suits every day to work, and the vest look is just so spiffy.
“Speaking of compliments, want to order some lunch and work on our plan for Kim?”
“As if I’d want to do anything else.”
We order in, devising a strategy, and the focus energizes me. Matthew too, it seems, which makes me happy, since he moved here even though the woman he was dating in Vegas didn’t want him to. “How’s everything with Phoebe?” I ask.
He heaves a sigh. “Good? Sort of? I think.”
I frown. “What’s wrong, friend? Is she having a hard time with you being here?”
“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