“You were close to your dad back then?”
“We were a real father-daughter duo for a while.” I hate the bitterness that’s crept into my voice. “Anyway. I’d had enough of baseball when we moved here. I always liked to read so I joined the school book club for something to do. That’s how I met Mai.”
“And how you ended up at a baseball game.”
“And how I ended up here, shocking as that may be.”
“Not shocking,” he says with one of his easy smiles. “Fated. Come on. Computer’s in my bedroom. You’re going to have to brave the Room of Sin.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m surprised you don’t have that engraved on the door.”
“Good idea, Walters.”
I’m back on solid ground when he leads me into his room. There are no piles of clothes to climb over, but he does drop his pack next to a desk and quickly straightens the comforter on his bed.
“Oh my God, is that a stuffed bear?” I ask.
He’s tucking something under the comforter but he pauses and a second later, turns with it in his hand. It is a stuffed bear. He’s wearing a Cubs baseball jersey and hat. “His name is Wrigley, if you don’t mind.” He sets him back on his pillow. “Wrigley belonged to my uncle Max.”
My smile fades, but a knot of memory loosens in my chest. “I had a Cubs bear, too. Mine had a batting helmet.” I take a look at the rest of his room and realize I had a lot of the same kinds of things. His room is painted a deep blue and covered in posters of the Arizona Diamondbacks and a framed ticket from the 2001 World Series. There’s a shelf of baseball bobble head dolls, team pennants, a crate full of baseballs, tattered gloves, and an old wooden Louisville Slugger bat. But what holds my attention are two rows of framed jerseys on the wall behind his bed.
“Are those yours?”
He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “My mom can’t throw anything away.”
“Yeah, I think my mom has a bunch of mine stuffed in a closet somewhere.”
His face lights up. “You played?”
“Oh yeah. T-ball, Pee Wee, Little League, even some club ball. I was good, too.”
“That I believe.” The look in his eyes warms me. “What position?”
“Pitcher. I had a good fastball.”
“I bet you did.”
I wait for a teasing smile, but the look in his eyes is sincere. I flush, his appreciation affecting me more than I want it to. I turn my attention away, focusing on the frames as a distraction. I realize they’re really shadow boxes, each holding a jersey from a different team. The jerseys are all different sizes—the smallest looks like it would fit an infant. “Very sweet,” I say.
“I prefer to think of them as the physical manifestation of a sporting passion.”
“Have you been talking to Mai?”
“It’s the title of my final essay for English.”
I widen my eyes. “Who helped you with the big words?”
He gives me an angelic smile. “The cheerleading team. They do that kind of thing for me.”
“Oh, please. You like playing up the stereotypes, don’t you?”
“Only because you like believing them.”
I hesitate—unsure what to say. He folds his arms across his chest, eyebrows raised, blue eyes challenging, and waits. He knows he’s got me. The truth is, I would have believed that about him a few weeks ago. Now, I know better. I know him better.
“Fine,” I admit. “I might have judged you a little quickly, but I do have a locker near yours, remember? And you were acting the part, too. Ordering me around and shooting your finger gun and flipping back your hair.”
“I don’t flip my hair,” he says. “I ruffle it in a manly way.” He demonstrates. “And to be clear, I think what you’re saying is that I’m a great guy, and you’re sorry for ever doubting it.”
“Don’t push your luck.” But there’s a smile under my grumble.
He disappears into the hall and comes back a minute later carrying a chair. He sets it beside the one already in front of the computer.
“The wall of jerseys might make a good backdrop for our interview,” I say.
He glances over his shoulder. “Sure. I’ll tell the guys you were making excuses to get back into my bedroom.”
“Garrett Reeves,” I say, with evil in my voice. “You are not going to ruin my reputation.”
“You don’t have a reputation, Walters. In fact, you’re in desperate need of one, but don’t worry. You’ve come to the right place.” He clears the desk of a few textbooks and a stack of notebook paper. “You can thank me later.”
“I’m not adding my name to your list of castoffs.”
“They’re not castoffs.” He sits beside me. “They’re happy runners up.”
I gape, torn between laughing and groaning. “Do you say this crap to other girls?”
“Of course not. But I feel like I can say anything to you.” He pauses, as if thinking that through. “Is that weird?”
My brain immediately pulls apart what he just said, rearranging the words until they say, You’re special, Josie. I hide the thought behind a shrug, wishing I could shut my brain off for good. “I say weird shit to you, too.”
“You mean you give me shit.”
His smile eases my tension but does nothing to stop the flutter in the pit of my stomach along with an unbidden thought: You’re special, too.
I half stand, moving my chair over a few inches. I need a reset. I am not going to think about Garrett like that. He’s already in love—with baseball. If I need more reasons to keep my distance, Garrett can recite a hundred of them.
“So you ready for the link to my site?” I ask, pointing to the computer.
He slides his hand over the mouse. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
An hour later, Garrett has done more than add some sidebars. He took
