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I lean over and ask Danny, “Why the white?”
“Home team,” he answers, eyes never leaving the field. “You played softball; how do you not know this?”
He’s not wrong.
“No idea.”
They announce Pope, and Whitley is on her feet, clapping and hollering. Danny and Chloe stand, too, so I follow suit.
“And on second base, rookie Roman Hart!”
Is the name Rome short for Roman? I bet it is.
Is the name Roman common? Not at all.
Am I far enough away to allow myself to think my eyes are playing tricks on me? That second baseman for the Jersey Jaguars, wearing the letters “HART,” and the number 13 below it, has a familiar bubble butt that I’ve mentally objectified for weeks now. Or that the ink on his arms track the same as Hot Neighbor/Gym Bro?
I turn and look at Fawna and Francesca, who have clearly just been waiting for me to realize this, because the stupid, telling grins on their faces say one thing—they knew. Those bitches knew.
I barely watch the game because, hello, it was bad enough Hot Neighbor was also Gym Bro, but now, they’re … no, he … oh, for fuck’s sake, I’ve mastered pronouns. How is this difficult?
He’s a professional baseball player, period.
A professional baseball player whose hand I attempted to shove down my pants on this same field in order to feel empowered. A professional baseball player who diddled me to my first orgasm on my kitchen island. A professional baseball player who I was slated to be his Tuesday girl until fate was kind and sent Chloe, Danny, and Aggie to me.
When I glance up, the inning has ended, and they’re running in.
I hope he doesn’t see me, but the reality is, my red hair is a dead freaking giveaway.
“You okay?” Chloe asks as I stand.
“Yeah, I’m just going to run to the restroom and grab a ball cap.” I give them an awkward thumbs-up. “Gotta represent, you know.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Whitley grins and reaches in her giant bag, which would definitely not pass through security if she wasn’t Pope’s wife. “New merch.” She hands me a hat then tosses me a sweatshirt.
“Awesome. Thank you. Let me know how much I owe you.”
She waves me off. “I’m going to need your professional advice when getting the kids animals they’ve been begging for.”
“Warning: I’ll never recommend a breed. I’m always going to steer you toward adopting.”
Whitley smiles. “That’s what we’re going for.”
Chloe starts to stand. “I’ll come with.”
“No, I’m good. I’ll be right back. You stay.”
That’s when a hand grabs mine.
“We’ll bring her right back.”
I turn my head at Francesca’s voice and narrow my eyes.
She giggles as she drags me away.
“You knew. You bitches knew,” I accuse.
“No private investigator needed to solve that mystery. As soon as I knew Turner is Tall, Dark, and Filthy, and Arty is center fielder, Rudy G., and Leland Locke is Mr. Sophisticated—who, BTW, is actually more of a playboy with Southern gentleman charm. I was off the mark with him.”
