Page 206 of Vegas Heat

GROUNDBALL

VEGAS HEAT: THE EXPANSION TEAM

BOOK FOUR

CHAPTER 1: COOPER

“Somebody call nine-one-one!” a voice nearby yells.

No.

Notsomebody.

Every CPR training course I’ve ever taken tells us we need to pick a person to make the call. Yellingsomebodymeansnobodywill call.

“AJ, call nine-one-one,” I say when I spot the first person I recognize nearby. He nods and grabs his phone out of his pocket.

“Stand back! Give him some room!” a security guard yells, and a circle seems to form around the man lying on the ground, mostly of those of us who shared the car on the way here. We’re trying to shield him from onlookers, shield him from those taking videos to make a buck off whatever’s happening, shield him from the chaos of the crowd.

He’s still clutching his chest, and he’s wincing in pain, but he’s conscious. That has to be a good thing.

Gabby and Joanie break through the crowd, and Gabby kneels by his side, taking his hand in hers. She’s murmuring something to him, and Joanie kneels on his other side.

Fuck it. I rush over and drape an arm around Gabby, squeezing her into my side to let her know I’m here.

“Daddy, it’s okay, help is on the way,” she murmurs softly to him.

His eyes flick to mine, and I can tell he’s scared about what’s happening to him. “Get up there and stand in for me, Coop,” he says, and I nod. “The draft must go on. Make the right picks. I’ll be back at it soon.” We’ve got a mutual understanding about what this team needs, and I’m more than capable of doing what needs to be done.

“Of course. Get yourself well and then we’ll kick some ass on the ballfield,” I say with a wide grin that I don’t really feel. Keep him calm, though. If it’s his heart, he needs to remain calm and relaxed.

Managing a professional baseball team isn’t exactly conducive to calm and relaxed—which might be what landed him in this situation to begin with. It’s traveling and stress and not having a regular sleep schedule and eating whatever is available on the road. That combined with genetics could cause health problems for anybody.

I’m not just worried about my best friend. I’m worried about my girl’s father. The way he grabbed his chest combined with the other symptoms he’s had all day tell me this isn’t just nerves. I’ve seen it before.

He’s having a heart attack, and there’s been too goddamn many of those in my life. I nearly lost my brother to one not so long ago. I’m not losing Troy to one.

Gabby’s not losing her father to one.

It runs in the family. Troy lost his father too young just as I did to the same disease.

But he will get the care he needs, and he will come back to manage the fuck out of this team.

I refuse to allow my brain to have any other thoughts on the matter. I’m manifesting only positivity right now.

Gabby keeps her eyes on her father, and I squeeze her once more in solidarity before I straighten and walk over to address the crowd staring in this direction. I hold up both hands. “Everything’s fine. The draft must go on.” I repeat the words Troy just said to me, and it seems to calm the crowd down a little.

Sirens scream moments later, and Troy is taken out on a stretcher. Gabby glances at me before she climbs into theambulance to be with her father, and I nod at her when our eyes meet before I’m forced to head up to the stage.

I stand beside Pete and Mike as we wait for the two announcers from ESPN—Carl and Doug, the hosts for tonight’s draft—to announce our arrival.

“We’ll keep you updated with the latest on Troy Bodine’s condition throughout the evening as updates come in,” Carl says. “And now, it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for! Please welcome to the stage Vegas Heat scouting director Pete Holt, general manager Mike Perry, assistant coaches Chris Jarrett and Joe Buchanan, and third baseman Cooper Noah!”

The crowd goes wild for our arrival, and we take our seats on the long stage, bright lights blaring into our eyes as we pretend we didn’t just watch one of the men we all respect most in the world go down clutching his chest.

Fuck.

We’re supposed to concentrate on the draft. We’re supposed to hold it together.

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