Once the guys are done at Cooper’s house, they gradually work their way off the mountain and back down into town, claiming their wives and girlfriends one by one. When the last of them have left, I head home to change into my Grog clothes.

Boots, jeans, and a fitted sweater.

But as I pull into my driveway, pointedly not looking at Max’s SUV in the drive next door, I remember the mountain of laundry in my closet. Do I even have clean jeans?

Huh.

Guess it’ll either be what I’m wearing—sweatpants and a paint-stained Blue Lagoon County High hoodie—or I need to call Georgia or Sloane and ask to borrow something.

My eyes drift next door again, and I wonder if Max is home, or if he’s out with the guys.

Him picking me up while I was in the Ash costume? And then talking to me?

Not so helpful for this crush problem.

And since the Scurvy 5K day and the Thanksgiving snowball fight?

This crush really couldn’t get worse. He nods to me without growling anytime we happen to cross paths. He put the glow-in-the-dark golf ball that I stuck in his Thanksgiving leftover box in my mailbox with a note attached that said Help! I can’t see in the light! And he holds eye contact and says thank you now after I serve him whenever he and the guys come into Crusty Nut for their weekly lunch.

He’s not necessarily smiley Max—at least, not until earlier today at Cooper’s place—but he’s not Growly Bear Max either.

It’s different enough that I don’t know if we’re finally moving past the way I’ve tried to irritate him for the past four years, or if this new way of talking to each other is polite distance on his part without the intention of making me obsess over him.

All I really know, though, is that I want to see him smile at me again.

I hardcore want to see him smile at me.

And to what end? It’s not like we’ll get involved. Not when it would put a wrench in the team’s dynamics.

If ever there was a sign from the universe that Max is off-limits, it’s the team. They worked too hard this past year and need too much to stay tight next year to make all of Cooper’s dreams come true.

I slip in my back door and dial Sloane as I turn down the hallway to my bedroom. “Hey. You done for the day?”

“Yep.” She yawns. “Down time. I’m catching up on that show about the American football coach trying to turn around a British soccer—football—team. It’s my favorite. Want to come over?”

“The Lady Fireballs are in town. We’re hitting The Grog. You should come.”

“Whoa. Seriously?”

I squint at the phone. “Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“Is Luca bringing his girlfriend?”

She’s a little breathless and asks the question quickly, and I start grinning as I dig into sorting my clothes. I really should’ve done laundry three days ago. “Sloane! You’ve read her books? I didn’t know that.”

“Spend your teenage years having to hide your romance novels from your family, you learn not to talk about it. I’ve been reading Nora Dawn for—oh my god, do I get to call her Henri? Is that weird? Will it be weird if I ask her to sign my autograph book? I don’t have paper copies of books anymore.”

Dammit. My favorite sweater’s dirty. Favorite jeans too.

What can I say? I hate doing laundry. “No. That’s not weird. She told me someone passed her a book under a bathroom stall once at what was supposed to be her wedding reception after one of her previous fiancés dumped her. I guess his aunt was a fan? So I’m sure signing an autograph book is in the normal range.”

We’re both silent for a moment, and I’m no longer contemplating how I should do laundry more than once a month.

“You’re going to say it’s weird to have an autograph book, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“Never.”

“Tillie Jean. Don’t lie to me.”

“When Cooper was little, he used to wear the same socks every time we went into the city for a Fireballs game. He called them his future lucky socks. So you having an autograph book is not the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

More silence.

“Who else is in it?” I ask. I can’t help myself. I need to live vicariously through my friends, and I know for a fact that when she was working at a hospital in Copper Valley, she met a celebrity or two, though she’s never told us which ones.

She sighs. “Not talking to you.”

“But I’m your best friend.”

“Georgia’s my current best friend. She brought me Nutella donuts when she got off work this afternoon.”

“Good. You work hard. You deserve them. But can you really be bought off with donuts?”

“Yep. Who’s going tonight? Will I have to put up with your brother flirting with me again?”

“No. I’m going to call Mackenzie to get those Meaty the Flaming Meatball stress balls that I know she’s still hiding from Fireballs management, and then I’ll glue them to his hands and he’ll be otherwise occupied with… Huh.”

She laughs. “I take it he retaliated for whatever it was you did last to him?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“That’s really sad.”

“It is. He’s either biding his time to do something seriously big, or he’s growing out of all of this. His pranks have been weirdly lame this year. Even the Jell-O in the toilet—he’s done that one before. It’s like he’s not even trying. Be honest. Are we being childish with pranking each other?”

“Tillie Jean.” She clucks her tongue like she’s chewing me out with just my name. “Do not ever—I repeat, ever—feel like you’ve gotten too old for fun. Which would you rather be, sixty-three and telling your grandkids that you used to play pranks on your brother but that you grew out of it, or ninety and hanging with your great-grandkids while you all plant fake bugs in his flour?”

“Clearly, I want to be Nana is the correct answer. Okay. Next phase in the prank wars it is.”

“Good. Except I’m calling a no-go on gluing stress balls to his hands. Sorry, but he needs his hands to play, and to lift weights until the season starts again, unfortunately. What if you painted a sheet with a giant Meaty and hung it over his bed?”

“I don’t think I have enough room to paint a sheet that big, and Cooper’s bedroom is massive, but also too small for how large of a Meaty I’d want to use.”

“Glue his furniture to the ceiling?”

“Grady tried that once a few years ago and almost gave himself a concussion when a chair fell on him.”

“Oreo his car?”

“Say what?”

“Take Oreos apart and stick them all over his car. The cream acts like glue, though it’s better in summer when it melts.”

“That might be a waste of good Oreos. Maybe. Maybe not. I could stock up the holiday colors and save them for summer…” I heft my laundry basket up and carry it around the corner to my itty bitty laundry room, my phone tucked between my ear and shoulder while I dump the first load into the washing machine. “Except I don’t want to distract him in the summer. Or ruin his car. There’s this line, you know? Push too far, and one of us will never speak to the other again.”