The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Ripley

“I highly advise against that,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “If you put Charleston straight into conditioning at that level, you may as well write him off for the rest of the season.”

“He’s in that bad of shape?” Coach Shaw shakes his head. “For fuck’s sake, Ripley. I need a shortstop. Is there anything we can do to expedite getting him field-ready?”

“That’s up to him. He must put the work in. We reviewed his personalized program this morning, and I explained how imperative this is to his recovery and reducing injuries going forward. But I mean …”

“How much confidence do you have in him?”

I grin. “I give him a ten out of ten that he’s going to go home tonight, eat a bunch of shit, and engage in inappropriate behavior.”

Coach rolls his eyes.

“He gets a four-point-seven that he’s going to walk in here tomorrow fully committed to his health and the Arrows program,” I say.

“You know, when I got into coaching at this level, I didn’t expect it to resemble chasing kittens around all damn day.” He puts his hands on his knees and groans as he stands. “Yet here we fucking are.”

I chuckle, watching his thoughts fly around his head like a cartoon character.

“I’m going to get with Landry about this roster,” Coach says. “If he wants to make the playoffs, I gotta have a shortstop.”

“Seems important to me.”

He laughs, side-eyeing me. “Any chance I could get your ass in a pair of cleats?”

“Sure. I’ll lace up for the right price, but I’m not sure that’ll help your play-off objective.”

His laugh grows louder as he heads for the door. “Thanks for your help. I can always count on you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Coach’s words echo through my mind as he steps into the hallway. I smile as I pick up my phone to check the texts that have been chirping inside my desk for the past ten minutes.

“Good grief, you fuckers,” I say, opening the family text thread.

Bianca: Is it just me, or is Renn withholding baby Arlo pictures?

Tate: I’ve gotten pics every day this week.

Jason: Of Arlo, Tate.

Tate: Oh.

Bianca:

Gannon: Are you not getting the pictures? Wow, B. That’s rough.

Bianca: You better be joking.

I laugh, imagining my sister’s face all distorted and fire coming from her head. When she lived in Nashville, we were all borderline scared of her. She might be younger than all of us but Tate and short as hell, but she won’t put up with anything—especially from us.

Jason: Did you see the one where Blakely put Arlo in Renn’s old jersey?

Tate: Did I send you the one from last weekend when I was over there and caught him smiling at me?

Gannon: Ah, yeah. That was a good one.

Bianca: This isn’t funny, guys.

Bianca: I WANT TO SEE MY NEPHEW.

Renn: I sent you ten pictures yesterday. What the hell are you talking about, B?

Bianca: I wanted to ensure they weren’t getting pictures I wasn’t getting.

Tate: Aw, is someone getting homesick?

My smile stretches from ear to ear as I read the messages from my brothers and sister.

Bianca: I don’t want to be excluded from anything just because I’m not there.

Jason: That means you’re homesick.

Bianca: Does it?

Renn: You know that holidays, birthday parties, kindergarten graduations, and rugby games will be much easier if you live here.

Tate: And late-night milkshake runs.

Renn: What?

Tate: That’s going to be our thing.

Renn: Whose?

Tate: Me and Arlo. I’ve decided.

I chuckle, scrolling to keep reading.

Renn: You better talk to his mother before you do that.

Jason: Our thing is going to be flying. He’s going to want his pilot’s license.

Renn: Chill. Out.

Jason: I can see it in his eyes. The kid was born for the sky.

Renn: You guys are stressing me out.

Bianca: CAN WE GET BACK TO ME, PLEASE?

Renn spams the chat with more baby pictures than most people take of their offspring.

I flip through the images, wondering if they ever let the kid go a minute without a camera in his face. I get it, though. Arlo is adorable. And, if I’m being honest, I do the same to Waffles.

When your baby’s cute, your baby’s cute.

“Knock, knock.”

The words correspond to the sound of knuckles against the door. I look up and find the Arrows GM, Lincoln Landry, standing in the doorway.

“Look who it is,” I say, getting to my feet. “The man. The myth. The legend.”

He extends his hand and laughs. “I like the sound of legend.”

“How are you?” I shake his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to be here and finally be settled in. Mind if I take a seat?”

“Be my guest.”

We sit across from each other. He looks the same as he did when he was a star centerfielder for the Arrows years ago—fit and strong. The coach should see if Landry wants to lace up and play. He’s in better shape than half of the team.

“It’s nice seeing you in purple and gold again,” I say.

“It’s nice being back in the fold. I was floored when Gannon called and asked me if I was interested in being the general manager. I hadn’t given much thought to coming back to baseball at this level, but as soon as I heard the idea, I knew I had to do it.”

And the Arrows will be damn lucky because of it. He truly is a legend, both in the sport and as a human.

“How do you like the new facility? I’ve heard it’s quite different to the old stadium in Memphis.”

“Oh, yeah. This is state of the art. I would’ve killed for these amenities when I played.” He grins. “Still, the franchise is the franchise. It’s like coming home.”

“That’s probably because I saw your kids running up and down the halls yesterday.”

Lincoln laughs. “My kids would be here every day if I let them. And I’d let them if I weren’t afraid of being fired—and even more afraid of their mother.”

His affection for his wife is as clear as day, and I can’t help but note it. I’ve met her, and she’s a wonderful person. Lincoln is happy in the Arrows facility, but he seems even happier when he’s with Danielle and their children.

The thought makes me pause, and a weird energy ripples through my chest.

I wonder what it would be like to have my own children running the hall?

“How is Danielle?” I ask.

“She’s great. We met in Tennessee, so it’s like coming home for her, too. I know she misses being in Savannah a lot. She’s really close with my sisters, and we loved the kids being close to their cousins. But the flight is just over an hour and with a Brewer Air jet at our disposal thanks to my contract, they’ve been able to go back all the time.”

“I’m glad it’s working out for you all.”

“Me, too. So how are you? I saw Coach in the hallway, and he said you suggested a new shortstop.”

I lean back, propping one ankle on the other knee. “I didn’t say it in those terms … I don’t think. But I don’t have a lot of faith that Charleston’s focus is on this team. His injuries are pretty severe, and while I’ve seen guys get through it and play excellent ball on the other side, it takes a lot of dedication. I’m not sure Charleston is the poster boy for that.”

Lincoln sighs, his shoulders sinking. “I appreciate your insight. And to be honest, I feared as much. Some guys are born ballers, and some, most, are not. Can’t say I met him and walked away thinking he was the future of the team.”

“Just a tip I heard in the training facility the other day. Darryl Goggins might be pushing for a trade from the Rebels. He’d be a hell of an addition to our infield and our lineup.”

“I think you’re right, and if that’s true, that’s a damn good piece of intel.” He stands. “I’m going to make some calls and see what’s possible.” He heads for the door. “Is there any way we can keep you here full-time instead of sharing you with the rugby and hockey teams?” He faces me. “You know your heart is here. Those rugby guys are animals, and the hockey guys are wimps. Baseball is where it’s at.”

I laugh. “Why don’t you head over to the rink and let the hockey guys know that?”

“I’m good.” He laughs, too. “I do appreciate you a lot, Ripley. You’re an excellent example of professionalism and hard work for both the players and our staff. And considering your family owns this team …” He grins. “If more franchises had owners like you, we’d have a harder time winning a championship this year.”

Wow. My mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. I’m taken by surprise, but I also don’t know what to say to that kind of praise.

“I’ll talk to you later, Ripley.”

“Yeah, thanks. Good to see you, Landry.”

I wait until he’s out of sight before I scrub my hands down my face.

It’s slightly embarrassing that his praise feels so good. But really, it’s all I want to do in life—have a role, a place, a purpose. I’ve always felt like what I do is important to our athletes, and it’s always given me great satisfaction to help others get and stay healthy. But no one has really appreciated it before. If they have, they’ve never said it.

I sit back in my chair and exhale deeply.

“Thanks for ordering for me. You really are my hero tonight.”

My breath turns into a throaty chuckle as I ponder this wild situation with Georgia. How in the hell did I wind up fake-dating the woman who hates me more than anyone in the world?

I’m not her hero, and we both know that. She’s playing her part just like I’m playing mine. But even though I know she’s saying things for the hell of it—to make herself look good and to try to bother me—it’s still amusing.

And it makes me curious.

She was nervous about placing her order last night. She’s always hesitant about ordering from new places. When our friend group goes to a new restaurant, or we’re at a bar, she always waits for someone to order first. Then, more times than not, she copies whatever they say. I wondered what would happen when it was just me and her.

When I pulled her chair out, she paused as if she was surprised. And when I told her she was beautiful, which wasn’t a lie, she basked in those words. And when I offered to order for her, she appreciated it.

My lips twitch.

Since our date, I’ve wondered what kind of guys she usually sees. Are they taking care of her? Building her up? Making her feel safe?

Not that I care, because I don’t. It’s just hypothetical. After all, she’s the reason my life went sideways. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brewer, but your scholarship offer has been rescinded.”

I force a swallow, ignoring the pit in my stomach.

“This isn’t complicated,” I tell myself. “It’s very straightforward. She hates me. I hate her. We just have to get through these next few weeks.”

I turn off my computer and stand.

Unscathed, hopefully.