Their family feud HAS A WIKIPEDIA PAGE.
I should be pissed at you, but I sent the page to my acquisitions editor at Bubble Bath Books, and I’ve asked him to commission a paranormal family feud romance with really terrible family names.
Also, I texted Zeus. He said he recommended the nuns from the abbey by Heartwood Manor for the exhibition team. So I reached out, and they’re available, but they’ve requested to be on the Thrusters’ staff team, which seems fair. Hockey staff and nuns against the staff of the worst team in baseball and pro lady soccer players. We should be pretty evenly matched.
How’s the nanny search going?
-L
From: Tripp Wilson
To: Lila Valentine
Subject: Who are you?
Lila,
I think you might’ve been hacked. Nothing about that last email was actually strictly professional or baseball-related.
Also, my daughter is currently singing “The Duck Song.” Got any grapes? And do you remember the baby chipmunk at our first professional meeting, which I tend to actively un-remember as often as possible? It came from a family of chipmunks my son smuggled into our house. This week, he’s working on a frog empire. It’s November. How the hell is he finding frogs outside in NOVEMBER?
Please don’t tell him I accidentally stepped on one of his new friends, because I have enough guilt over running out of vegetables to have with dinner tonight.
And the nanny search is…not good. I might be looking for the wrong thing. Please don’t ask Denise about the interview I conducted at headquarters yesterday.
If you get a chance to head into Chelsea this weekend, have a cannoli for me from the bakery on 6th. Levi disagrees, but I think it’s the best.
Tripp
From: Lila Valentine
To: Tripp Wilson
Subject: Re: Who are you?
Tripp,
I prefer chocolate chip cookies to cannoli. Also, I googled that song, and now I’m pretty certain I won’t be able to sleep for a week. Thanks for the earworm.
I don’t know what you’re looking for in a nanny, but plenty of families have working parents who use regular daycares just fine. I know you have a lot on your plate with interviewing managers and hiring vice presidents without running it past me first (yes, you’re forgiven, he’s a good choice), so I asked Denise to put together a small staff to get that daycare center started at headquarters.
Also, I’ve been meaning to tell you thank you for inviting me to that cookout.
I know you did it to convince me that you’re all good people and that the team would be in good hands if I sold it to you.
It worked.
Except for the part where I’m not selling my uncle’s team.
Turns out, I’m enjoying digging into what’s apparently been in my blood this whole time.
Thank you for caring about them like they’re your own.
Also, I’ve had a glass and a half of wine, and I’m soaking in a bubble bath, and that’s the only reason I’ll confess that I appreciate having you. In writing. I’ll deny this and have you hacked to have the email erased from your hard drive permanently if you ever tell a soul.
Lila
From: Tripp Wilson
To: Lila Valentine
Subject: Re: Re: Who are you?
Kids are in bed now, so I’m sitting on my back deck, eating a steak, and wondering why the hell you were really climbing through the ceiling at the field the last time I saw you.
Not sure if you know this, but my wife died of the flu.
Almost lost Emma to it too. Logically, I know the odds are practically nil that you would’ve died from a dust infection in your eyes eating your brain, but logic doesn’t always work when I’m stressed.
After a little time and perspective, I can acknowledge that it was pretty damn hilarious to see your leg come through that ceiling panel.
Hope your bruises are healing. Landing had to have hurt.
Tripp
From: Lila Valentine
To: Tripp Wilson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Who are you?
How much have you had to drink to get the courage to confess that?
From: Tripp Wilson
To: Lila Valentine
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Who are you?
Not a damn drop.
19
Tripp
The office vibe is different without Lila here.
She’s making her presence known through email—so many emails, every hour of the day like she never sleeps, everything from requesting updates on coaching staff interviews, to rejecting my plans for the ballpark renovation before I even sent her all three proposed phases, to confessing personal little tidbits that are making me wish she was actually still here in Copper Valley, because I’m starting to miss her—and then through a phone call late Thursday afternoon almost a week after she left.
“I do not need security,” she informs me when I pick up her call.
“Hello to you too, Ms. Valentine. I hope you’ve had a productive time in New York.”
“I fired them all.”
“The whole city?”
“No. Your security team.”
“Oh, that. They told me you tried. Good thing they answer to me, and not you. Alonzo found a paparazzo in the lobby of your building this morning, waiting to get a picture of you leaving with Brooks Elliott.”
There’s silence on the other end, save for the soft sounds of her breath, and fuck me if I’m not getting hard.
Mr. Wilson, I want the team manager from San Diego. And the batting coach from Toronto. Also, bring in Logan Stafford for a meeting next week when I’m back from New York. I don’t care if his agent comes or not. We need to discuss his role on the team next year.
Mr. Wilson, how are those calendars coming along? We need them stocked in the online store ASAP so we don’t miss the holiday gift-giving season.
Mr. Wilson, I can’t stop thinking about the feel of your cock between my legs. I’ll be in Copper Valley to finish what we started in three hours. Bring hot chocolate chip cookies. I want to eat them off you.
I snap back to attention, because she didn’t send that last email, though I do know she double dips carrots in ranch dressing, that her favorite song will forever be Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off,” and that she can’t compete when it comes to dad jokes.