“Seems she is. Every day we talk, she makes sure to let me know how displeased she is,” he says, then shrugs, chasing it with a sigh.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, a smidge of guilt wiggling around in me. “I feel responsible.”

“Don’t be sorry. I chose to move. Plus, you should be with someone who supports your career rather than holds it back.” He takes a beat, his lips curving into a grin. “Isn’t that what I told you last year when you went through your parade of horrid men?”

“Sons of mailboxes,” I say with a smile, thinking of Crosby’s saying.

Matthew furrows his brow. “Please tell me that’s not a new American saying I need to learn? I’ve barely come to terms with ‘balling,’ ‘chilling,’ and ‘slay.’”

“It’s something Crosby said to refer to the men in Vegas.”

He arches a brow. “Crosby Cash? The baseball player?”

“Yes. We went to my brother’s wedding together.”

“Oh, did you now?” His eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“We’re friends,” I say, but I try to rein in the grin that comes with that.

“Right. Sure.”

“I swear,” I say, though the kiss didn’t feel friendly at all. “And we’re going to the awards gala this week.”

“Interesting,” he says, all catlike once again. “Very interesting.”

I wag a finger. “Don’t get any ideas about us.”

But truth be told, all the ideas about Crosby are mine.

Delicious, tempting ideas.

Ideas I want to act on.

Good thing I have a busy day with Matthew, rolling up our sleeves and making a plan for the next season.

At the end of the day, I’m kicking ass and taking names.

I don’t go home till well past ten, after a dinner with the city managers, where I lay the groundwork for expansion plans for the stadium.

Home at eleven, I strip out of my clothes, remove my ring and watch, sink into the tub, and relax.

I’ve got this.

I can be Nadia Harlowe, my father’s daughter by day, and Crosby’s plus-one by night.

13

Crosby

Send the runner home.

That’s the goal.

I curl a hand over Jacob’s shoulder as he digs a cleat into third base.

The batter at home plate takes a couple practice swings. “If he connects, you just go. Got it? Game is on the line.”

Jacob gives me a crisp, eager nod. “Got it, Coach Cash.”

I laugh. “Crosby. Just Crosby.”

Jacob flashes a smile at me. “Coach Cash.”

Across the diamond, Grant mans the first base, while our closing pitcher Chance waits by the dugout, watching the action in the final out in the final inning.

It’s pitcher versus batter, mano a mano. The fierce and mighty fourth grader goes into his windup and unleashes a wicked fastball, sending it right across the plate. The ten-year-old batter connects on the first swing, launching a screaming line drive.

My pulse spikes. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

But Jacob barely needs my direction. He’s tearing down the third baseline, hell-bent on crossing home plate. The ball screams past the shortstop, skittering across the grass, as Jacob hoofs it. I cup my hands in front of my mouth. “You got it! You got it! Just go, go, go!”

Jacob crosses the plate with the winning run, victorious as the rest of his team pours out of the dugout right as the batter lands on first base.

Grant gives the batter a fist bump. I trot toward home plate, and when the kids break apart from their cheering fiesta, Jacob heads straight for me, a gleaming smile across his young face.

“Thank you, Coach Cash.”

“It was nothing,” I say, high-fiving the kid.

But it wasn’t nothing. I know the coaching mattered to Jacob. To these other kids. That’s why we’re here. These grade-schoolers have worked hard all season, and they pulled it off, winning their local league championship.

They make my heart swell with pride. I point at Jacob’s chest, stabbing a finger into his sternum. “You’re the man.”

He shakes his head. “You’re the man.”

I shake mine. “No, you’re the man.”

Grant jogs over to us, arriving at home plate with a huge grin. “Maybe I’m the man,” he says, smacking palms with the kids, then me.

Chance saunters over, joining the celebration. “Yes, it all goes to you, Grant. We couldn’t do anything without you,” Chance says to the guy who’s the steady force behind the plate in our major league games. They are a tough pitcher-catcher combo, one of the best pairings in all of pro baseball, with the kind of tempo that Posada and Rivera had with the Yankees back in the day.

After we congratulate the kids, help them pack up their equipment, and straighten up the diamond, the three of us leave the field where we’ve served as honorary coaches, playing with a local team of fourth graders in a rougher section of the city.

The kids needed equipment, a field, and some go get ’em spirit. So the three of us volunteered to do it, buying their equipment and pitching in as coaches.

Once we leave the field, heading for my cherry-red Tesla, Grant points to the front seat. “Shotgun.”

Chance rolls his eyes. “Back seat has plenty of leg room too. You always think you’re pulling one over on me, don’t you?”

Grant winks at him. “Front seat is better. You can try to justify it. But the truth is I’m just faster.”

Chance lifts a brow, his dark eyes taunting. “That’s what she said about you.”

Grant shoots him a look. He clears his throat. “Maybe that’s what she said about you. But no man has ever said that about me.”

Chance hums doubtfully, his dark eyes narrowing. “I dunno. Weren’t you in and out in, like, fifteen minutes with your Grindr hookup the last time we went out?”

Grant shoots deadly laser rays straight at Chance. “Dude. That was DoorDash. I fucking ordered DoorDash.”

“You hooked up with the DoorDash guy? Damn, Grant,” he says, whistling.

Grant huffs. “I was on DoorDash ordering some Thai food for when I got home. I’m not even on Grindr, man.” He reaches into his back pocket, then tosses his phone across the roof of the car to Chance.

Chance grabs it with one hand. “Cool. You want me to sign you up for it now? Should I put you down as In-and-Out-in-Five Guy?”

Grant rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a single dating app on there. Because, wait for it, I don’t need ’em.”

Chance winks. “Right. Sure. DoorDash is your dating app.”

Grant cracks up, shaking his head. “It’s a miracle you’ve ever had a date.”

I reach the driver’s side door, gesturing to the two-man comedy act. “Please tell me we’re not going to spend the entire car ride with the two of you debating your prowess in the bedroom with your conquests.”

Grant and Chance shoot each other confused looks. “What else would we talk about?” Grant asks.

Chance scratches his jaw. “That’s literally our only conversational fodder,” he says as he slides into the back seat. “If we can’t thump our chests and mock each other, I don’t know what we would discuss. So maybe shut your mouth, Crosby.”