“What the hell was that?”
Eyes wide, she crunches down and then asks, “What was what?”
“That dip. You barely got anything on your chip.”
“Oh.” She chuckles. “Yeah, that’s how I dip things. My brothers make fun of me for doing it all the time.”
“Rightfully so. That’s ridiculous.” I take her taco from her hand, set it in the box, and then hand her a tortilla chip. “You’ve taught me some things, now it’s my turn to exchange the favor.”
“I know how to eat, Carson.”
“Clearly not.” Growing serious, I say, “You’re doing that chip a disservice by not giving it a proper dunk. Now, watch me carefully.”
I start to move toward the guac when I stop myself and playfully smack myself in the head.
“What the hell was I thinking? We need to warm up first. The key to a good dunk is a proper wrist and finger warmup.” I hold up my hands and start flexing my fingers in and out. “Copy what I’m doing.”
Her head tilts to the side. “You can’t be serious.”
“I never joke about stretching. Move it along, Coach, get those digits flexing.”
Humoring me with a smirk, she lifts her hands and starts moving her fingers up and down.
“That’s it, just like that. Now rotate your wrists, really move that lactic acid. We don’t want any buildup while eating chips and guac.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“Other direction.” We switch out rotation. “Have you ever gotten chip wrist? I did once, couldn’t pick up a tortilla chip for a week.”
“Are you being serious?”
“You tell me.”
Her lips turn up as she pushes her glasses back up her nose. I’m seriously starting to become needy for that smile. “From our brief interactions, I’m going to say you’re very much serious about everything . . . when you’re not joking.”
“Precisely, and I’m very serious about chips and guac, so pick one up and watch me before you dip.” I grab a chip, dip it, and then angle the point upward. “See this angle, the wrist action, the precise hold my fingers have on the chip so it doesn’t break, this is exactly—”
Crack. Snap.
Plop.
Milly snorts and covers her mouth, a giggle bubbling up inside her as we both stare at my broken chip.
“Well . . . this is humiliating.”
“Oh my God.” She busts out in laughter, holding on to her stomach now. “That could not have gone worse. What were you saying about the precise hold again?”
“Are you busting my balls, Coach?”
She nods, her eyes welling up.
“Oh, you think this is funny?”
“Yup,” she squeaks. “You were just so serious. So knowledgeable.”
“Still am. I’m calling it a faulty chip.”
“Wouldn’t a chip and guac connoisseur like yourself know how to handle such a faulty chip and still breed success from their dipping?” she counters, looking smug and beautiful simultaneously.
“You’re quite mouthy when you break out of your shell, you know that?”
Her confidence falters briefly. “You noticed?”
I drop the sarcastic banter. “You seemed terrified to be on the same baseball field as me when we first started . . . yesterday.” Her cheeks redden, and I know she’s embarrassed, something that easily happens where she’s concerned. I don’t want to embarrass her in the slightest, but it would be cool if she opened up a little. She is helping me perfect my swing, after all, and it would be nice to know the girl who I’ll give credit to.
“I was terrified. Not many men give me a shot. My little league team, now that’s a different story, but when it comes to people our age or older, they want someone else teaching them. Someone with a penis.”
“I’d like to say that’s bullshit, but even I can’t act cavalier, because I doubted you. Then again, I’ve doubted everyone who’s ever offered a suggestion, but that’s for a different reason.”
“And what reason is that?” she asks, smoothly scooping some guac onto her chip.
I rub the back of my neck, contemplating how much I should really open up to Milly. In all honesty, I barely know the girl. Hell, I don’t even know her last name, but there’s something about her, maybe her kind eyes, or the way she carries herself, that makes me fully trust her. Like I could tell her anything and she’d never judge me, nor would she ever tell anyone what we talked about.
It's why I’m exposing some of my deepest thoughts. “After the Achilles rupture, I kind of lost trust in everyone around me besides Knox and Holt, my two best friends. If my own teammate could hurt me so badly, who else was about to turn their back on me? All the scouts considering recruiting me quickly changed their minds. The freshmen who’d admired me, quickly turned into my rivals, all vying for my position. It was like the big guy was taken out, so let’s hang him out to dry. After I went through PT, I had the hardest time finding my groove again, and then it was like everyone was offering their advice, some good, mostly bad. I didn’t know who was truly trying to help and who was trying to smash my career.”
“I can understand that. You’re at a level where you have to be very careful who you trust.” She pauses and then asks. “So why did you trust me?”
I should have seen that question coming. “Because I could tell you were someone who wouldn’t screw me over, who actually had good intentions. You have a passion for baseball, not a know-it-all attitude, but a pure passion, and I could jump on board with that. I felt comfortable listening to you because of that passion. Not to mention, you had an entire file on your phone of videos of me.”
Her mouth drops open. “Hey, not just videos of you, of the whole team. Don’t make me seem like a stalker.”
“How many times a night do you watch those videos?”
“Not very often, if you must know, just when I’m trying to study.”
“Which is . . .”
She looks to the side and bites the tip of her finger. “Maybe like every other night.”
My head tilts back as I laugh. “That’s what I thought and that’s why I like you, because you’re honest.”
“What does anyone have to gain from lying?”
My brows shoot up. “Are you serious with that question? Everything. People have everything to gain from lying.”
“But in the long run, doesn’t karma come back to bite you in the ass?”
“One would only hope.” I take another bite of my taco while she does the same. We chew for a while in silence, enjoying the spring air shifting around us. It’s not too cold, but just brisk enough to warrant a sweatshirt. Too bad neither of us is dressed for the part.
“Please tell me the Chicago Bobcats are your favorite team.”
She glances at her food and then back at me. “Hometown girl, I’d be crazy not to like them.”
“What were the best seats you’ve ever had?”
She smirks. “Second row behind home plate.”
I cough up a piece of lettuce. “What? Really?”
She nods. “Yup. It was the best game of my life.”