A key part of our plan is an updated website. I knock my forehead on the wheel in frustration. I finally dug into it during Independent Study, and it’s worse than I imagined. The original site was designed by Mom’s friend who built it on her own platform nearly a decade ago. It can’t be updated. I’m going to have to start over.
Shoot me now.
As soon as I step out of the truck, I hear someone call, “Walters!”
Startled, I turn. Garrett is walking across the parking lot swinging a key chain around his fingers.
Shoot me five minutes ago.
I blink in case my eyes are playing a mean trick on me. But no. Tall, messy blond hair, muscles everywhere. Confident swagger that eats up the distance between us until he’s suddenly close. Too close. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed you,” he says. “You were supposed to find me at the flagpole.”
“You were supposed to wait there for me. For a long time.”
He smiles, but this one is slow and hitches up on one side. “I like your mouth, Walters.”
Flirt. He’s so obvious, trying to lure me in with his charm. And oh he’s good, the way his eyes lower to my mouth. Even I can’t help but feel a little zing down south.
It isn’t fair. I may hate athletes on principle, but I’m not blind. My eyes still work and, unfortunately, they send signals down to my other working parts. And Garrett Reeves looks as good as he thinks he does. The hair. The blue eyes and straight brows. The perfect white teeth and the tiny dent he’s chewed in his bottom lip. I’m genetically wired to respond. Or maybe it’s an evolution thing. Or, hell. Mai would know, but it’s some kind of thing. I don’t like it, and I’m not going to be swayed by it.
“What does it take to insult you?” I ask.
“Keep trying. I’ll let you know when you do.” He flips the key chain again. “We’ve got a game on Friday. I want you to do color. I already cleared it with Coach Richards.”
Shaking my head at the arrogance of that, I start toward the bookstore. “And I already told you no.”
He falls in beside me. “You don’t have all the facts.”
I reach the green awning, and it’s immediately cooler in the shade. I pass carts of used books and stop by the front door. “How do you know my last name?”
“I asked around.”
“Well, you wasted your time. I’m not going to change my mind. I hate baseball. Now would you go away, please? I work here.”
He shuffles closer, one hand planted low on his hip. “You can’t hate baseball. You know the game too well.”
“Just because I know it doesn’t mean I love it.”
That seems to shock him, and for a second he stares at me with a slack jaw. “Then why were you at the game?”
“For a friend.”
When I try and reach for the door handle, he shifts in front of me and grabs it first. He studies me intently, and I feel the pull of his restless energy. “But once you were there, in the booth—you were into it. I could tell.”
“I was doing the job.”
“And you did. You knocked it out of the ballpark.” There’s honest appreciation in his eyes. “Walters. Please. You’ve got a real talent for this.”
I’m shaking my head before he can even finish his plea. “I can’t. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I haven’t got the time. I’ve got school, a business I help run, a website to develop, not to mention a job that I’m going to be late for.” I pointedly gesture to the door handle he’s still holding. “Find someone else.”
“I would if I could. In a heartbeat,” he says as if it’s that obvious. “I hardly know you and already I can tell you’re a pain in the ass. But in three weeks, I’ve been through three color-commentators. None of them impressed me the way you did. I’ve listened to professionals who weren’t as talented.” He ruffles the top of his hair where it’s longer and falls in messy layers. “You’re good, Walters. And with a partner like me, you could be great. A thousand dollars great.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re going to pay me to do color for a high school baseball team that might not even make the playoffs?”
“We are making the playoffs. We’re winning State.”
“We?” I ask. “Does that mean you’re playing this season?”
“I wish.” He glances at his arm as if it still pains him, muscles flexing so I catch the sheen of his long, thin scar. “It’s not me who’s paying you. It’s the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism.”
“At Arizona State?”
“It’s the first year they’re running a competition. The best high school broadcast team wins five thousand dollars for their school and a thousand each for the broadcasters.”
“You’re doing this for the money?”
“You kidding? I’m in it to win it.”
I groan. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
Garrett shifts closer. “When you sat down… No.” He stops himself. “When you pointed at Nathan and told him to get out of the chair, the little hairs on the back of my neck went wild.” He turns around and shows me a tanned neck with wispy blond hairs disappearing into the neckline of his tee. “These guys, they never lie.”
“You haven’t named them, have you? Each little hair?”
He laughs and his eyes warm. “Quick wit. Good. You’ll need that to keep up with me during the broadcasts.”
So much for pushing him away with my sarcasm.
“We can win this thing, Walters. I mean, how can we lose? I’m charming and insightful, and you understand the nuances of the game. Plus, you’re a girl.”
I blink in disbelief. “That’s what I bring to this team? I’m a girl.”
“It’s a bonus. Sets us apart. How many others
