He turns away, and I stare after him and the girls who are still hanging onto his arms.
“You hate ballplayers,” Mai says.
“I do. I especially hate that one.”
“Then why are you staring?”
I blink, fighting the burn of a flush as I wave off her comment. “Because I’m disgusted. Did you see the finger gun? It’s truly awful.”
“It is. But he bites his bottom lip when he does it. It’s kind of sexy.”
“It is not!”
My treasonous mind whispers, It’s a lot sexy.
Chapter Eight
Lunch is a sub shop tucked into the corner of a strip mall. It smells like meatballs and fresh bread and my stomach rumbles. This is a big step up from the school cafeteria where Mai and I eat every day.
“You’re buying,” I tell Garrett as I study the menu. “I’ll have the steak and cheese.”
Garrett inches forward with the line. “Coincidentally the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“And a large drink,” I add. “And a brownie.”
It’s his turn at the counter, and he orders my lunch and a Cobb salad for himself. I fill my cup with a mix of Sprite and lemonade, collect napkins, and find us an empty booth. The bench seats are covered in red vinyl and squeak as I sit. With nothing to do, I find myself watching Garrett at the soda fountain. His hair has flopped over one eye and he pushes it back, even that small movement a mix of confidence and grace. My dad had that, too. He probably still does. I wouldn’t know.
How did I end up here? When Garrett ordered me to the flagpole this morning, I was determined to do anything but.
During first hour, it was hell no.
Second period, absolutely not.
Third period, no way.
Fourth period, in his dreams.
And then, inexplicably, I was walking to the flagpole. I scowled when I saw him, waiting for one smirk, one smug comment so I could bolt. Instead his expression lit up. He stepped forward, ignoring the group he’d been standing with. “Walters, you make my heart sing.”
“Blondie, you’re so full of shit.”
He laughed and we fell into an easy rhythm on the way to his car. As pathetic as it may be to admit, I’ve never left campus for lunch. So yes, the whole thing was weird and kids were staring and I should have felt nervous or awkward, but I didn’t. I’m not even nervous now. I think it’s because I don’t want to impress Garrett Reeves. He has me off-balance and I don’t like it. I want to get him out of my life.
They call our number at the counter, and Garrett detours to bring our lunches. He sets down his healthy green salad and slides me a red basket with my meaty-cheesy-gooey sub. I breathe in the toasty bread and garlic. Mmmm. “Where’s my brownie?”
Shaking his head, he hands it over. Even though it’s wrapped, it smells heavenly. It’s covered in powdered sugar and has my other favorite feature of a brownie: it’s huge.
But first things first. I lift half of my sub, which weighs as much as a Harry Potter hardcover. Garrett is watching me like an exhibit at the zoo. “What?” I say. “You ate half my breakfast.” I lick a trail of cheese that’s leaked over my hand.
“You can’t eat all of that.”
“Wanna bet?”
“No,” he says. “I spent all my money on your lunch.”
I grin. “So let’s get this over with. What’s my why?” I take a huge bite and then nearly choke when he answers.
“Your dad.”
I swallow. “Way to ruin my appetite. I thought we already went over this? I don’t want to talk about my dad.” I take another bite because even if this conversation is slightly nauseating, the sandwich is seriously better than anything I’ve eaten in weeks. Mom is a distracted chef, which means home-cooked is usually over-cooked.
Garrett’s finally done pouring Italian dressing on his salad and mixing it up. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” He pauses to eat a forkful of salad. “So your dad’s career is a yo-yo of moves from team to team. He hangs around the league for a long time but never reaches the majors. Finally, he’s released and takes a coaching job. Seems like an opportunity to put down roots, but not long after, Clay Walters is offered a chance to play ball in Japan, halfway across the world. What about his family?” He eyes me speculatively. “That couldn’t have been an easy decision.”
My fingers tighten around the sandwich, squeezing cheese out both ends. “You’d be surprised.”
Garrett nods as if that confirms what he’s already guessed. “Two months later, the Japanese press introduces the Nippon league’s new power hitter, Clay Walters. The next articles show him with various women and it’s mentioned that he’s newly single. I’m guessing you and your mom didn’t want to go, and he left anyway.”
It feels like a meatball is lodged in my throat. I lift a shoulder, let it drop like it’s no big deal.
“And the reason he goes is because he thinks a big year there might prove he can still play in America. After everything, at age thirty-two, he still wants to play in the majors.”
I shove the basket away. “What does this have to do with the contest?”
“Stick with me, Walters. I’m getting there.” His blue eyes radiate intensity. “He comes back to the States two years later and gets a coaching job. But where?”
“In the minor leagues.”
“Which is where he is today. Passed over again this season.” Garrett leans forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers curved nearly into fists. His hands are solid—strong. I can imagine him gripping a baseball. I can imagine that it would have been a beautiful thing to watch him throw. “What if his daughter was the one to get to the majors first? What if the girl he left shows him up by making it to The Show?”
I lick my lips, tasting the sourness of the memories he’s dredged up. “How is that
