New York,my own doorman occasionally asked me for ID.
On the next pitch, I was ready. Flynn tilted his head to the right—a sure sign he was gonna throw a curve. Seriously, how did everyone in town not know this by now?—and I managed to get behind it. I hit a line drive between second and third, where Castor Honeycutt was daydreaming in the outfield, then darted to first base and parked myself there, watching in triumph as Marta Wellbridge and then Hank Croucher were able to score.
The crowd—at least the Wellbridge side—went wild, screaming and chanting my name. And for one way-too-brief second, Flynn’s eyes met mine. I grinned at him wildly, and his lips quirked with wry humor. He lifted his chin just the tiniest fraction in acknowledgment, andthatwas when I felt like I had won.
I took a single step toward him… but then a scream from third base made both of us turn our heads.
My cousin Redmond, who’d flown in from DC for the weekend, looked like he was still trying to cross home plate, but somehow, Alden Honeycutt had gotten the ball and was refusing to let him pass.
“Game’s over, kids,” Pop called through the PA system.
But Alden didn’t seem to hear him, or else he didn’t care. His eyes were practically glowing as he and Redmond faced off. Redmond looked left, then darted right, trying to make a run around him, at which point Alden let out an unholy screech and tackled Redmond to the dirt.
