Page 60 of The Show

I was still clammy from the unexpected sweat-shower I’d subconsciously subjected myself to. It still buzzed with the remnants of latent electricity from the sparks that passed between us, evidenced from the hair on my arms still standing to attention.

My head was quickly becoming - scratch that - my head had already become a tangled mass of confused thoughts. What did I think I was doing? Penn wasn’t just any guy; I’d known him almost my entire life. He was my best friend’s brother, he was younger than me, and our families were too connected.

But man, could he kiss. And if he could kiss like that, what else could he do?

My skin flushed white-hot again at the thought, just like it had done outside.

This was a bad idea. It was definitely a bad idea.

It needed nipping in the bud.

Yeah. That’s what I was going to do. Nip it in the bud. As soon as I saw him.

I shook my head clear and tried to get back to the job in hand. Namely, the job Penn was paying me for.

I was crudely doodling designs for a new logo when a long, thick finger tapped where I’d drawn one with the N of New York stacked on the Y, instead of interconnected like the Mets and The Yankees. I’d looped the L of The Lions around the outside of them.

“I like this one.”

I scrambled to cover the page because in among all the logos were tiny little hearts around Penn’s name copied over and over. It seemed that along with getting fake married today, it appeared I’d also gone back in time and was fifteen again.

I let out a huff, realizing it was useless and he’d seen everything, given the dark smile he was sporting. I kept hold of my dignity by pretending nothing had happened.

“I like that one too,” I replied, trying not to meet his eye, and watched him pull out the chair opposite me.

His arms linked casually behind his head, and it took all my willpower not to stare at the way his biceps flexed because I knew that’s exactly what he wanted. I’d roll my eyes at how smug he was if he didn’t have a point.

“What’s that?” He nodded to another pad of paper on which I’d been writing a list of things to ask him, based on what I’d found in the books I’d been reading.

“Questions for you.” I pushed it over the table to him.

His left eyebrow rose higher the further he scanned down the list. “A mascot?”

I nodded. “Yes. I think we need to bring back Larry the Lion.”

From what I could tell, the Lion’s mascot, Larry, was introduced in the early fifties, but he disappeared sometime in the mid-seventies and was never seen again. I couldn’t remember hearing anything on the tour about whether they’d gotten a new one, and I hadn’t noticed anything around the stadium.

He ran his fingers along his jawline while he contemplated. “Maybe we should rename him.”

“Lucian?” I teased, trying to suppress a smile.

Penn’s head fell back in a loud laugh I’d never heard from him before, and it suddenly made me wonder if this was a Penn that most people saw; that the Penn I usually spent time with - albeit briefly - was someone else entirely.

“Oh, he’d love that,” he grinned, showing off a perfect set of teeth, his grey eyes shining brighter the longer he considered it. “Yes, we should do that. You really think the fans would like it? The Yankees don’t have a mascot.”

I sat back and looked at him, firmly. “You cannot build this team to be like The Yankees. You have to be different, or you’ll never beat them.”

He rolled his lips but stayed silent, which I saw as an opportunity to continue.

“You need to think about all the ways The Yankees frustrated you, and fix it for this club. Buck seemed to have a lot to say about what was wrong.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Penn’s expression became serious and he leaned across the table, letting out a deep sigh. “I liked him a lot though, and everything he said was true. The fans here have a lot of heart. They really feel the pain but they’re undeniably loyal, even after the rough ride they’ve been having. This team isn’t the best team, it doesn’t have the worldwide recognition of The Yankees or The Dodgers, or the bank balance, but that’s what makes it special. The fans love it despite all that, and I want to make it better for them. I’m going to make it right, and I’m going to have it winning again.”

He glanced down at his phone screen as it buzzed again, distracting us both; it must have been the fifth time in the last few minutes.

“Who keeps texting you?” I snapped before I could stop myself, even though I wanted and also not wanted to know the answer in equal measure.

It was undoubtedly one of the many girls in his never-ending fan-club. The one I appeared to have joined; the membership fee of which seemed to be an unwelcome burst of jealousy hitting me directly in the gut.

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