“Good. She’ll tell you to quit being a ninny.”

“Last time she got drunk, she streaked through Sarcasm and left boob prints on all the dusty cars on the street,” Cooper mutters to me.

“Oh my god, I was nineteen when I did that. And you were egging me on.”

And I’m suddenly incredibly uncomfortable in my jeans. “Were you naked too?” I ask Cooper.

“Yes,” Tillie Jean stage-whispers.

He glares at her. “No.”

“He was, but he can’t tell the baseball gods that, because he’s afraid they’ll go back in time and hic! take away his dream.” TJ pats my chest with the cards. “Play me, Max. Play me for dinner.”

“Can’t. Signed a contract. I owe Cooper backrubs if I play you for dinner.”

“Ew.”

“Exactly.”

We grin at each other.

“But I can play you for the joy of kicking your ass,” I tell her.

“Trophy! Stinky Butt, get one of your old Little League trophies. We need a prize!”

Trevor snores.

Cooper’s eyes both visibly twitch.

And Robinson knocks on the back sliding door in nothing but wet swim trunks. “Hey, can we get a towel out here?”

Cooper looks at me.

Then at Tillie Jean.

Back to me.

I lift my hands in surrender. “We won’t start without you, dude.” And then I crack a grin. “Strip Go, Ash, Go is way more fun when you have to watch me get naked.”

Am I pushing it?

Yes.

But for the first time in years, tossing shit like this makes me feel normal.

Home.

Like I might have found a place I truly belong.

24

Tillie Jean

I don’t know who’s knocking on my door, but whoever it is will die.

Dead die.

Monday can die too. I hate Mondays.

Or possibly I hate hangovers.

Is today Monday?

I don’t know. It’s Blursday. Let’s leave it at that.

No, wait. It’s Sunday. Day off. Thank goodness.

But someone’s still banging on my door.

I lift one corner of my sleep mask and cautiously pry open a single eyeball. My brain’s not swishing around in my head, which is a good thing, but the soft light peeking through my curtains stabs my eyeballs and makes me mutter a curse that I shouldn’t say in Long Beak Silver’s presence if I want him to not repeat it in front of a bunch of preschoolers.

“C’mon, Sleeping Beauty,” a voice that is definitely inside my house and definitely male and which definitely does not belong to one of my brothers calls. “I have to give Cooper proof of life or he’s coming down off his mountain to splash you with cold water.”

Am I dressed?

Do I care?

Would seeing me naked render Max helpless to resist my body and make him determined to cure my headache with a few dozen orgasms like the one he left me with before going off to get that delicious no-tan-line tan?

Could I handle moving my head enough to enjoy sex right now?

Am I mad at him for leaving after that orgasm? Do I have any right to be?

Do I care?

Maybe I want to be mad.

But probably not.

“Mmfllbub,” I say.

“I’m coming in, and I’m not looking at you other than the proof-of-life picture, and I’m bringing aspirin and water and a country loaf from Grady.”

When did I get home last night?

Did I call Chester and tell him that I know he gets his magic potluck macaroni salad from the grocery store?

And why do I keep picturing Cooper riding Ash, the dragon mascot, while Luca Rossi slaps Glow the Firefly’s ass?

Right.

Too many rounds of Go, Ash, Go.

“Fresh bread?” I croak.

“Came out of the oven an hour ago. He was going to shove it in your mailbox. I offered to keep it warm.” Something shuffles in the room, and I peer out from under my sleep mask again in time to see Max setting a plate and a glass on my nightstand beyond the gauzy pink curtains.

I mumble something else that probably sounds like oh my god I love you, but then Max lifts his phone. “Smile.”

The flash pierces my skull and murders me in my bed.

Okay, not really.

But it hurts like hell, and I can’t see the aspirin or the bread.

Miracle bread.

Beautiful, delicious, stomach-healing bread.

My brothers are sometimes the best.

“You’re a disaster, aren’t you?” Max says.

I grunt something in response and try to fling my arm just right to grab the bread.

Bread first.

Yeasty, nutty, delicious yummy bread.

Miss.

Miss again.

I whimper.

Risk opening my eyes one more time to try a puppy dog face at Max.

He’s not growly today. It’s weird.

If anything, he’s relaxed and happy and looking at me as if we’re friends.

What the hell happened yesterday? I know I didn’t black out, even if I had weird dreams after getting home last night.

With a ride from Georgia, thank you very much. Not a ride from Max.

I remember that part.

“Need help?” he asks.

He very much needs to not give me that half-smile and aim kind eyes my way.

“Please?” I whimper. I try to add coffee, but my words don’t work like that.

My mouth.

I mean my mouth doesn’t work like that.

Not right now.

He grins a little more as he hands me a slice of the bread. I chomp into the crusty part and sigh in utter heaven, letting my eyes drift shut again while the yeasty deliciousness floods my mouth with something much better tasting than whatever died in there last night.

“Grady makes the best bread,” I say.

Maybe.

I’m still gnawing on the bread, and I think my words come out sounding like something a neanderthal woman would’ve said to her husband when he left his rock tools hanging out all over the cave.

“Were you honestly that upset at getting a citation that you had to get plastered yesterday?” Max asks.

Oh. Right.

My cousin gave me a citation yesterday. I swallow, and I form real English syllables. “Nuh-uh. Didn’t want Trevor to drink alone. Poor Trevor. He gives good hugs.”

Max makes a noise.

I slide a glance at him. “You give good other things.” What the hell do I have to lose?

Other than him being nice to me like we could be friends for the first time in my entire life?

He ignores my comment, and I let my eyes drift shut again.

But only for a moment.

The him being quiet part, I mean.

“You’re a funny drunk,” he says softly.

“Thank you?”

He hesitates. I don’t see it so much as I feel the weight of the air shifting around me. I lift one eyelid again.

He’s sitting against my closet door, and he meets my gaze for half a second, then drops it. “My old man…wasn’t.”

I picked up on that right before Thanksgiving, and I’ve read enough articles about the team to know that people compare him to Luca Rossi all the time, but where Luca’s father is a shithead former athlete who pops up whenever Luca does something awesome, and only then, in the hopes of getting accolades himself, Max’s dad is nearly always quoted as being an absent figure in his life, but not before the articles mention that his mom died young in a car crash.