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“I get dizzy on your sass. I’m not sure what will happen if you me too much of the sweet.”
“I’m liking this thing we’re starting.”
I spent the better part of the day catching myself smiling at other things, too. Especially the overheard conversation with his family and realizing just how much he so obviously loves them. I am one hundred percent sure I never heard one guy I was trying to force myself to be interested in even mention family with any type of fondness. I mean, there was just the one, but still.
Roman is … different? Or maybe I’m just in a different place? I don’t know, and it’s maddening, but I swear his kisses were like poetry against my lips. His mouth on my skin, a promise of pleasure that did not disappoint. And his fingers and tongue between my legs, porn. Not the cringey kind. The good stuff, made for women.
“Beer?” Danny asks.
“Water?” I counter.
He turns to Chloe. “Water.”
She digs into her bag again and pulls one out. Then she leans over and hands it to me.
“Thank you.”
Then she hands me a napkin.
“What’s this for?”
“The drool on your chin,” Danny deadpans.
I elbow him. He and Chloe start laughing and, yes, my sweet Aggie joins in.
The Mavericks are up to bat first. Since I don’t do social media, I avoid the internet as best I can, and the setting sun is shining bright in my eyes, I’ll have to rely on the announcer to tell me when the only player I know on the team, Frankie Frangula, is at bat.
“Do we dislike Frankie Frangula?” I ask Danny.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Guy’s the same douche he was when Pope played with him on the Mets.”
“Even though Gwen is dating him?”
His chest rises and falls in a huff. “She doesn’t like anyone she hooks up with, not since Locke. Pretty sure Hall and Oates wrote that song ‘Maneater’ about York.”
I know Danny is joking, but it doesn’t stop me from wondering who caused her to put up walls around her heart.
The answer comes through the speaker. “And Leland Locke on third!”
The first pitch is thrown. The sound of the bat cracking fills the air, and the ball speeds below knee height toward center, but hits the ground between second and short. Rome dives for it and throws it to Pope from the ground before the batter even gets halfway to first, and he’s out.
We all jump up and cheer.
The top of the first ends, 0 to 0, and so do the next four innings.
Even when playing on the high school level, I remember spectators grumbling when there were games like this. Parents—not mine, of course, but other girls’ parents—saying it was boring or talking down to their child because they hadn’t scored when they were up to bat. I never understood how they didn’t see how spectacular it was that two teams were good enough to stop one another from scoring.
Chloe calls over to me, “You miss it?”
“I miss batting practice,” I admit.
She smiles softly. “We did a lot of that, didn’t we?”
“We did,” I agree.
Truth be told, it wasn’t to get better at the game; it was to get stronger. There was always a bat at the door, and beside our beds. There still are in my house. I wonder if Chloe has been able to put hers away.
Someone grabs my hand. “Come get a drink with us?”
