The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(68)

“And I could impose early bedtime and curfew if you don’t check your attitude.”

“And that is how you parent,” Gigi murmurs to my father.

“You shouldn’t claim to know how to parent when you never did it yourself, Mother,” he replies.

Bridget slides a look away from Teague, who’s still giving her that I don’t have to allow you to learn to drive if you don’t check yourself look, and she clears her throat. “As I was saying, I’m really proud of how you all played, even if I wish some of you actually knew the rules of baseball before you set foot on my field tonight.”

Gigi’s still giving my father the stink eye. “Whitney Anastasia went bowling,” she says. “If this town had the bowling alley as advertised, my children and grandchildren would not have embarrassed you so much.”

Bridget gives her the same I am teacher, hear me roar look but otherwise ignores her.

Probably because Teague’s still treating Bridget to the I will send you to bed early without dessert and make you write book reports on the most boring books I can find look.

She huffs softly. “For the newbs, here’s the deal. Every game, win or lose, wipeout or sellout, one player on the team is awarded the Gold Star halo for skill, effort, and heart.”

“That’s so kind of you, Bridget.” Gigi rises. “I accept.”

“Sit down, Mrs. Grandma Lightly. My grandmother’s halo doesn’t go to players who have their butler carry them on and off the field and do their batting for them.”

Teague makes a noise.

“It goes to someone not afraid to get his uniform dirty,” Jane interjects, like she’s trying to save the teenager from an ass chewing for saying something all the adults were thinking.

“Someone who did their best,” Willie Wayne joins in.

Ridhi nods, though she’s also giving Bridget the side-eye. “Someone who exemplifies all that Tickled Pink stands for.”

“And someone the team agrees on,” Bridget finishes.

“What?” Mom rises. “I didn’t get to vote.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Younger Lightly,” Bridget says, not looking the least bit sorry. “Temporary honorary team members don’t get to vote.”

Translation: You’re not part of the team.

I didn’t get to vote either. I’m not on the team.

I’m never on the team. I have my own goals. My own ambitions. My own dreams. I pretend to be a team player when it suits my purposes, and I undermine things when they don’t. That’s life when you’re a Lightly. Love and acceptance come from performing well, not from being a team player.

But I want to be on the team.

I want to belong.

Tavi’s face twists like she wants to laugh at a teenager continuously getting the best of all of us. Like she’s not doing the hard soul-searching while we’re here.

Or maybe, considering she got the brunt of Mom’s corrections about how to play, she’s glad someone’s on her side. No, Tavi, keep your eye on the ball! Oh my God, you have to CATCH it, Octavia! Catch it and TAG THE RUNNER! Have you been eating sugar again? Your concentration is off.

Even Carter’s giving us both the could she please shut up? look.

And I don’t think he’s making that face about Bridget.

“Who won, Bridge?” Anya calls.

“Don’t keep us in suspense!” Dylan agrees.

It’s obvious who’ll win. I mean, it’s Teague. He’s a great pitcher, and he was the only person on the team to help score two points.

Runs.

I mean runs.

If not Teague, definitely Jane. She’s a badass, and she was the last to fall in her snowshoes.

“As coach of the Tickled Pink Gold Stars,” Bridget says dramatically as she pulls a bejeweled but slightly bent halo out from behind her back, “it gives me great pleasure to announce that our first Star of the Year award goes to . . .”

I nudge Teague. “How much do you pay her so that you win every week?” I whisper.

“Phoebe Lightly!” Bridget cries.

Teague smirks at me while the whole bar erupts in cheers around us. “A lot. So much money. And this is how she repays me, the backstabber.”

“Is that Whitney Anastasia’s heaven halo?” Gigi rises again.

Bridget ignores her. “C’mon, Phoebe. Speech!”

I don’t move.

I’m afraid if I move, I’ll cry.

“But I sucked,” I whisper.

“You did,” Teague agrees. “You put your whole damn heart into sucking. Mad respect, Ms. Lightly. You earned this one.”

I swallow twice—which is twice more than should be necessary, because I am a Lightly, dammit, but again, he’s being nice to me. I fumble over pushing my chair back, knock it over, spin to grab it, and trip on the leg before I get my bearings, rise, and force a very hot-faced smile at Bridget.

The applause gets louder.

For me.

Bridget settles the movie-prop halo on my head—and yes, I’m 100 percent sure this is the old movie prop from the scene when Whitney Anastasia finally gets her ticket to see her son in heaven—and then the teenager holds out a hand. “C’mon up here, Snowshoe Halo Queen. It’s tradition. You have to give a speech.”