“You kidding? He could enter a dance contest with that move.”
“And he’d end up exactly the same way he did here: out.”
There’s laughter outside the booth, and if Garrett has a comeback, there’s no time for it because Everly, who’s up to bat, hits a pop fly to short and the inning is over.
“That’s the end of five,” Garrett says, “and the score is tied two all. We’ll be back after the break.”
There’s a bang on the door, and Rich, one of the assistant coaches, says, “I can hear you guys through the wall. That’s funny stuff.”
Garrett’s grin is catching. By now, I’ve realized we’ve got a similar sense of humor and I expected there to be some back-and-forth, but I had no idea I’d feel this rush. I don’t even know what it is, but I think Garrett feels it, too. We’re in sync, and yet there’s also a current of tension. A push-pull. Maybe it’s because this is so new, because we don’t know what to expect.
Because we both thought it might be good, but not this good.
Uncomfortable with my thoughts, I reach into my backpack for my bottle of water. I find it, but end up knocking over Garrett’s pack in the process. “Sorry,” I say. As I straighten it, a paper sticks up from the unzipped main compartment. I don’t mean to look, but the large 67 in red ink is hard to miss.
My eyes flicker to Garrett. “Ouch.”
He shrugs at the math test. “Whatever.”
Whatever? I double-check that I didn’t misread the number. I also note that it’s the same quarterly test I took and it’s worth a chunk of our grade. “I thought math was your thing?”
“It is.” He shoves the test in and zips up his pack. “School isn’t.”
I gape, not sure what that means. He doesn’t test well? Or he doesn’t study? I don’t have time to think about it because he turns the volume back on the headsets and the next inning begins. I shrug off the uncomfortable thoughts and force myself to refocus on the game. It takes a little while, but we work back into a rhythm and before I know it, it’s the seventh and final inning. I’m glad high school doesn’t play nine like they do in college and the majors. I’m having too much fun. That wasn’t part of the plan.
“The Warriors take the field,” Garrett announces. “We’re still tied at two all. The plate is in shadows and we’ve got Evan Harris up to bat.”
I speak into my mic. “If this team has done their homework, Harris will see nothing but curveballs.”
“And the first pitch is a curveball outside. Harris swings for strike one.”
I lean forward. “Wait for it—number two is on its way.”
Sure enough, another breaking ball whizzes by while Harris swings wildly. I shoot Garrett a smile. I love being right. But he’s looking at the field. Worried. Or maybe pissed. I’ve never seen Garrett pissed, but a nerve is ticking in his jaw and his fingers are tapping a nervous beat on the counter. I’m guessing this is what it looks like. When Harris strikes out, I swallow back a snarky comment. I forget that these are Garrett’s friends.
“Sorry,” I say, covering my mic. “He’s your buddy. It must be hard to watch him struggle.”
“He’ll get it.”
“He won’t.”
“How can you say that?” he snaps.
“Because my dad was a power hitter in the minor leagues for the first eleven years of my life and a hitting coach after that. I grew up watching guys at the plate. Guys who can’t see the curve can’t hit it. Harris…” I shrug. “He looks lost every time one comes over the plate.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t get it. He just needs more practice.”
Practice doesn’t fix everything. I have an eye for talent the way my dad does, but I keep quiet. I don’t want to rub salt in the wound.
Fortunately for the Wildcats, Anthony Adams hits a bomb over the left field fence, breaking the tie. Garrett is up with a fist pump, Harris completely forgotten, as he watches Anthony circle the bases. Cholla wins and Mai is going crazy on the bleachers, yelling loud enough for me to hear her over everyone else.
The teams are still shaking hands on the field when Garrett shuts down the equipment and I pack up my stuff. There’s a thrum of energy in the stadium. It’s that feeling of a close game—a last-minute win. It crackles in the air and even finds its way into the booth.
Garrett lets out a long breath. “That was fun. Fact, that was the most fun I’ve had at a baseball game since the last time I threw a pitch.” He’s biting his lip again, damn it, his eyes shining at me like I just handed him a World Series ring.
I’m off-balance again, caught in the tractor-beam of his happiness, feeling more than I want. I shrug. “It didn’t totally suck.”
He laughs as he shoulders his pack. “Can you meet this weekend? I want to fill you in on the contest entry. There are a few other requirements.”
“Requirements?”
“We can figure it out in twenty minutes.”
“How about tomorrow afternoon? I finish at the bookstore at one o’clock.” I wonder what he’ll say—Saturday is the day for his secret-whatever meeting with Kyle Masters.
But he nods right away. “I’ll meet you at the bookstore when your shift is over.”
I think about Saturday and story time. About the costume I’ll be wearing. “Let’s meet at the café next door.”
“It’s a date,” he says.
“Ooh, it’s a date,” Mai repeats. I didn’t hear her walk up.
“Not that kind of a date.”
Garrett nods beside me. “Walters and I are buddies.”
Mai raises her brows. “The kind that starts with f—”
“No!” I snap before she can say more. “We’re not buddies. We’re partners. You drank a soda, didn’t you?”
She smiles and I groan. Mai is unfiltered in general, but on a sugar high she’s frightening. “We’re leaving,” I tell Garrett. I take
