“Who?” Anthony is adjusting himself at third base, and Mai is riveted.
“He’s wearing a cup,” I say. “It’s not real.”
“Do not kill my buzz.”
I swallow a laugh. Mai is kind of adorable when irrational. Who knew.
Then I hear the announcer again, his words setting me on edge. “That should have been called a balk. That pitcher didn’t come set.”
I shoot to my feet. “I can not listen to this for one more second.” I take two steps down and tug the door open. Both guys turn at the noise. I ignore the blond who’s doing the play-by-play and point a finger at the blithering idiot closest to me. “You. Stop. You are terrible.”
“What?” He gapes at me.
“My ears are bleeding. I can’t take it anymore.”
He yanks down the microphone piece attached to his headset. “You can’t come in here!” He looks to his partner for support.
I recognize Blondie. Even if you hate sports, it’s hard to avoid knowing who the star athletes are at our school. Not to mention he’s one of the other players whose locker I walk by every morning. His name is Garrett Reeves and he’s hurt this year, which is probably why he’s in the booth. I’d heard broken arm, but other than a scar on the inside of his elbow, he looks ridiculously fit. If he’s supposed to carry me bodily from the booth, he could do it.
He adjusts a knob on the equipment, then swivels his stool toward me but makes no move to get up. “And you are?”
“Annoyed,” I answer. “You can’t have a balk without a runner on base. This guy obviously has no idea what the infield fly rule is, and that foul ball he was raving about? It was a hit by pitch.”
A slow smile works across Garrett’s face. “And you could do better?”
I scoff. “In my sleep.”
“Big talker. Should we see if she can back it up, Nathan?”
“What? No way,” Nathan blusters. “She needs to get out of here. Now.”
Garrett is still grinning. I roll my eyes. Dark blond hair and denim blue eyes. Completely gorgeous. He’s such a cliché. “Shouldn’t you be doing your job?” I ask. “Number 54 just walked. We got a sub coming to the plate. You want to tell the listeners?”
Eyebrows a few shades darker than his hair shoot up. He studies me another second with a look of approval and something else that makes his eyes spark and the back of my neck warm. Then he tips his head at Nathan. “She’s right about the balk. And you were wrong last inning when the pitcher struck the hitter’s hands.”
Well. Blondie knows his baseball.
“Come on, Nathan,” he adds in an easy voice. “She obviously knows her stuff. Let’s see what she can do when we’re live.”
Nathan yanks off the headphones. “If I leave, I’m not coming back. You’re on your own. For the competition, too.”
There’s a silent exchange I don’t understand. It lasts long enough for the player at the plate to foul off the next pitch. Then Garrett shrugs. “Do what you gotta do.”
Nathan tosses the headphones on the counter and manages to jab his elbow into my arm on his way out.
“Ow! Jerk face!”
“Sorry about that,” Garrett says. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I mutter, rubbing the sting out of my arm.
He gestures to the now vacant stool. The backstop rattles at the impact of another foul ball, and he glances down at the field. “Let’s get you on air.”
On air.
I take a steadying breath. I’m thrilled that the bad smelling cologne was Nathan’s and not the guy I’m left with for the next two innings. But the next two innings? My heart drops like a breaking ball and I realize I’ve just committed myself to calling the rest of this game.
I blame it on this sport. It makes me lose my mind.
“You sitting?” he asks. “Or was all of that a show?” He crosses his arms over his chest. I wonder if that’s a practiced move to make his biceps flex. Which they do.
I shake off my nerves. I’m not one to back down—and no way am I backing down from a ballplayer. His smirk is too much like all the self-centered players I grew up around.
Too much like my father’s.
I sit and lift my gaze to his. “Plug me in, Blondie.”
Chapter Two
Garrett stares a second in surprise—not sure if it’s my tone or the nickname—but I like that I’ve thrown him a curve. Then he starts fiddling with a panel the size of a long computer keyboard, and I take a second to look around. The broadcast booth is bare bones and no bigger than a walk-in closet. It reminds me of a house someone forgot to finish, with plywood walls, a cement floor, and a brown laminate countertop that looks glued on. Expensive-looking equipment is spread out on the counter, cords running like veins from one thing to another. I’m not a techy person, so I really hope I’m not expected to touch any of it.
Garrett adjusts his headset and says, “Sorry, folks. A little change going on in the booth today. Nathan had to step out, and just up from the minor leagues we have…” He pauses for me to answer.
“Josie.”
“Josie,” he repeats into his mic. He gestures to the headphones that I hope aren’t crawling with Nathan germs as I settle them over my ears and shift the arm of the microphone.
“All right, folks,” he says. “We’ve got Evan Harris up at the plate. Tucker Lewis is on first with a walk, and Cooper Davies is stretching a lead at third base. You with me, Josie?” He gives me another cocky smirk. The boys must practice that in Little League. I ignore him, repositioning my stool so I can sit on the edge
