“Bryan? He works part-time in the office.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I roll the cool bottle over my now even warmer cheeks. “No, not that it’s any of your business.”
He looks at me through slightly lowered lids. “Because he was giving you that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of a guy who’s interested.”
“You can tell that after knowing him for two seconds?”
“I’m just saying. In case, you know, that’s your type.”
The way he says it is not exactly complimentary to Bryan. I set down the bottle, the plastic crunching under my grip. “Bryan is a great guy. He’s smart and nice and very thoughtful and—”
“He giggles.”
“He does not giggle!”
“I heard him. It reminded me of tea parties with my sisters.”
I blink, my thoughts derailed. “You have tea parties?”
“Not recently. But my sisters, Lilah and Felice, are both older, which meant they were in charge of daily activities growing up. And it was the only way I got cookies.” He lifts his bottle with a pinky finger sticking out. “But I never giggled.”
“Please,” I mutter. “I am not taking relationship advice from you. Have you ever had an actual girlfriend? And I don’t mean a hookup.”
“Walters!” He bats his eyelashes in mock hurt. “What kind of a guy do you think I am?”
“I’ve seen the ever-changing parade of girls at your locker.”
“You’ve been stalking me?” He looks extremely happy at the thought.
“I walk by your locker on the way to mine. You probably haven’t noticed, surrounded as you usually are.”
“Friends, Walters. Can’t a guy have friends?”
“Friends with benefits?”
“Every friendship is beneficial.”
My laugh breaks free. “You are so full of shit.”
He laughs with me as he leans back, sliding an arm over the top of the seat bench. I realize I’m as relaxed as he is. He’s easy to be around. “To answer your question,” he says, “I’m not interested in anything serious right now, but I have had an actual girlfriend. We dated most of our freshman year. Annette Cruz?”
I shake my head. I don’t know her.
“Anyway. It got to be too hard. For some guys, baseball is a spring sport. For me, it’s a year-round commitment. Doesn’t leave room for a relationship.”
“So now you just play the field?”
His expression lights up. “A baseball metaphor, Walters? I’m kind of turned on.”
“Well, turn off,” I retort. “You’re not my type, Blondie.”
“What? I’m everyone’s type.” He puffs out his chest.
“Put those muscles away before you hurt yourself.” I roll my eyes. “You and me—we are strictly professional. We’re about revenge. Money. Winning.” I tick each item off with a finger. “There will be no flirting. Add that to our list of rules.”
“You’re cute when you’re giving orders.”
“That’s flirting.”
“Sorry. I’ll work on it.” But the knowing look in his eyes says, No, I won’t. He’s obviously having too much fun.
Worse than that, so am I.
He’s so frustrating. And so… I purse my lips because I don’t want to think about what he is. I’m already irritated that he’s smarter and funnier than I expected. I should hate him—I want to hate him—and instead I…don’t.
“Can we get to work?” I ask. “What are these other requirements?”
Chapter Fourteen
Garrett’s gaze sharpens and the flirty playboy is gone. When it comes to this broadcasting contest, Garrett is 100 percent serious. I can’t help but respect that.
“The most important part of our application is going to be the game tape,” he says. “We provide the link to one regular-season game, our choice. We also have to complete an on-air interview. It can be with a player, a coach, or anyone else involved in running the team. Three to five minutes on any topic we choose.”
“You know who you want to interview?”
“Not really.” He picks at the label on the water bottle. “I’ve been looking for an angle. Someone with a story that will stand out.”
“So you’re thinking of a background piece? Is there someone on the team who’s gone through a challenge?”
“Nothing comes to mind, but guys don’t usually share the hard stuff.”
“And if they did, would they share it on-air?”
He nods, conceding my point. “Maybe we need to go in a different direction.”
“Or maybe we choose someone other than a player or a coach,” I suggest.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. Just thinking out loud. Like, maybe the equipment guy or the trainer? Find a behind-the-scenes story.”
He chews a divot into his bottom lip until a sudden smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “That gives me an idea. We’ve got a guy, he’s a senior now, but he’s been helping out since his freshman year. Not a player, but he loves the game. His name is Scottie, and he does a little bit of everything. You get hurt and need an ice pack, Scottie is there. You need the field chalked, Scottie does it.”
“What’s his story?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Garrett admits. “I’ve never asked him. We could do it together.”
I twirl the bottle between my fingers.
He points to it. “You want something else? I would have gotten you a soda but they didn’t have lemonade for a mix.”
I stare at my unopened water as his question sinks in. “You know what I drink? How much information does Google have?”
“It’s what you got at lunch the other day.”
I’m still confused. “You noticed what kind of drink I made?”
“Observation, Walters. You got to read the field.”
My father’s words.
They take me back to that little girl standing at the fence. Wanting to be just like her dad. I unscrew the cap, my fingers turning damp with condensation. “My dad always preached that,” I admit. “Field awareness.”
His seat squeaks as he shifts. “I thought it would have been cool to have a dad in baseball. Guess it depends on the dad, huh?”
I shrug because what else is there to say? “Did your dad play?”
“Never. Hates sports unless it’s NASCAR.”
“Is that a sport?”
“According to him. He loves cars. My uncle Max was the ballplayer.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his key chain. “This was his.”
“That explains
