“Will do,” I replied absently.
As I walked to my car, I considered what it would feel like to be in his confidence. Would he let his vulnerabilities show? Doubtful.
Before I went up to the apartment to change for the game, I stopped in the bowling alley to kiss Mom on the cheek and high-five Gemma.
“Nickie!” Gemma hugged me as if she hadn’t seen me in a while.
“Getting ready to head to my game. Need anything?”
“No, we’re all good,” Dad replied as he came around the counter, no doubt from fixing that same pinspotter that always gave us trouble.
“How far away is this one?” Mom asked as she returned bowling shoes to their appropriate slots.
“Only an hour. I’ll be back tonight.”
“I plan to be at your next home game, Dominic,” Dad said, and it warmed me to my core. He tried to attend a handful of games a season and always kept his word. Unlike someone else’s dad… I tried putting myself in Maclain’s place, imagining what it might feel like if my father always promised and never showed. What would our relationship look like, and how would it affect me as a person?
That soft spot I had inside me for Maclain felt tender, like someone had poked a bruise. Couldn’t help it. Add in that fucking bee, and I was even more pathetic.
I grabbed a hot dog to devour on my way up to my apartment. The modest-sized space had an industrial flair to it, with its exposed bricks and pipes, and, similar to the bowling alley, needed some upkeep. But practically all the furniture was left over from my brother, which suited me fine. The bed was queen-size, the couch was large and comfy, and that was pretty much all I needed.
Uniform on, I pulled down my cap, then headed to my car and back to campus where I met the team for the ride to the game.
The chatter was part excitement, part nerves as I boarded the bus. Maclain appeared more relaxed, likely because he wasn’t pitching today and didn’t have to be in that same headspace. I liked when he was softer like this, his forehead creases gone, his posture more unguarded.
It was probably the reason I chose the seat directly behind him. I saw him tense slightly as he glanced out the window toward the home field. Coach didn’t say we needed to sit together, only share a room during our weekends away, but it couldn’t hurt to try talking to him on a more regular basis.
After I got myself situated, I reached inside my bag, then dropped a piece of Bit-O-Honey candy onto the seat beside him.
He stared down at it. “What the heck?”
I leaned forward. “You love bees, so I thought you might like this candy too.”
“I don’t love bees, you jackass,” he said with a smirk. “I said I’m allergic to them. I told you, my mom tried to—”
“I know exactly what you said, Maclain,” I countered, and his eyes widened. Apparently, I’d surprised him.
Good. I liked keeping him on his toes.
“So, you trying to kill me with your honey candy?”
“Holy shit, wait. Are you also allergic to honey if you’re allergic to bees?”
He looked highly amused that he’d alarmed me, the dickhead.
“Nah, but some people are if it’s raw and there’s a high concentration of the allergen.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that candy’s mostly corn syrup.”
“Right up my junk-food alley.” Despite his initial protest, he opened the wrapper and popped the morsel in his mouth. “If I die eating this, it’s all your fault.”
“At least we wouldn’t miss you bitching about stuff.”
He narrowed his eyes as his jaw worked to chew the taffy-like candy, so I thought I’d unintentionally hit a nerve. Lucky me.
“Do you carry an EpiPen?” I asked, and I heard his intake of air.
“How would you know—” His eyebrows scrunched together. “Suppose it’s common knowledge.”
Actually, I looked it up after our hallway conversation.
“Eh, I’m just smart,” I replied, and he rolled his eyes. “So…do you?”
“Yeah, I have to, even if it’s been years.” He motioned toward his feet. “It’s in my bag, which is always with me. No way I want to go through that shit again.”
“What does it feel like—the reaction to getting stung?”
He looked off in the distance as if considering it. “Like everything is swollen and you’re suffocating because your throat closes up.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
When I handed him another candy over the seat, he took it willingly.
“Do you realize how wild it is that you’ve decided to play an outdoor sport where there are bees all around you?”
He laughed humorlessly. “Don’t jinx me, Girard.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I replied, and we stared each other down for a long second.
“Makes no sense, really.” He entwined his fingers to make the luck symbol. “But I’ve been playing for years, and so far, so good.”
“Maybe they’re repelled by your personality.”
“Probably,” he muttered, and I liked that he owned his grumpy attitude. Maybe I was giving him too much credit, but he didn’t put on any airs, and that was refreshing. Mostly.
“Jasmine says good luck, by the way.”
His head whipped back. “Jasmine? How did you—”
“I had to buy the candy somewhere. Duh.”
He breathed out like he was relieved, which was surprising in itself, but what was it that I detected right before? Jealousy? Protectiveness? Interesting… Did he think I was chummy with her or hooking up?
When Vickers scooted by us down the aisle and thumped me on the shoulder as he passed, I noticed Maclain’s eyes tracking him.
“You know he looks up to you, right?”
“Doubtful,” he said, and I wondered if he thought less of himself than he pretended to. He could be arrogant, but maybe that was only a defense mechanism. Look at me being all pseudo psychologist.
“Why wouldn’t he? You’re a hell of a pitcher.”
He scoffed. “He just wants my job.”
“That such a bad thing?” I tilted my head, studying him. “Didn’t you want someone’s when you were a newb?”
“True. Coach no doubt thought I was a pain in the ass sophomore year.” He motioned in Vickers’s direction, where he’d gone to sit with a couple of the other newbs. “So maybe your new guy will actually live up to his reputation.”
“My new guy, huh?” I cracked a smile and leaned in. “Does that mean you’re relegated to being my old guy?”
He gasped softly and looked around like someone might’ve overheard us. “What the fuck, Girard?”
Jesus Christ, he was uptight. “You’re terrible about taking a joke.”
“Whatever,” he griped.
When Fischer slid in the seat beside me, Maclain clammed up and turned away. Except when I casually dropped another candy onto his seat, then he shook his head, a hint of a smile pulling at his cheeks. It made my stomach dip whenever I could drag another one out of him.
Once we arrived, Maclain went to sit with the other pitchers in the so-called bullpen, which was really only the far end of the benches. No way could most of these teams—us included—afford to do it like the big leagues.