“Hi,” I say.
Mai shakes her head. “Bitchy.”
I clear my throat. “Hi.”
“Surprised.”
I stop walking. The grass is wet around my sandals and seeps into my toes, making me even more irritated. “How did you get ‘surprised’ from that? I was going for ‘casual.’”
“Wrong inflection.” She rolls her eyes as if it’s so obvious.
“It’s not that easy,” I say defensively. “The word is only two letters—it’s not as if there’s a lot to work with.” We start again, and I spare a glance at the cloudless blue sky. Where’s a big thunderstorm to cancel a game when a girl needs it? “I’m not even sure what I should be going for. Friendly. Bored. Cool. Cold.”
“You’re going to give a weather report with one word?”
“Don’t make fun of me. This is important.” We round the fence and head up the metal ramp toward the booth. “What if I get the inflection a little bit wrong and he thinks I’m upset?”
Or that I’m still thinking about a kiss that didn’t happen?
She straightens the hem of her sleeveless gray button-down. “You’re making too much out of this.”
“Of course I am. Because that’s what happens with ballplayers. All those muscles in one place turn our brains into gelatin.”
“Scientifically speaking, I’m pretty sure that isn’t true.”
“It turned your brain to mush.”
She glances out to the field where Anthony is warming up his arm. “But look at those biceps. Can you blame me?”
“Thank you for proving my point.” I hesitate outside the broadcast booth, my hand on the door. “Hi,” I murmur, refocusing. “Hiiiiii.”
Suddenly, the door jerks open and I stumble back. Garrett appears. His eyes meet mine for one undecipherable heartbeat before we both look away.
“Hey,” I say.
“I need another cable,” he mutters. He takes off at a run toward the school.
My heart is pounding in my ears, but not loud enough that I don’t hear Mai’s disappointed sigh.
“We didn’t even work on ‘hey.’”
The good thing about the missing cable is there’s no time to talk before the game starts. Garrett is busy doing his thing, and I’m busy letting him. I study the line-up sheets each team has provided for today’s game. I recognize one of the coach’s names for Saguaro: Kyle Masters.
It only takes a second to spot him by the visitors’ dugout. He’s wearing a ball cap and the team uniform, but it’s the same guy who came into the deli when Garrett and I were having lunch.
I glance at Garrett and catch him staring at me. A look passes between us. It’s one of those: I-see-what-you’re-seeing-and-I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-I-know-that-you-know-what-I-see-and-I’m-thinking.
Our mouths tighten at the same moment, and we both look away. It feels as if battle lines have been drawn. It’s stupid. I have no need to fight with Garrett. If he wants to ruin his arm, then fine. He’ll end up like coaches I knew from the minors. Guys with such bad arthritis from overuse injuries that they moved like their joints were made of metal. Probably they were.
Not my problem. I’m keeping my distance. Metaphorically speaking, since he’s just finished all the tech work and is now sitting next to me, his stool so close I could spit sunflower seeds ten feet past it. And I was always the worst spitter on every team.
“Welcome, Wildcat fans,” Garrett begins. He’s wearing a maroon baseball shirt with gray sleeves and his last name stenciled across the back as if he’s someone special. You’re not, I want to say. I’ve known a hundred guys like you. But that’s a complete lie, and it makes me sad and angry at the same time. It’s such a waste. Another guy chewed up and spit out by a sport that doesn’t give a shit.
He leans forward, elbows on the counter. As he runs through the opening routine, introduces the players and covers the team records, his fingers massage along the line of his scar. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.
“This is an important game for the playoff situation,” I say, focusing on my job. “But it’s also a big rivalry. Saguaro is only five miles away, and each school wants bragging rights.”
“A lot of these guys grew up playing each other. Don’t expect them to be fooled by Scott Kingston’s breaking ball.”
“Even knowing it’s coming, the question is whether they can hit it,” I add. “Kingston has one of the best arms in the league.”
Garrett stiffens, tension radiating from him. His fingers press into his shoulder, and I wonder if he’s reinjured his arm. I try and focus on the game, but we’re stilted and clumsy as we get through an uneventful first inning.
“Well, that was good,” I say sarcastically.
“You’re flat today.”
“I’m flat? You sound pissed off.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m having a great time.” He flashes a fake smile and turns up the volume so our microphones are hot.
I bite back a retort. Let it go, Walters.
Jeez. Now I’m calling myself “Walters.”
We make it through the next four innings the same way. Between changeovers, when Garrett usually turns off the volume, he leaves it on. Good. Fine. We don’t have to talk to do our job, and that’s what this is. A job.
After the sixth inning, Scottie bangs on the wall. “What’s up with you two today? Sounds like you’re calling a funeral, not a game.”
I bang the wall back. “Your funeral, if you don’t be quiet!”
There’s a muttered jeez, which I’m pretty sure I deserve.
Garrett says nothing but quickly lowers the volume. The booth is so thick with tension it’s a wonder we’re able to breathe. The teams switch positions on the field, and we both watch as if a bunch of guys jogging across grass is exciting stuff.
“So,” Garrett finally says. “I jotted down a few ideas for interview questions today. I thought I could get some video on my own.”
“And I can use my
