Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(5)

Six months before that, Lyle gave me the heave-ho in the middle of the ceremony because he couldn’t get through his vows without puking.

And I could go on.

Love is my superpower.

It’s my blessing and my curse.

Because every time I fall in love, I’m not good enough.

I’m never good enough.

And it freaking hurts.

“Jesus. Not the tears. Please not the tears. I know I deserve them, but fuck, I hate the tears. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I called you a hot mess in a trash bag.”

“I loved him. And he left me.”

Luca plops to the ground, twists, and suddenly I’m pinned beneath him. “You are not going to cry over a loser like Jerry, do you hear me? Love’s a sham, and I don’t know you, lady, but I know any woman with the courage to attack me with cake isn’t the kind of woman to let something as dumb and useless as love, especially for the wrong man, ruin her life. So buck up. Get over yourself. And fuck love, okay? Fuck love.”

I gasp. Is he serious?

He can’t possibly be serious.

“Love might hurt sometimes, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

“Doesn’t it? What has love ever done good for you?”

He shoves up off the ground, leaving me cold and exposed and rocked to my core, because oh my god.

He’s right.

Love isn’t the answer. Love has never been the answer.

In my books, maybe.

But in real life?

Maybe I need to give it up.

For good.





3





Luca



It’s a rough up-and-down month after the all-star break, especially with ten straight away games in three different cities in the last week and a half, but now, the team’s finally back home.

I love home. Not that home is my house.

Home is my team. My home stadium. No matter which team I’m playing for.

This year, though—my first year in Copper Valley, the booming metropolis outside the Blue Ridge mountains in southern Virginia—home feels homier.

Copper Valley’s Fireballs have been the worst team in baseball for years, but now, under new management, the fans are coming back, and we’re within sight of the play-offs.

We’re history in the making.

Today, I’m camped out in the worn-down lounge at the ballpark with a handful of my teammates hours before we’re due here for normal pre-game stuff. While parts of Duggan Field got upgrades over the winter, the players’ clubhouse hasn’t been touched yet. The dingy carpet, the chairs and couches that should’ve been retired ten years ago, the funky smell of years of loss—it’s all evidence of this team’s history.

We’re putting a new layer on it this year, and there’s not a single guy here whining that we should’ve had an upgrade first.

We’re earning a nicer lounge.

In the meantime, we’re flinging plush duck and echidna mascots at each other with thong slingshots—don’t ask—and plotting how to win the whole damn season.

The de-cursing we did in spring training was merely the start. None of us believe a few rituals suggested by someone’s great-aunt to lift a decades-long hex alone will be all it takes. We have to do the heavy lifting too.

Some of us—like me—think the heavy lifting is the more important part, but we also can’t deny the power of the other guys’ superstitions, so we’ll do whatever it takes for all of us.

“Chicken feet.” Brooks Elliott is also a veteran player who’s new to the team this year. He wasn’t initially happy to be playing for the world’s worst team, but he’s come around. Helps that he’s now engaged to the Fireballs’ most dedicated fan and is a sappy pile of mush most days, and no, I’m not going to make any comments about the fact that he’s signing himself up for marriage.

I’ll even go to his wedding and not bitch about it.

We’ve played together before—I spent my rookie year in New York with him—and I like having him in our corner. Usually.

Not now, though, as he’s nodding very seriously and talking nonsense. “We need to all wear chicken feet.”

Francisco Lopez rolls his eyes. “Did your fiancée make you say that?”

Brooks grins.

I shove his face away while I lean closer into the huddle. “Dinosaur costumes.”

“Ooooohh.”

Yeah. That’s right, baby. I impressed my teammates.

Cooper Rock flings a stuffed echidna at Lopez as he grins bigger. “The T-Rex kind, or the kind that makes you look like you’re riding them?”

“Riding. Definitely riding.” Darren Greene’s face is lit up like a kid running the bases on a pro baseball diamond for the first time. “Can’t show your face if you’re hiding inside a T-Rex. And we need Boston to know we’re coming. Dibs on the cow. I always wanted to ride a cow.”

“Alright. Luca, you’re on point.” Cooper hands me the In-Charge hat, which is unfortunately inspired by the second-worst contender in the Pick A New Mascot voting that management started to get fans re-engaged with the Fireballs this year.

When you’ve consistently set records as the worst team in baseball—before I was here, naturally—you go to great lengths to get your fan base back.