But Cooper and his professional baseball salary are a step above. He’s been slowly buying all the land on Thorny Rock Mountain as it comes on the market, and at this point, he owns most of it.
Not all—he has a few neighbors, mostly rich and sometimes famous city folks who come out for a few weeks total a year. But if they ever sell, you know he’ll be first in line to make an offer.
And he’s grinning again. “Wanna join us?”
“Already did my cardio today.”
“Lies.”
“Maaaah!” Sue replies.
“Exactly,” I agree. I rub his head again. Goofy boy’s missing one horn, and has been since he adopted Grady after the great goat invasion several years back.
“How many more of your teammates are coming?” Aunt Glory asks.
“Are you all going to be running shirtless up and down the street all winter?” Dita Kapinski asks.
“I saw Max Cole come home shirtless last night,” Aunt Bea, who lives across the street, says. “Hubba hubba.”
“I can hold your feet for you while you do sit-ups,” LaShonda Mayberry offers. “And you tell Robinson that Glory might not be available, but I am.”
“Does your husband know?” Nana asks her.
“Oh, honey, Robinson’s my free pass, and yes, Jason knows it.”
I roll up my own mat, toss my Bluetooth speaker in my messenger bag, and head to the door, watching Cooper’s face do the same kind of gymnastics he does with his whole body at second base as the moms and grandmas of Shipwreck pepper him with questions. “Don’t keep him too long, ladies, or he won’t get his workout in, and then he’ll be Cranky Cooper.”
“Cooper’s never cranky.”
“He’s a shithead sometimes, but never cranky.”
“Check your doors good before you walk in your house, Tillie Jean. We know he owes you for that glitter bomb.”
I slip on my jacket, then go up on tiptoe and ruffle his dark hair on my way past. “I hope it’s not lame.”
He snorts, but his eyes are twinkling. “Ladies. I’m a changed man. I don’t pull pranks anymore.”
Translation: I just set up the mother of all revenge plans, and I can’t wait to see Tillie Jean’s face when she walks head-first into it.
Time for extra vigilance.
But I’m not expecting to need it quite as fast as I do.
I walk out the front door of the senior center and almost run into a very tight baseball ass.
Max is bent over on the sidewalk, dressed in a Fireballs track suit too, petting one of the stray goats that occasionally wander into town. “Who’s a good goat? You like shoe laces? Bet you’d like a juicy steak better. Who wants a juicy steak? Who’s a good goat?”
And that’s my entire problem with Max Cole.
From afar, he’s every bit the kind, funny, good guy that I’d want to get to know better.
But up close?
“That’s Goatstradamus, and he’s the reason we had to install bear-proof trash cans behind Crusty Nut,” I say.
Max jerks upright, turns, and his expression goes flat as roadkill.
Up close, he’s that.
Locked-up, off-limits, and a total stick in the mud. His jacket is unzipped, and the performance fabric of his white shirt pulls taut over his broad chest, giving me one more view of the muscles I touched last night.
His eyes narrow, which I feel more than see, since I’m still mentally groping his chest.
“Tillie Jean. Didn’t see you there.”
“Between my invisibility cloak and your lack of eyeballs on your butt, I’m not surprised.” I smile.
He doesn’t.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
“Great.”
“Awesome.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t leave your doors unlocked or Goatstradamus will pull a Sue on you.”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t twitch a facial muscle. Doesn’t ask what kind of code that is—it means Sue broke into Grady’s house and refused to leave, in case you’re wondering—and doesn’t answer either.
I sigh and step around him, lifting my messenger bag out of reach of the goat. “Have a good workout. I’m off to work.”
“Tillie Jean.”
I glance back at him.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down. “Sorry. About last night. Won’t happen again.”
“Because I’m Cooper’s sister, or because I’m that repulsive?”
Good morning, growly bear glare. Been a few hours. I missed you.
“TJ. Quit annoying Max.” Cooper pops out of the senior center, Mom on one arm and Dita on the other.
I smile at all of them. “You want me to stop breathing?”
Max flinches.
Cooper’s lips twitch.
And Mom gives me a mom look. “Tillie Jean. Don’t make the poor boy uncomfortable.”
The poor boy is towering over all of us and could probably bench press the pirate ship float that Pop rides every summer at our annual Pirate Festival. Rumor has it he’s on tap to do a photo shoot for Arena Insider’s Bare Naked feature sometime this winter too.
And yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like.
He’s doing a photoshoot naked.
With all the juicy bits covered once the pictures go to print in the sports magazine, of course, but still naked.
And now I’m uncomfortable.
Also, Goatstradamus is trying to eat my messenger bag.
I jerk it out of his reach. “Just heading to work. See you all around.”
Probably too soon for some of them.
But that’s his problem, not mine.
5
Max
All good things must come to an end, and today, apparently, that good thing is me successfully avoiding adding to my list of things I hate about Tillie Jean Rock.
Today, she’s having an argument with a parrot right outside my bedroom window.
You heard that right.
She’s arguing with a parrot.
“Give it back, Long Beak Silver.”
“Rawk! Get your own fucking treasure. Rawk!”
It’s five-thirty in the morning, and the woman who has been the bane of my existence my entire time with the Fireballs is once again destroying my calm. I’ve managed to successfully avoid her for two weeks now—two pretty damn good weeks of settling into a solid routine with my teammates, getting stronger, staying healthy, maintaining inner peace, doing random acts of kindness by feeding the stray goats and buying lunch at the local pizza joint or the new Mediterranean grill off the main drag for the locals, all the positive stuff my therapist recommends—but apparently my good luck has run out.
I shove my head under my pillow and try to find the quiet place. Good air in. Bad air out. Sleep good. You can do it.
“I swear to Davy Jones, you mangy bird, if you don’t give it back, I’m making fried parrot for lunch today.”
I’d ask Robinson to trade houses with me, except he’s renting out the bedroom over Cooper’s parents’ garage.
No thanks.
Stafford’s in a rental house next to Cooper’s grandparents.
Apparently the frisky runs heavy in the Rock genes. Both of my teammates are complaining about the same noises.