Page 58 of The Sweet Spot

“Thanks,” I mumble, just as Max makes his way over. I move my knees so the big bird himself can get through.

“And obviously, I think it will help your game,” Grayson says.

I whip my head to look at him.

He shrugs. “What? You have tight hips. This will loosen you up.”

Loosen me up?

Do I need... loosening?

Am I tight? Is that the team note on me? The guy with the tight hips? Because Whit pointed that out inside the first hour of meeting me and I am going to spend this entire flight—

“We talking about Whit?” Max asks, looking between us.

“Yeah. JB’s being surprisingly quiet about it.”

“I’m still trying to figure out when my hips got tight,” I answer honestly.

“Sorry, dude. I didn’t mean to tell everyone about Whit, but they started getting worried. You're usually the first one on the plane, passing out candy so our ears don't hurt.”

Dammit. I forgot the candy.

“I'm good.” I wave him off, more concerned about Dalton's waxy ears, and my tight hips, than anything.

Max raises a brow. “Yeah? You sure?”

“It’s all good, Max. We talked this morning, and I think we’re kind of... dating.” I don’t say girlfriend in case that’s a little premature, but it’s not as bad as loml, which is also a possible description for the wonderful Whit Marlow.

Max’s gaze shifts for just a second, straight to the little reporter before he turns his attention back to me.

Is he down bad?

Yes.

Do I mention it to Max?

No. Not yet. Max is a silent assassin kind of pitcher. Where I’m open and like to talk to people, he’s quieter. More thoughtful. If he hasn’t said anything, there’s a reason for it, and I don’t want to force anything out of him.

“I’m happy for you, man,” Max says, relaxing back in his seat. “I knew she liked you that first day when you were talking to her dad. I could see the glint in her—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence because Tate comes waltzing through the airplane doors with his phone pressed to his ear and his jaw tight.

“No. No. Please listen to me,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “The plane needs to go. I need to go.”

His brow is creased, there’s clear anger in his voice, and the only time I’ve ever seen him this annoyed is when we lost a spot in the playoffs last season because of the Atlanta Armadillos.

He looks up, clocks the whole plane looking at him, and mouths sorry to the coaches. “I'll be five minutes,” he says, before turning and walking right back out of the plane.

The coaches let out a few grumbles, and you know it’s bad when even they are getting annoyed at him.

Tate is the golden boy, the face of the franchise, the workhorse who hardly ever gets injured. The only other player with a consecutive games played streak as long as his is Holden Fox. People don’t get angry at him unless it’s something serious.

It takes the cabin a few seconds to get back to the usual chatter. Once it does, I lean into Max and whisper, “Everything all right with our Tater Tot?”

Max takes me in with surprise. “You’ve really been living in a bubble this weekend, haven’t you?”

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.