“You can put your arms around me, you know,” she suggests, settling in.
She is only hugging you because she is drunk, Noah.
I have to keep reminding myself, but it’s hard. I want to believe this is chemistry, but since I’m not a damn idiot, I know better. Miranda is drunkish and it’s making her act loopy, and that’s fine.
I guess.
“I don’t want to wrap my arms around you. I don’t even know you.”
“Just do it. Stop being so grouchy.”
Grouchy? No one has ever called me that.
Slowly, I raise my arms. My hands slide around Miranda’s small waist. Brushing the silky fabric of her shirt, I’m not quite sure where to put them. I’ve touched women before, but usually only during sex, and that’s mechanical with no feeling involved.
This? This is making my heart palpitate, and if it was before a game, I’d have my vitals checked by the team physician.
Miranda settles into my body deeper, burrowing almost. I’m not sure she’s aware she’s even doing it, or if she doesn’t care, or if I’m just that cozy as a cuddle buddy.
Her soft voice manages to reach my ears. “You feel good.”
And with that, I pull away, the cold air rushing between our bodies like a bucket of ice water I need to break this spell of stupidity.
“There. Don’t you feel better?”
No, I don’t feel better; this just made everything a helluva lot worse.
“You want anything else to drink?” I ask. “Because I think I’m going to bounce.”
“Leave? We just got here.” A hand touches my forearm and I can’t not look down at it resting there, singeing my skin. “Don’t leave me to the wolves—I’ll never survive.”
Then stop touching me and stop flirting with me and stop making me feel…
…like I’d stand a chance if I gave enough fucks to try.
You can’t live like a monk for the rest of your life, dipshit. You want kids and a family—how do you suppose you’re going to do that if you don’t take a chance?
Easy—by letting the opportunity to flirt pass me by.
“You haven’t even told me your name.”
That’s right. She has no idea who I am. Has no idea that the $20 bill in her purse and the $25,000 in her bank account came from me.
Me. Not goddamn Buzz Wallace.
“You don’t have to know my name.”
Her mouth opens, shocked. Hurt? Speechless. “Oh.”
Oh.
That one little word makes me feel like the world’s biggest…douche. A bigger douche than I’ve seen any of my friends be.
Her shoulders sag, the entire mood spoiled. Miranda inhales a breath before squaring herself upright, back straight. Fake smile pasted on her face.
“Wow. Okay.” Her lips are still glossy, shining beneath the lights, and if rejection had a look, her face would be on the poster. “Get home safe, I guess.”
I nod.
Shoulder my way through the crowd, leaving the way I came.
I’ll tell Buzz to settle up my tab for me. I just have to get out of here.
* * *
Miranda: Noah, are you up?
Me: I am now. What’s up?
Miranda: This is going to sound crazy, but—I was wondering if…
Miranda: You know what, never mind.
Me: What?
Miranda: Nothing. I feel stupid now. Go back to sleep.
Me: That isn’t going to happen until you tell me what’s up. Is everything okay?
Miranda: Yes, I was just…
Miranda: This is going to sound so dumb, but I was wondering about your friend. The one from tonight?
Me: Which one?
Miranda: The tall blond. I was talking to him by the bar.
Me: What about him?
Miranda: He left abruptly—was everything okay?
Me: Uh, yeah? I mean, it’s nice that you’re asking, but why do you care?
Miranda: I hugged him and he took off, so now I feel like I violated him.
Me: LOL
Miranda: Shut up! It’s not funny!
Me: It kind of is. Who runs away when a beautiful girl hugs them? LOL
Miranda: Well see, I’ve been wondering about that.
Me: And what have you decided?
Miranda: I think he liked it, but it freaked him out.
Me: And why would it do that?
Miranda: Listen, I don’t really want to get into it with you. I just wanted to make sure he’s okay.
Me: He’s fine and I’ll tell him you were asking.
Miranda: OH MY GOD, PLEASE DO NOT.
Me: LOL why?
Miranda: I don’t need him to know I…
Me: …?
Miranda: Nothing.
Me: Tell me.
Miranda: I’ll talk to you soon, okay? We’ll figure out a time and place to meet for that second card, yeah?
Me: Sure—ball is in your court.
Miranda: Good night, Noah.
Me: Good night, Miranda.
7
Noah
Why was Miranda texting ‘Noah’ about me?
I can’t get it out of my mind. Not Saturday night—couldn’t sleep. Not the next day, or the next.
Not today, at batting practice, and not as I stand here, fielding balls in the infield. An assistant coach slowly hits a grounder in my direction; it rolls straight through my legs. I hear him groan from where he stands on home plate, one hand in a catcher’s mitt.
“Harding, what the fuck?” I can hear him spitting tobacco out the side of his mouth; that’s how pissed he is. “A toddler could have stopped that ball with his eyes closed.”
Coach’s arms go up then come down, slapping at his meaty thighs, face getting redder with each grounder I miss.
“Eight. Zero.” He points at me, fist shaking. “Start fucking earning it, kid.”
Way to shame me in front of the entire infield, fucker.
I pull the cap from my head, running a hand over my perspiring forehead and through my hair. My face is beginning to match Coach’s burgundy jacket.
Get your head in the game. The season opener is three weeks away—you do not have time to suck. Per my contract, if I biff it in practice, they can bench me—and if they bench me, I lose a few million bucks, and my contract could get cut short.
Still, I can’t stop Miranda’s words from running on a loop through my goddamn head: I think he liked it, but it freaked him out. Freaked him out, freaked him out.
Yeah. I
