The Copper Valley Bro Code Series: Volume 1, page 110
She wails.
James starts wailing, and I give him the eyeball of doom. “Or you?” I demand.
“I got a roly-poly,” he sobs.
“Roly-polies are fine,” Lila assures him while I keep gasping for breath.
He pulls seventeen of them out of his pocket.
Pretty sure most of them are dead.
My eye twitches.
And I realize there’s a very distinct sound coming from behind me.
I look over my shoulder.
Lila’s trying very hard not to laugh.
And she’s failing. Miserably.
That sparkle in her eyes as she beams is impossible to not smile back at, even if I can’t imagine my knees working again for the next hour.
“You’re okay,” she tells us, and then she scoops James into her lap as she sits, and manages to wrap all three of us up in her arms. “You’re not in trouble. Just…no more snakes, okay?”
“I wike nakes,” Emma wails.
“Then we’ll get you a stuffed snake.”
I give Lila the eyeball of I don’t like this plan.
She gives me back the eyeball of don’t be a baby and take the damn compromise before you find a snake in your cookie jar.
She’s adapted remarkably well to domestic life with all of my chaos. In fact, I think she thrives on it.
“Daddy, why did Jupiter hafta stay home?” James asks. “Is it time for cookies? I want my twucks.”
“We’ll go see your trucks soon,” Lila promises him. “We have to wait a whole year for the next Fireballs Con, and I’m sad that it’s over. But you get to see your trucks within an hour. Promise.”
He studies her with serious dark eyes. My kids love her best most days. Since she moved in with us, they’re more likely to kick me out of bed for trying to snuggle her early in the morning than they are to snuggle me.
I’d be offended, but honestly, I’d rather snuggle her than me too.
Very soon, in fact.
Naked.
Huh. Look at that. I’m all recovered from the snake mishap.
“I wike the ducks,” James says solemnly.
“It’s okay to be wrong about that too,” she replies equally solemnly. “I still love you.”
I bark out a laugh that startles Emma out of her sobs. I never thought sharing ownership of my favorite team would be everything I always wanted, but since I insisted on selling Lila half of the team back—for fifty cents, because she refused a penny more—we’ve fallen into a very comfortable rhythm that we’re optimistic will be excellent for the team.
She makes an executive decision, gives me a heart attack, we argue, I see the logic in her points, she concedes some of my points and tones down her original plans, and then we celebrate another day of making progress by having grown-up naked time after the kids are in bed.
I don’t know how long she’ll stay fully engaged in running the Fireballs—she’s having fun now, but I also know she’s started channeling some of her imagination and the lingering bits of her own paranoia into playing around with writing a novel, and every time I walk into her office and find her giggling, she slams her laptop shut and tells me she’s making serious decisions about the team that should terrify me.
Pretty sure she’s found her calling, but even if she never decides what she wants to do every day for a job—we’ve both acknowledged that running a baseball team might not be the challenge that drives her forever—I know she’s staying here with us.
You’re my purpose, she tells me and my kids almost daily.
I like being where she belongs.
Davis drops into the seat on my other side. He was here all day, though he stayed in the wings. “Heard a rumor you’re in talks with New York to get Brooks Elliott.”
Lila gasps. “No.”
“So it’s not true?” Cooper joins us, squatting on the floor and offering Emma a Fireballs-themed bag of candy, which fully cures her of any lingering sobs.
“Change is inevitable,” I tell Cooper. “And now that we have fans back, and a coaching staff that even Pakorski approves of…we need to work on the team.”
“Work on the team, yes. But Elliott—”
“Being here would mean double the firepower at the plate, and Parker would come visit,” I interrupt.
“Dude, you can’t trade for players just to get your girlfriend an excuse to visit her friends.”
“When it’s Brooks Elliott, he should,” Davis replies.
“I thought you all wanted me to live,” Lila wails.
I bust up laughing.
Emma laughs with me. James joins in. Davis cracks a grin, and eventually, even Lila can’t resist. Mom wanders over with Levi and Cash while a few more of the players who are still milling around chatting aim curious glances at us.
Beck and Sarah have disappeared, along with Mackenzie, which gives me zero hope that he’s going to finally pop the question today, but I’m okay with that.
Sarah’s not going anywhere.
I, however, am.
“I very much want you to live,” I assure Lila. “I want you to live a long, long life, where I get to torment you every day that you torment me while we argue over what’s best for this team, and with whatever comes next.”
Those sparkling green eyes are my very favorite, especially when they come with that bright smile.
I thought her smile was pretty the night we met.
Her smile now? The smile of a woman who’s not hiding anything, who knows who she is, who knows what she wants, who lives in a house decorated with pictures of both of our pasts, who’s falling almost as much in love with baseball as she has with me—that smile is blinding.
“We work well together, don’t we?” she says with so much mischief, it’s no wonder she’s settled in well in my family.
“I need to wait until after the mascot poll closes to know for sure.”
Her head tips back as she laughs again. Emma squeals and claps her hands. James giggles.
And I slide to one knee in front of her. “Want to risk it and promise to marry me today anyway?”
Her hand flies to her mouth as her laughter turns into a squeal, and then she’s flying into my arms and knocking me back onto the ground. “Yes.”
I catch her easily, because we’ve done this a time or three before.
James piles on, and Emma too, and then Levi says, “Aw, hell, why not?” and sits on my leg too, hugging all of us. “We have the best family.”
“I love you, Tripp Wilson,” Lila whispers in my ear. “And I’m so glad that’s your real name.”
I hug them all tight and whisper back, “I’d love you no matter your name.”
Life’s a path.
And I wouldn’t have mine any other way.
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SUGGESTED READING ORDER
Did you know the Copper Valley Bro Code and Fireballs series intersect? For the best reading experience, check out the suggested reading order below:
Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)
America’s Geekheart (Bro Code #2)
Dirty Talking Rival (Bro Code Spin-Off)
Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire (Bro Code #3)
Jock Blocked (Fireballs #1)
Real Fake Love (Fireballs #2)
The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob (Bro Code #4)
The Grumpy Player Next Door (Fireballs #3)
Irresistible Trouble (Fireballs #4)
Now, turn the page to enjoy a sneak peek of Jock Blocked!
JOCK BLOCKED
CHAPTER ONE
Mackenzie Montana, aka a woman on a mission
I never meant to become a criminal. But in the grand scheme of life, I don’t think I’m technically engaging in criminal behavior.
At least, if it is, you could call it a crime of passion.
And I am very passionate in my belief that while the Fireballs need to make changes to halt their record-breaking streak of being the worst losing team ever to play baseball, they don’t need to do it with a new mascot. Which is why I decided to take two weeks off work and fly to Florida for spring training, where I’m not saying that I’ve snuck into my home team’s ballpark after hours to steal the worst proposed mascot costume, but I’m not saying I haven’t, either.
Meatballs?
They actually let a meatball make the final cut.
I needed at least another full season to get over the fact that the new Fireballs ownership killed the last mascot, and here they are, letting fans vote on replacing Fiery the Dragon with flaming meatballs.
I snort to myself while I sneak through the darkened concrete hallways with a flaming meatball swallowing half of my body.
If you’re going to steal a giant meatball costume, it’s best to act like you know what you’re doing. And striding out of here with zero shame means two things—one, no one’s going to stop me, and two, even if they do, I’m incognito.
It’s the perfect crime to counter the crime of killing Fiery.
I’m one turn away from the door that I left propped open for myself after hiding out in the family bathroom after today’s game when voices drift toward me.
One male.
One female.
Neither are familiar, but as I get closer to my final turn, I realize the voices are between me and my exit
No biggie.
I got this.
I can just stroll on by, flash a thumbs-up, pretend like I’m heading out to prank the Fireballs at the team compound they’re all staying at, or to make a fast food run just for publicity.
Acting like I know what I’m doing inside this mascot costume is actually as easy as breathing. When you’ve seen thousands of baseball games in your lifetime, it’s not hard.
So I turn the corner.
And then I suck in a surprised breath, because that’s Brooks Elliott.
Oh. My. God.
Brooks Elliott.
The Fireballs’ newest acquisition. Like, so new he arrived yesterday. A mid-Spring Training acquisition, which is practically unheard of.
He plays third base, and he hits the ball like it’s evil incarnate and he’s an avenging angel and it’s his job to send that evil into another dimension.
He could be the reason we actually have a shot at finishing the year better than last.
And I am not going to hyperventilate like I did the last time I was face-to-face with a baseball player.
Pretending to be a mascot?
I got this.
Talking to the players?
It’s like talking to the gods.
Tall, muscled, chiseled, gods who put on a show for me every day from spring to fall with their acrobatics on the field and their powerful swings behind home plate.
I’ve had the chance to be in the same room with several of the players in the past two years, and every time, I do the same thing.
I turn mute and make an utter fool of myself, because I cannot talk to gods.
My breath is coming short and choppy, so I give myself a little pep talk. You don’t have to talk, Mackenzie. Just walk. Walk and do a few hand signals that they won’t understand, and he’ll never know it’s you.
Brooks is in jeans that fit his muscular thighs like a second skin, with his arms bulging under a tight black T-shirt featuring a smoking bull in a leather jacket on a motorcycle. He’s leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall, aiming smoky hazel eyes and a panty-melting smile at one of the janitor ladies in a blue smock, who’s giggling, because of course she is.
That smile is so potent, I can feel it through this costume. I want to be that smock just to be closer to the smolder.
But, alas, even if my tongue worked when I’m around baseball players, Brooks Elliott is off-limits.
He’s a virgin.
Intentionally.
According to my very reliable sources, when he tries to score with the ladies, he doesn’t score on the field. And I very much need him to score on the field for my team this year.
Work, I silently order my legs, and look at that.
They’re moving. With a bounce, even, because that’s how a meatball mascot in a Fireballs jersey would move.
Huh. If my nine-to-five trash engineer job thing ever fails, maybe I can get a job as a baseball mascot.
But not the meatball mascot.
If I had to pick a new mascot—which I’m not, because I’m running the Bring Back Fiery campaign—I’d angle for the firefly, because at least it has fire in it naturally. I get why the duck is in the running after that thing with the ducks at Duggan Field—the Fireballs’ regular season stadium back in my home city of Copper Valley, Virginia—but the echidna is just weird and not at all related to baseball, or fire, and even if his spiky hands are sort of threatening and cool, no one even knows what an echidna is.
Plus you don’t want to know what the internet is saying about echidna penis. You really don’t.
In short, the Fireballs need to bring back Fiery the dragon, which is my number one mission this year.
“So, you wanna go get a room?” Brooks says to his companion. His eyes dart to me, then back to the janitor lady.
She reaches out and strokes his chest. “Si.”
Wait.
What’s this?
And I’m not talking about the fact that she’s twice his age, which I didn’t notice until I was nearly right on top of them.
I’m talking about how she’s angling in like she’s going to kiss him, murmuring things in Spanish that I can’t understand because I’m only fluent in English, baseball, and drag queen, and how he’s tucking his arm around her waist like he’s going to press her against him.
Did I say bringing back Fiery was my number one mission?
Not anymore.
“Oh my god, stop!” I shriek.
They both jump.
Naturally, because a talking meatball isn’t normal. First rule of being a mascot is that you stay silent.
“Uh, are you okay?” Brooks’s hazel eyes scan me—or rather, the meatball—and even though my vision is a little dark from peering through the costume, I’m still getting a hot flash from him looking at me.
Which isn’t relevant, because he just invited this woman old enough to be his mother to GO GET A ROOM.
“No!” I shriek. “You’re hitting on her!”
His face goes adorably pink. His thick brown hair’s standing up like he just ran his fingers through it after a shower, and gah, it is so working for me.
He murmurs something to the janitor and turns to fully face me. “Who are you, and what are you doing?” he hisses.
I point at him. At the growing bulge in his pants that has me getting warm, and it’s not just from being half-encased in a flaming meatball. “What am I doing? How about what are you doing? Because it looks like you’re going to try to have sex with her!”
She stutters something and backs further away from him.
“That’s none of your damn business,” Brooks growls.
“But if you lose your virginity, you’ll never be able to hit a ball again.”
The janitor lady gasps and crosses herself, then scurries down the hall.
And Brooks goes from cute and pissed-off pink to redder than a flaming meatball in the cheeks. After a split second of freezing so hard I swear he creates his own gravitational pull, he looks back at the janitor, who’s slipping out my escape route, then turns to prowl toward me like a leopard barely containing its fury. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Meaty the Meatball.”
“Take your head off.”
“No.”
“Take. Your fucking. Head. Off.”
This is where I should really run. Or call my best friend. Or the Fireballs’ owner, who happens to be a good friend of mine, and who didn’t listen to reason when I told him the meatball was a bad idea, which is why I have to do this even if it means I’ll lose a friend.
But I’m talking to a baseball player.
For the first time in my life, I’m actually talking to a baseball player without hyperventilating.
I back down the hall. “You’re trying to sabotage the Fireballs.”
“They’re the worst team in baseball. There’s nothing left to sabotage.”
“Last year’s team was the worst team in baseball. Which is why you’re here now. To make them better. And you can’t do that if you have sex.”
“Who told you that?”
I try to clamp a hand over my mouth and end up knocking myself in the meatball instead, because I can’t tell him where I heard about his virginity.
That really wouldn’t be nice.
“I have my sources.” I’m backpedaling hard now, but I don’t have eyes in the back of my head—even though the damn meatball does—and I stumble over a water fountain sticking out of the wall. “And aren’t you supposed to be at the compound with the rest of the team? Why aren’t you getting your rest? Don’t you have catching up to do with arriving so late? When’s the last time you ate?”
It’s not often I need to shut up around a baseball player, but I really need to shut up now. And run. Not that I have any faith at all that I can outrun him, because hello, baseball gods can run fast, but I can make enough racket that possibly some security would hear me.
“Who are you?” he repeats.
“You’re not denying the virgin thing. Also, if you’re going to lose your virginity, please at least do it with someone you like, and not for the first woman willing to jump in the sack with you. Trust me. Your memories are better if you—wait. Never mind. Don’t sleep with anyone.”
His jaw clenches. So do his fists.
And this is it.
He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die in a meatball costume, at the hands of the man who’s supposed to turn around my favorite baseball player, and he’ll be in prison, and the Fireballs will never win a championship. Ever.
