Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(89)

He salutes the bleachers. “If you’re gonna beat us, go win the whole damn thing,” he murmurs.

He slaps my ass, then Robinson’s. “Let’s go home. We fought hard. Got farther than we had any right. And next year? Next year, this is ours.”

We’re all silent on the flight home.

None of us call each other out for any tears that are shed.

Stafford sits by himself. I don’t have to ask if we’re setting up a rotation to check on him. Just have to sign up for a time when Cooper plops into the seat next to me and shoves a calendar at me.

He nods when I hand it back. “Winter training. My place.”

He’s taking the loss best of all of us. Don’t have to know Cooper long to understand why.

Of course he wants to win the whole damn thing. But being part of the Fireballs this year, when the team went from the worst team in baseball to one of the top four?

It’s nearly all his boyhood dreams come true, and he’s too much of a Fireball at heart to ever consider that he won’t have another chance next year.

We land back in Copper Valley so late, it’s almost morning.

But the airport isn’t empty as you’d expect for four am.

The minute we step through security, a mob of people greet us.

“Dude…we fuckin’ lost,” Emilio mutters.

Cooper shoves him. “Idiot. We won. We won their hearts.”

Shit.

We did.

There are young people. Old people. Black, white, and brown people. People using walkers, and people in wheelchairs, and able-bodied people, and people so young they’re barely able to walk. People in old school Fireballs shirts with Fiery the Dragon. People in Firequacker the Duck shirts, in Meaty the Meatball shirts, in Spike the Echidna shirts, and in Glow the Firefly shirts.

And they’re cheering. Cheering and waving signs.

We love the Fireballs.

Next year is OUR YEAR.

Fireballs Forever.

Cooper for Mayor.

Jimmy Santiago, Will You Marry Me?

Coach goes red in the face when someone points that one out.

Cooper’s having trouble with his eyeballs getting leaky. I move in to clap him on the shoulder, but six other guys beat me to it.

Because I’m the one who’s always a minute behind when it comes to taking care of people.

Shit.

Security clears a path for us, but we all take our time, signing balls and jerseys and bats, talking to the fans who are here despite the loss, who believed so hard that they carried us to the playoffs when baseball’s commissioner nearly disbanded the team a year ago.

Henri would love this.

And I’m going to find her.

I’ll find her, and I’ll show her what she missed, and promise her that we’ll do it all over again next year.

I catch sight of Lila Valentine heading to the exit, so I duck away and trot after her. “Hey!”

She turns and smiles like she slept well on the plane, and yeah, she probably did. Her goal this year was to make us be not-losers, and she more than achieved that, even if we didn’t go all the way. “I’ll say this again later, but I’m very, very proud of all of you. Great season, Luca. Thank you for taking a chance on us.”

“Don’t trade me.”

One brow lifts, and Tripp Wilson, her co-owner and fiancé, joins us. “Why would we trade you?”

Shit. Now I feel like an eight-year-old asking my mom’s boyfriend not to leave. “Everybody does.”

“Their loss is our gain. Fireballs are family. Don’t ever forget it. And don’t do anything stupid this winter.”

They both say goodnight and slip away after reminding me to check my messages whenever I wake up, since the season isn’t officially over until the new mascot is revealed, leaving me standing there with more Fireballs fans approaching and my eyes getting hot, because this is what it feels like to belong.

And I can’t celebrate it with the one person who’d understand.

I’m still signing balls when Brooks and Mackenzie try to slip out a side door to hop into a car. I say my apologies to the fans, and once again, I’m darting after someone. “Mackenzie.”

Her shoulders bunch, and she turns to me with a fake straight face.

You can always tell she’s faking it because she usually chews on her bottom lip at the same time. “Luca! Hey! I was hoping to say goodnight to you. Or good morning.”

“Where’s Henri?”

She winces.

“Swear to fuck, don’t tell me she’s engaged. Please don’t tell me she’s engaged.”

“Do you think so little of me as a friend that you could possibly believe I’d let that happen?”

“Stop talking,” Brooks adds to me in an undertone. “If you want to live, stop talking now.”

“I don’t do love, okay? Not with the big public displays and the I heart you forever schmoopsie-poos and the poetry. I never even told Henri I’d hit a home run for her. But she’s the best part of me. And I told her wrong. I want one chance to do it right. Just one. If she hates me and never wants to see me again after that, then I’ll never bother her again. Swear on getting Eyed by Nonna every day for the rest of my life.”

Mackenzie’s eyes narrow. “You used her to make your nonna think her curse worked.”