Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(51)

And my point is, I know that look, so I’m already grinning as, instead of leaning over to eat the pies the fastest, the ladies turn together and fling their pies at the mascots.

Meaty takes it right in the face, because he’s basically one big face, plus, Tanesha is a boss when it comes to throwing, which I can say for a fact since she’s been out here a few times tossing the ball with Darren. Firequacker’s pie gets stuck on his beak no matter what Marisol tries. Spike’s pie goes into the spiny needles coming out of his head, because whoever’s inside Spike is smart enough to duck, probably because he got paired with Mackenzie.

And then there’s Glow.

As Henri pulls her pie back in a wind-up, Glow swings his big bubble-fart-butt around, clearly planning on running away, but my girl’s quick.

She ducks his wing, then slides under the table to avoid the butt, crawls out from the other side, leaps onto the table, and yells, “Hey, Fire-butt! Eat this!”

He looks over his shoulder as much as a massive mascot without a real neck can and knocks his butt into Spike, who clearly can’t see, but goes down into Meaty, who falls on Tanesha, which makes Darren jump like he’s going to climb over the dugout and charge the screen in the outfield.

Mackenzie lunges for Tanesha.

Marisol takes advantage of the distraction to grab the can of Reddi-wip and spray it in Firequacker’s face.

And Henri makes a Braveheart cry as she leaps onto Glow’s back, reaches around him with her pie, and rubs it into his bug eyes.

Every last fan at Duggan Field—even the fans who came to cheer on San Francisco, the visiting team—are on their feet whooping and hollering louder than I’ve ever heard.

We’re a week away from September, which is crunch time, with the Fireballs four games from securing at least a wild card spot in the playoffs.

These fans have had a lot to cheer for this year, so saying they’re louder than I’ve ever heard means something.

“Oh, boy. Oh, boy.” Grover, the announcer, is wiping his face with a Fireballs handkerchief. He looks into the camera like he’s trying to play that he has everything under control, but there’s no mistaking his horror. “That was…unexpected. We’ll be back at the top of the inning with the winner!”

Henri pumps a fist, and that’s when I realize what’s different.

“She did her hair.”

The six men closest to me all give me dude, you are so fucked looks, but Brooks cracks almost immediately, ducking his head and snorting with laughter.

“Word to the wise, bro. Always look to the hair first.” Darren claps me on the shoulder and heads to the nearest coach, undoubtedly demanding that they make a call up to the press room to verify Tanesha and the baby are okay. If Lopez gets a hit, Darren will be up to bat this inning, so we need him in smacking-the-shit-out-of-the-ball shape.

Not worried-about-his-wife-and-baby shape.

“You know they planned that,” Brooks murmurs to me. “Mackenzie told me Tanesha would be wearing a baby doll. Someone else is holding the real baby.”

“Are you shitting me?” Darren barks behind us on the phone. “Warn a guy. Damn.”

Brooks grins. “Yeah. Told you. Also, my soon-to-be fathers-in-law heard about Henri’s hair. They ambushed her lunch with Mackenzie today and took her to their favorite salon.”

“Looks good.”

“You expected anything less from Mackenzie’s dads?”

Of course not. But I can’t say a thing without leading myself down a path where Brooks gives me increasingly more shit, so I change the subject. “I should see if she wants to come to Boston.”

Dammit. Where did that come from?

But no worries—Brooks is giving me the don’t be a psychopathic idiot glare. “You know the rules. If they started traveling with us, they stay traveling with us. If they didn’t, we don’t fucking mess with what’s working.”

“I thought you gave up all your superstitions.”

He punches me in the arm and stalks off as Cooper doubles over laughing. “His face—your face—you two are like bromance goals.”

“Plus, you don’t want your dad and your girlfriend sharing your hotel room,” Emilio points out.

I freeze. “What are you talking about?”

“Papa trip. You miss the news?” Francisco takes his batting helmet from the bat girl in the dugout today, flips it twice, and grins at me. “Ah, you were thinking of Henri naked when you were supposed to be paying attention during the team meeting.”

Guilty. “Our dads…are invited…on the road trip to Boston?”

“Yeah. Newest promo push from management.”

Dammit.

Dammit.

Maybe he won’t come. Maybe they couldn’t find him.

And maybe if stars were wishes that can come true, they’re still so far out of reach it’s not even worth wishing. “Why are we messing with who travels with us? We’re on fire. Why are we risking this?”

“Because your fathers are your second biggest fans behind your mothers, who are invited for the last away series of the season.” Santiago’s clearly not having the excuses, which is surprising since he keeps the same package of beef jerky in his office that he had in his locker the day he started his own twenty-seven game hitting streak back in the day. Don’t tell me he doesn’t believe in superstitions. “Also, because management said so.”