Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(39)

And that’s when I realize I’m getting a woody over Henri, and I freeze.

The Eye is working.

The Eye is working.

Shit.

I picture my mother naked in my shower, and my nuts shrink back into my body and my dick asks if it can go with them.

Not much to do after that except shower fast and lie again about needing to get to the ballpark. I should offer Henri tickets to the game, but she’s preoccupied, and I don’t want to know what kind of damage she might inflict if I interrupt her writing again.

Nor do I want to stick around for when she gets horny.

Though, the thought does prompt more of that intrigued movement in my crotch.

I’m broken. There’s something wrong with me.

And when I’m broken, there’s only one thing to do.

Re-center myself.

With baseball.





16





Henri



“Thank you so much for calling me,” I say for the seventeenth time to Mackenzie as she points me to a seat a few rows back from the baseball field. “And I’m sorry about the whole You’re not a vampire, you’re a witch thing when I picked up. I was so deep in writing, I forgot where I was for a minute.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised no one’s said that to me sooner in my life.” She smiles, and I swear she could be a fairy princess. A baseball fairy princess.

Her blond hair is tied back in a ponytail under her Fireballs baseball cap, her lipstick is an adorable pink, her Fireballs jersey fits her like it was custom made for her—which it might’ve been, between her dating one of the players and her dads being drag queens—and she’s totally pulling off the denim skirt over her Fireballs Chucks.

I point to the shoes. “Those are amazing.”

“My underwear matches. Also, I have a few rules about watching baseball with me. They’re little bitty superstitions, but if we don’t follow them, and the team loses, we basically can’t be friends.”

I start to laugh, realize she’s serious, and quickly school my features in the gravest solemnity. “Will I have to quack like a duck?”

“No! No duck. We’re voting against the duck. But you might have to go to the bathroom every time Cooper steps up to bat, and we need to get you your own Fireballs hat. Also, we might start the wave. Can you believe the wave has died out at ballparks? Now that they have bigger video screens, group waves are out, and self-expression is in, but is it self-expression if all anyone ever does is whatever dance is trending on social media?”

“Aw, you miss the wave, don’t you?”

“So badly.” She suddenly sits straighter in her seat and lifts a hand, wiggling her fingers. Out on the field, one of the ballplayers waves back. I squint, looking for Luca, and I can’t find him.

Uh-oh.

Did something bad happen? Was it because of The Eye? Did he trip over something? Or get hit wrong with a ball during batting practice?

Mackenzie nudges me. “Luca’s waving at us.”

I squint harder. “That’s not Brooks?”

She gives me a funny look. “If it was Brooks, I’d be blowing kisses. Eight, to be exact, because that’s his number.”

“Ohmygosh, that’s adorable!” I fake a bright smile and wave in the direction she’s pointing.

She reaches behind me and moves my hand so that I’m waving to the outfield.

Probably I need to see an eye doctor. Or maybe I need to not spend nine straight hours on the computer.

But even though I couldn’t immediately pick Luca out under his ball cap and in his uniform pants—let’s be real, all baseball players look awesome in those uniform pants—I can clearly see the man out there swiping a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide a smile.

Or a grimace.

It could be either, especially after our short text exchange when I told him Mackenzie had invited me to the game.

Great. Have fun. Whatever she tells you, do NOT bring live goldfish into the stadium. Also, DO run to the bathroom, do the Hokey Pokey, or eat whatever she tells you is good luck once you’re in your seats.

I texted him that I loved him, that he was my pumpkin pie, and that I couldn’t wait for him to get home tonight, and he replied with a reminder that the team is leaving for Florida as soon as the game’s over, but he’d text me from the road.

“Are you traveling with the team?” I ask Mackenzie. Also, what number is Luca? I’m his girlfriend. I should know this. Isn’t there a program somewhere?

“Nope. Day job. Not enough vacation time. Plus, I haven’t yet, and they’re playing really well, and I don’t want to mess with their streak by changing whatever it is they’re doing. The Lady Fireballs have made a pact—no changing any routines. If any of us wives, girlfriends, and fiancées started the season by traveling with the team, they keep traveling. If they didn’t, they don’t. Consistency is very important. With an exception for Tanesha, since she and Darren just had a baby, which changed their routine by default.”

“How did you meet Brooks?”

“I stole the meatball mascot costume and cock-blocked him a bunch of times during spring training.”

“You stole the—wait. That meatball costume?” I point to the field—close to us, right on the third base line—where a giant flaming meatball is having a pool noodle sword fight with a firefly with the largest ball of ass I’ve ever seen.