Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(11)

“I’m sure someone would think to call you eventually.” I fold my arms like my heart isn’t racing and I’m not sweating buckets, and no, that’s not the lack of air conditioning in mid-August talking. I never sweat like this in my own house.

Her blue eyes twinkle. “There’s no room for sass here this morning, Luca Antonio Rossi. You know why I’m here.”

No.

Nope.

Not falling for this.

Or possibly I’m in denial, because I don’t have time to get Eyed. “Because you promised your TikTok followers we’d do the Gel?” Yeah, I’m reaching. I’m reaching for anything I can to delay getting Eyed.

“Please. Like you can Gel like me.” She slides around the table crammed into the awkward space, busting a move and threading her fingers through her rainbow unicorn hair in the dance craze she started online last month.

My grandmother has taken on a new hobby, and she’s now TikTok Nonna.

And it turns out, raising four kids and having nine grandkids and all that practice being a badass as an airline pilot and traveling all over the world for thirty years at a time when women pilots were rare makes her the next best thing to Betty White as far as the next generation of social media video platform users go. All the kids who used to get on the video screen at ballparks across the nation to do the Dab or the Floss or the Hype are now doing my Nonna’s Gel.

She swings her hips while she slides around the table, thrusting her fingers through her hair like she’s putting in hair gel with every step, and stops when she’s next to me. “Plus, I’m a bigger TikTok star than you are.”

That’s true enough, especially since my social media presence is minimal and run by someone at my agent’s office. I lift a hand for a high-five, hoping we can Gel our way out of what she’s cooking.

“I don’t high-five grandsons who send my calls to voicemail.” She flicks a green-tipped fingernail to the sink. “Dishes won’t do themselves.”

Is this my house? Yes.

Am I going to argue with my grandmother when she’s here to put The fucking Eye on me? No.

She glides back to her casserole dish. “I can hear you thinking, and your language is atrocious today.”

I flip on the faucet and remind myself that if I grind my teeth all the way to their roots, I’ll end up saddled with the kind of woman who’s into that sort of thing. “I’m sorry I worried you,” I grunt to Nonna.

“You should be. You can’t get over what’s bothering you if you don’t talk to anyone about it.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“Then why aren’t you returning my phone calls?”

I test the water, then nudge the tap to the left to get the hot water flowing. Scalding myself is preferable to listening to the lecture I’ve earned. “I’m not ignoring your phone calls.”

“You’re not returning them either.”

“We were traveling. It was loud.”

“For a month.”

“I’m playing for a team that didn’t understand they were supposed to hit the baseballs when they were up to bat a year ago, and now we’re in a position to make the playoffs. There’s extra commitment involved in something this historic.”

“And this has nothing whatsoever to do with all the sports channels talking about that interview you did after your wedding all over again?”

My shoulders bunch.

“Your agent must love that,” she says to the ziti, but we both know she knows I can hear her.

“What are you talking about?”

“The getting to know the new Fireballs series on that sports channel. What’s it called?”

She taps her foot while she thinks.

I’m so fucked.

It’s not even The Eye.

It’s my career. My dream.

This team?

The last thing I expected when I moved here in January was that I’d want to stay so bad, no matter what happens at the end of the season.

These guys? They’re my brothers in a way no other team has been. The fans? Jesus. You know what it’s like to start a season being told your home stadium will be lucky to be half-full at any given game, only to be halfway through August with sold-out crowds every day?

I even love the damn mascots, though that firefly contender is weird as hell. Something about him bothers me. Maybe it’s the extra arms. Or the wings.

But most likely, it’s that big-ass bubble growing out of its butt.

And Nonna’s telling me I’m about to be a PR disaster for them.

While she gives me The Eye.

“Tea and baseball pants!” She thrusts her spoon in the air, sending a saucy chunk of pasta sailing across the room. “That’s the sports channel.”

“A gossip site?”

“It’s on the YouTubes.”

Jesus. I thought she was talking about ESPN. I said some bad shit after I broke it off with Emily, and while my agent can sweep old crap under the rug, it’s not what any of us need to worry about right now.

Also, I know damn well she knows it’s not the YouTubes.

She’s here to mess with me.

“We have six weeks to go until the end of the season. We’re on the cusp of making the playoffs. Don’t do this, Nonna. Don’t do this now.”