Chapter 9

9

Lila

I'm still blinking at the door seven minutes after Tripp slammed it, trying to puzzle out exactly what happened. Arguments rarely end with me tumbling into bed with the man I'm arguing with, but my panties are wet and my breasts are tingling and my nerves are buzzing in anticipation.

Tripp Wilson knows how to kiss a woman.

And also how to make an entrance. And an exit.

I sink back onto the desk with a shuddery sigh, because once again, he's making me feel like I'm in a romance novel, except I can't trust the happily ever after here.

I didn't consider that firing the entire coaching staff would piss him off, because after I started going through all of the emails on Uncle Al's computer, and then the financials, it was obvious they needed to go.

Emails asking about the annual trip to the Caribbean for two weeks at an all-inclusive with hookers and booze as soon as the season was over. Pictures from previous years' trips. The bill for this year's trip. After Uncle Al died.

Which explains why none of the coaching staff showed up at the funeral.

He would've wanted us to go , Salazar told me last night when I called to ask him about the trip. We went every year. Earned our team vacation, so we took it .

When I pointed out that the team finished with the worst record ever recorded in professional baseball, he chuckled, told me I had a lot to learn about the game, and hung up.

I didn't fire him.

He fired himself. I just made it official.

No sense in dragging out the inevitable, and I did give them all severance packages, even if they didn't deserve them.

What's the difference in having a new coaching staff lined up beforehand in the off-season? We'd still need to do the same work whether I fired them all this morning, or waited until we had replacements lined up.

Except I know exactly what the difference is.

Two differences, actually.

One is that I'm pretty certain some of the emails I found on Uncle Al's computer mean that he was involved in a scheme to fund next season through a massive gambling operation that at least two of the coaches were also in on.

The other is, firing the coaching staff pissed off Tripp Wilson enough that he had to kiss me.

I'm really not an expert in personal relationships, but even I know that's not quite normal. And I don't think I mind.

Not at all.

Except, naturally, for the part where I shouldn't be kissing my president of operations. I grab the jockstrap I've been dusting with, also known as my cover for figuring out if this desk has any hidden compartments triggered from the outside, because my mom loved secrets and compartments.

She grew up here. In this building. In the ballpark next door.

Uncle Al's letter said they used to crawl around all over the ballpark hiding treasures.

Is it wrong to want to find a few more bits of my mom in the place that turned her into the woman who wanted to live overseas, spying for the CIA?

There's a knock at the door, and I straighten. "Yes?"

A dark-haired, blue-eyed man pokes his head in. He's in a red Fireballs T-shirt, black athletic pants, and white sneakers, and the combination of arm muscles and dimples make it click.

"Cooper Rock?" I guess.

One dimple gets deeper. "Mornin', Ms. Valentine. Just wanted to say welcome to the Fireballs."

"Thank you." I'd ask what he's doing here in the off-season, but I've studied all of the players on the team in the last two weeks, and I know he lives nearby year-round and is loyal to a fault. Interview after interview, he deflects How do you feel about the Fireballs losing so much? with Hey, that's my favorite team you're talking about. Tomorrow's another game.

"You got a minute?" he asks.

"Sure." I gesture to the couch.

He eyeballs the orange paisley monstrosity like it's a death trap in danger of spontaneously bursting into flames and spraying us all with flesh-eating bacteria, then rocks back on his heels and grins at me again with a quick fist-thump to his chest. "Gotta stand. Better for the ol' ticker. Anybody tell you yet that the coffee in here sucks, but the hole in the wall a block down makes a hazelnut latte that'll make you weep tears of joy?"

"I have no intention of firing you. Kissing up isn't necessary."

His grin gets bigger. "Ma'am, when you've got my kind of ego and track record, you don't really worry about getting canned."

"And your kind of agent?"

"He's a dick. I should fire him, but he keeps getting me endorsement deals for bandages and dog kennels and therapists. You know, all the stuff you need to heal your wounds."

It's actually impossible to not smile back at Cooper, which also puts him on my not to be trusted radar. "What can I do for you this morning, Mr. Rock?"

He turns the puppy dog eyes on me. It's like he has the handbook for make Lila as suspicious as possible. "I just wanted to put in a good word for my buddy Trevor Stafford. I know his arm isn't what it used to be, but the dude's got this presence. He's like that wise uncle that nobody wants to admit they need. Always knows what to say in the locker room after we get our asses whooped. You ask me, he belongs in the dugout, not the bullpen. Get him in there calming guys down between innings, helping us all focus, and I bet you a thousand bucks we win ten percent more of our games right off the bat."

I remind myself that most of these guys really do just care about baseball. That it's not about infiltrating the front office so they can stage a coup, which I can freely acknowledge is paranoia talking.

But there's a lot of money in baseball.

Money, power, and fame make people do bad things.

I've been around money for years, but there was little power and no fame involved with it.

Now, I have all three, which changes everything.

"What do you want to be when you can't play baseball anymore, Cooper?"

"Dead," he replies with a cheeky grin.

And again I'm struggling with my lips tipping up, but I make myself stare him in the eye until he blinks.

And then he's still smiling, but it's rueful. "You sound like my brother."

"What do you tell him?"

"This game's in my soul, Ms. Valentine. If I'm not on the field in the majors, I'll be coaching the little squirts. And if I ever can't coach, I'll be right back in this office begging for a job. And if you won't give me one, I'll go work at a bar and grill with the baseball channel on twenty-four seven. And if I can't do that…" He shrugs. "Then maybe I'll sell Fireballs fan art on Etsy. It'll be ugly, but it'll be Cooper Rock originals. That'll be enough to pay for my season tickets, hot dogs, and beer."

"That's very focused of you."

"I know who I am. And I know where the best cookies, muffins, and donuts in the whole state are too, so if you're into dessert, you know where to find me." He winks.

Is every man in this state a walking hormone?

His eyes suddenly go round. "Whoa. Didn't mean dessert that way. Would've made the same offer to a dude in your shoes. Cross my heart. Not that I—okay. Time to stop talking. Gonna go hit some balls. Wait. By balls, I don't mean—you know what? Never mind."

He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and darts back out of my office. I can hear him muttering shit fuck hell until the elevator dings in the lobby.

I can relate to that feeling.

It sums up very nicely what it's like to inherit a baseball team.

A baseball team that comes with a president of operations who can kiss a woman like he means to deliver ten thousand orgasms before the night's over.

I toss down the jockstrap again and close my office door.

If I were in New York, I'd make up an excuse to have a business meeting with Knox, who'd bring Parker along, who would yell at me for not telling her that I was working with Tripp Wilson, and then promptly demand all the details.

I wouldn't mind being yelled at. It's not my favorite thing in the world, but if the payoff is being able to talk to someone who passed a background investigation—though she doesn't know we did a background investigation back before we got close, and her friend Eloise is highly suspicious to Uncle Guido—then I think I can handle being yelled at.

Sure enough, it takes fewer than two whole rings before Parker picks up. "I'm trying really hard to be patient and understanding about how much you have going on right now, except you're hanging out with Tripp Wilson, aren't you? I always picked Davis Remington first—hello, tattoos—and I have to love Levi first because of that thing where he played with our band last summer, which I still can't believe happened, but Tripp is definitely third or fourth in my Bro Code rankings. And even if he was fifth, he's still Bro Code , which makes him hotter than basically every man on the planet except for maybe fourteen. With Knox at the top."

"I kissed him," I blurt while she pauses for a breath.

Her squeal is so fast and high-pitched, I drop my phone. I scramble to the ground to pick it up, and suddenly realize that if this desk had a secret compartment that my mom hid her childhood diary in, it would be under the desk.

"Do not repeat that." Oh, hell. I'm sweating. The last time I told a friend in confidence that I kissed a boy that I didn't want the whole world to know about, her mother called my mother and all of the neighbors listened in while my mother called my boyfriend's mother, and we ultimately had to have a conference with our kindergarten teacher, because kissing and dating in kindergarten isn't allowed.

At least, it wasn't at my school.

Yes, I learned at five years old to not kiss and tell. Not that I wouldn't have learned it otherwise from my mom in all the subtle lessons from a spy that she slipped into my childhood, but parent-teacher conferences were never my favorite after that.

"Lila. I'm not going to tell. But I do need something juicy for book club. Everyone will want details. Also, please don't leave book club just because everyone will want details. We like having you at book club. Especially when my brothers are there. Jack and Brooks and Gavin are still arguing over which one of them you liked best at the wedding. Speaking of, please tell me you didn't make out with Jack."

"Is he saying that?"

"He's not not saying it. The family text messages since the wedding have been brutal."

"Nothing happened. He asked me if Dalton ever invests in overseas securities."

She sucks in a loud breath, and I also hear traffic in the background. She must be walking to work. " That's why you two disappeared?"

"Isn't don't make out with your friend's brother a rule or something?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

There's a story there. And I don't need to have had a spy for a mother to pick up on the undercurrents in her voice. "I didn't make out with Jack. It was a business discussion, and obviously a short one at that. Are your brothers making out with your other friends?"

"Rhett's dating Eloise."

" Eloise? The…interesting one? And Rhett—he's the SEAL, right?"

"I don't want to talk about it, because talking about it makes me picture them having sex, and I'm not going there."

"I approve of this plan."

"Now. Back to Tripp Wilson. I can tell Knox, right? You know I can't keep secrets from him. But he won't tell anyone or else I'll threaten to hide our favorite unicorn blanket."

I squat to the floor behind Uncle Al's desk and start studying the space where the chair goes, looking for secret panels. "Will this interfere with me being able to look Knox in the eye?"

"No way. We've actually agreed if I ever get the chance to jump Davis, it's not grounds for divorce, though I probably wouldn't do it because he's top on half my friends' lists too. Anyway. Tell me about this kiss, and if I lose you in the elevator, you're going to have to tell me again when I'm off. Was it totally romantic? Was he comforting you and then it just happened? Did you stumble walking down the hall and he caught you? Or was it lust at first sight? Are you going to sleep with him? Or was it a one-time thing?"

The first kiss? Or this last kiss? "It was…an angry kiss."

" Ooooh . So he was mad that you basically fired the entire Fireballs organization?"

"Yes."

"And so he kissed you?"

"Yes."

" Lila and Tripp Wilson, sitting in a tree… "

"I will hang up on you."

"Men don't angry-kiss women they're not totally into."

"He works for me."

"So fire him. And then jump his bones. I approve." There's a ding, then a shuffle, and for a second I think I've lost her, but I'm wrong.

She says something quietly that I don't catch to someone else. Getting to the office this morning, I assume.

"Sorry. I'm back. Continue. Tell me about how you're going to live out every teenage fantasy that I ever had. Or…later than teenage fantasies. Whatever."

The paneling under the desk is solid. Nothing hidden in here. "First, I don't think that's the normal way into a man's pants. Second, I can't , or else the baseball commissioner will force me to sell the team and move them wherever he can find a buyer for them. Ouch! "

"What are you doing? You're breathing hard. And not in the I'm calling to talk to you about Tripp Wilson while riding him naked kind of way. Which would be awkward."

"This entire conversation is awkward."

"If people would embrace their own awkward more instead of trying to conform to some random normal defined by people who probably have bigger problems than the rest of us, can you imagine how much more humanity could accomplish? Like, if all the people in the world would quit putting energy into pretending they didn't have quirks and issues? That's the biggest energy suck in the entire universe and it's keeping us from unlocking our full potential."

I rub my head while I climb back out from under the desk. My skirt is not built for this kind of stretching and sneaking around, and not for the first time in my life, I understand why my mom preferred pantsuits when she had to play the businesswoman.

Also not for the first time, I understand how Parker can be the vice president of marketing at the nation's fastest-growing organic grocery chain. She embraces her own quirks and uses them to steer marketing campaigns that people relate to at a gut level.

"I don't know how not to conform," I tell her. Conforming makes you blend in. Blending in keeps you safe.

And speaking of safe, I'm going to need a hazmat suit to go through Uncle Al's drawers. The middle drawer, where normal, conforming people would keep pens and spare staples and charging cords, is instead filled with used peppermint wrappers, condoms, and—oh, god.

That's a cock ring.

And now I'm thinking about duck penises. " Dammit ."

"Ohmygod, I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner. Do you need help? Like, someone to come down there and help you go through your uncle's stuff? Are you staying at his house?"

"I need to burn it all to the ground." I yank the drawer out of its tracks and march it out of my office, phone tucked under my ear, because I didn't think to put myself on earbuds since I wasn't planning on redecorating Uncle Al's office quite yet.

And then I stop short.

Parker grins at me. She's behind the receptionist's desk with her feet propped up on it, strawberry blond hair tied back in a ponytail, clad in jeans, boots, and an ugly Christmas sweater decorated with tacos, even though Christmas is still two months away.

"Matches," she says. "I'll add them to my list. What's in the drawer?"

My jaw slips, and I can't blink for fear she'll disappear.

"Lila. Your uncle died. You've never talked about other relatives. Or other friends. I know about thirteen things about baseball, and you're one of my best friends. Where else would I be right now?"

I'm standing here holding a drawer that's full of stuff that could give a forensic investigator a very clear picture of my uncle's sexcapades in his office, and I'm about to cry because I'm suddenly not alone and mildly panicked about it.

"Thirteen?" I sputter.

That's where I am. Stuck on her knowing thirteen things about baseball.

She grins bigger, and her hazel eyes sparkle. "My baby brother does play professionally, and I might've been responsible for getting him to seven million games when he was growing up. So possibly more than thirteen. Seriously. What's with the drawer?"

"My uncle kept his cock ring in it."

She goes seven shades of purple and red and makes a strangled noise.

I sigh. "Yes, it's disgusting. But so are you and Knox, and I was there at your bridal shower when you got a whole set of unicorn-themed cock rings, so can we just?—"

She's making desperate shut up hand gestures, and I realize she's not actually looking at me.

She's looking behind me.

And is that?—

Sweaty male.

Yes.

That's sweaty male.

I briefly squeeze my eyes shut again and turn, drawer gripped firmly in hand, to find Tripp Wilson has returned.

His eyes are onyx. That muscle in his chiseled jaw is ticking again. And he's staring directly at my mouth.

Again.

I square my shoulders, which makes the contents of the drawer shake, and something random inside starts vibrating.

Parker whimpers.

Pretty sure she's sinking through the floor right now.

"Can I help you?" I ask Tripp.

He visibly swallows. His gaze twitches like he's trying very hard to not look at the contents of the drawer I'm holding between us, and he finally looks past me to Parker.

I glance over my shoulder.

She's gone goldfish. Eyes bugging, mouth floundering.

"Please tell Denise all calls from the media need to come to my phone," he says. Slowly. And carefully.

Then his gaze lands squarely on mine, and fuck .

How long do you have to know a person before you can tell with any certainty that he's silently asking if I can handle the media as well as I handle a rabid duck with a terrifying penis?

"If you're having trouble accessing your email so that you can start going through that list of coaching resumes that I sent you, then you should call tech support," I tell him. "I'll handle media inquiries."

"You appear to have your hands full already, Ms. Valentine."

One phone call, and Uncle Guido could make this problem go away. "All I need is a large trash bag, Mr. Wilson."

For the contents of Uncle Al's drawers.

For disposing of a body.

Take your pick.

His brows slant together, and my vagina fans itself and invites my nipples to the party.

Dammit again.

"You sure you wouldn't rather get a shadow box? Family heirlooms and all."

"Don't be crude."

He reaches into the drawer and lifts a ring, dangling it for me to get a good look.

But it's not a cock ring.

No, it's a championship ring.

Which makes zero sense, since the Fireballs have never won a championship.

"What in the hell?"

"As I said, Ms. Valentine, you appear to have your hands full." He drops the ring back into the pile of wrappers, condoms, whatever that thing is that's vibrating, used tissues, and a book of motivational quotes. He turns away from me and walks straight to the desk, hand extended. "Tripp Wilson. We haven't met."

Parker squeaks again. "I played with your brother," she manages to get out.

"In her band," I clarify quickly. "With musical instruments. And clothes. The real Levi was kind enough to join Parker's band for a performance they did with Half Cocked Heroes over the summer, which I unfortunately missed."

He ignores the real Levi dig. "You're not the drummer, are you?"

Her face is glowing brighter than a stoplight at midnight, but she still bursts out laughing. "No. Guitar. I play guitar."

Tripp's smiling at her now like he wasn't just growling at me while he pulls his hand sanitizer out of his pocket. "Heard you all were great."

"I'm team Lila," Parker blurts. "I don't actually work here. I'm just in town to help clean up her uncle's messes. And I'm with my husband. You're not on my freebie list. But can we take a selfie?"

And now he's smiling bigger. And kindly. Like a freaking superstar who knows just the right way to tilt his lips and just the right warmth to put into his eyes to keep his boundaries and not lose a fan.

He's handling Parker.

And I want to hate him for it, but more, I want to hug him, and wanting to hug him makes me mad.

I'm here for the challenge of putting my family's baseball team back together.

Not to get attracted to a man I shouldn't want in the first place.

"I'm tossing this junk," I tell Parker.

She leaps to her feet and steps around Tripp, who looks like he was on the verge of asking her a question. "I'll get trash bags. Or rubber gloves. Or both. Whatever you need."

She's what I need.

A solid, dependable friend, who doesn't have any agenda beyond being here to be a friend.

"Thank you," I whisper as we duck back into the office.

"Sisters before misters," she whispers back, and the impossible happens.

I stand there in the Fireballs' owner's office, and I burst into laughter.

Friends are the best.