Page 15 of Leave It On The Field (Grand Slam 3)
“Come on, Jack,” Ricky says, rolling his eyes. “You know how many years we’ve been coming to this house. It’s like our second home.”
“Not anymore—”
“Jack, it’s fine.” I grab two more beers and hand them to Stone and Paul. “Will you guys see if Adie needs a refill? And take these snacks out.”
“We’re on it,” Stone says as he and Paul grab everything and follow Ricky outside.
“I’ll fix Ricky,” Jack says. “Seb said he gave him one last warning at the wedding about playing nicely with you. It doesn’t seem like he’s taking it seriously.”
“Don’t say anything to him. It’s not worth it. If Seb finds out he’s still being an asshole, he’ll go ballistic and cut him off. I don’t want that. They’ve known each other since they were five, right?”
Jack takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I won’t tell Seb if you don’t want me to, but I won’t let anyone disrespect my daughter-in-law like that. Rick seems to think he has a free pass because he’s been around for a while. Time doesn’t have a thing to do with it. You have to earn friendships every day. You have enough going on without having to deal with his petty bullshit.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning against the counter. I always feel exhausted the second Ricky walks into a room. “This past year has been a lot. And the World Series has amplified everything.”
He pats my shoulder. “I know inheriting Seb’s fame is difficult. We’ve had to deal with a little bit of that too. Seb told me about the stuff people are saying about you on social media.”
“I figured. I know he tells you everything.”
“I opened an incognito Twitter account so I can monitor it myself. Most of it seems like normal fame stuff, but there’s that one account—miamibabe—that goes way too far. She’s a stalker.”
“Her handle is miamibballbabe and yeah, she seems to really hate me.” I rub my temples to try to stop the headache that I know is on its way. It’s Ricky symptom number two. “I don’t read the stuff anymore. Seb’s social media manager keeps an eye on it and sends him updates. I asked him not to share it with me.”
“That’s probably the best thing for your sanity,” Jack says, starting in on another cookie. “And Adie doesn’t know about any of it. It’s better that way. She would be so anxious if she thought someone was threatening you.”
“I won’t tell her,” I say, waving him off as he tries to refill my wine glass. “I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal.”
“Seb does.” He tops off his own glass. “He said you didn’t want him to hire a bodyguard. I think you should reconsider.”
“I don’t want a stranger following me around, but speaking of that, did Seb tell you about our friends from California? The people who are our co-owners of Blitzen Bay.”
“Yeah. He said they were a good group.”
“They’re awesome. Seb loves them. We both do. I’m not sure if he told you that three of them are former military special forces.”
“He did. I met that one at your wedding. Butch, I think.”
“Butch and his buddy Mason were SEALs and Nash was a Ranger. Anyway, they’re in town for the series, so Seb’s asking them to have my back while they’re here. He’s talking to them right now.”
The patio door flies open and Adie bursts in. “Will you two please get back out here before I push Ricky into the pool? He’s complaining that his girlfriend can’t sit next to him at the games.”
“I’ll take care of that right now,” Jack says marching toward the patio door. He stops and turns back to me. “We can finish our conversation later, but I think that’s the perfect solution.”
“What’s the perfect solution?” Adie pours herself another glass of wine. She grabs a cookie. “Don’t let Jack have any of these. His triglycerides are too high.”
“Noted. And we were just talking about who’s sitting where for the series. It’s a crazy puzzle. I feel like I’m doing a seating chart for a wedding.”
“You thought you got away from that since you had a small wedding,” she says, laughing, “but this might be worse. Every random relative and friend appear out of nowhere when Seb reaches another milestone in his career. His first game in the majors was a nightmare. Everyone wanted a ticket.”
“I can imagine. Our phones haven’t stopped since he made it to the playoffs.”
“These are yummy. Send me the recipe.” She grabs another cookie. “Are you sure you don’t want one of the box seats for the games? I feel so badly that you’re not sitting as close to the action as possible.”
“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “Honestly, it’s hard for me to sit there now. People try to take pictures of me, and they yell stuff at me. It’s impossible to enjoy the game.”
Her forehead wrinkles up. “What do they yell at you?”
“Nothing to worry about,” I say, hugging her. “You know how passionate his fans are.”
