I don’t know a lot of people in town or at school, but how I’ve missed this face, I have no idea. She’s tall, maybe only an inch or two shorter than my six-foot-three, and her long blonde hair looks like molten gold as she stands near the fire. I can’t tell if her eyes are gray or blue, but I need to get closer to settle the debate in my head. She’s supermodel hot, but playing it down in a pair of baggy jeans and an old baseball jersey worn over a hoodie to keep her warm. I bet her dressed-down look keeps her under the radar. Most of the fucking douchebags at this school only want to keep score and see who can date the hot girl first. Lucky for me, she showed up tonight dressed for the part of exactly my type.
“Jeter fan, huh?” I say, stepping up next to her and tugging on her jersey sleeve.
A short laugh puffs from her naturally pink lips while she takes a small sip from her cup. I suspect she’s actually drinking soda, so I casually set my beer on a small patio table behind me.
“Yankee fan. Jeter’s all right,” she says, a wry smile on her mouth. I hold her stare for a full breath, partly to challenge her and also to get a good handle on the color of her eyes. Blue, and maybe a little green too.
I match her smirk with one of my own, letting it crawl up into my cheeks before glancing down at the small patch emblazoned on the right sleeve of the jersey. This thing came from a game.
“Bullshit,” I say, nodding toward it.
She twists her head to the side and tucks her chin, noting the authentication patch with a slight breath and a smile.
“You got me,” she says, her eyes flitting up to mine. I again hold them for a long second, this time because I like the way it feels when I challenge her to return my stare. She’s a worthy opponent, and I’m the first to break.
“You a fan?” she asks.
“Of the Yankees? Fuck no. But Jeter’s special; he’s like a level above the Yankees. He’s folklore,” I say.
Our baseball banter must annoy Lucas and June because they make a lame excuse to leave us alone. We take over their seats, propping our feet on the lip of the firepit and settling in so we can glance at one another.
“I have another one of these . . . signed,” she says, pulling down the front of the jersey to even out the Yankees logo.
I lift my brows, impressed. Also, I catch a hint of her accent, which I’m pretty sure is from the heart of New York, possibly one of the boroughs.
“Super fan, I take it?”
She wobbles her head side to side, playfully, and her eyes dance with this proud kind of joy you only get when you have a childhood full of memories at the ballpark. I know because I’ve got them, too. Between spring nights at New Mexico State and spring breaks spent in Arizona hunting autographs from my favorite MLB stars at training camps, I’ve got a pretty full childhood of baseball fairy tales of my own. I can’t wait to write my name into those stories.
“I’m Cannon. I’m new here,” I say, holding out my hand.
She blinks at it, her lips parted for a few seconds before speaking. She finally takes my palm in hers, her grip impressive.
“I’m Hollis, and I’m new here too.”
Definitely from New York.
“Long Island?” I question.
She quirks a brow and blows out from her lips.
“Heck no. Staten Island, baby.” She’s teasing me, and it’s cute as hell. I should have known; Long Islanders are Mets fans.
“Ah, right. Well, nice to meet you, Hollis. I’m from New Mexico. Not nearly as exciting as your big city,” I say with a shrug.
“I don’t know,” she says, leaning her head back and looking up at the sky. I follow her gaze to the stars and the embers popping in the air above us. “You probably have some pretty epic views where you’re from.”
She’s right. We do. Or, at least, we did. I guess these are my views now. Lots of . . . trees.
“We’re both from Allensville now, don’t you think?” I put that idea out there while we stare up at the black sky, speckled with salt diamonds and masked by smoke.
She sighs.
“Yeah, I guess we are.” She drops her chin to her chest and I do the same. “We came from both ends and met in the middle.”
She has a way of letting this faint smile linger on her lips after she finishes talking, and I’m having a hard time looking away. Normally, I’d be embarrassed by my overt infatuation with a girl. I’m shitty at flirting. But Hollis, she makes this pretty easy.
“So, what brought you here? To the middle?” I ask.
Her brow pulls in with thought, but that faint smile is still there. She’s calculating something. Maybe it’s how much to tell a guy she just met.
“Family . . . er, work. My dad moved here for work.” I sense that she’s conflicted by something, so I don’t pry. She probably misses a lot of things from home. I get that. I miss my parents, but at least they’ll be here eventually. Can’t really move New York to the middle of Indiana.
“We moved here for family too, sorta. I came to play ball with my cousin. He’s here, somewhere.” I glance over my shoulder, only to find that everyone in the back yard has disappeared. We’re completely alone out here.
“I’d introduce you, but . . .” I hold out open palms when I look back to her, and she giggles. The sound she makes pushes my half smile up high into my cheeks, and I quickly realize I’m grinning like a fool. I don’t stop, though. I let
