I shudder under the warm Phoenix sun. I vowed it would be a cold day in hell before I ever watched baseball again. But Mai is my best friend. You do not send your bestie into enemy territory without backup.
I grab her arm. “Let’s get this over with.”
Hell, here I come.
We’re in the fifth inning. Anthony Adams is, as I predicted, uninterested in the brainy girl mooning at him from behind home plate. The bleachers are surprisingly crowded, which is why we’re so close to the action. My seat is partially blocked by the elevated broadcast booth, which I didn’t mind at first, but now I’m getting annoyed. I can hear everything the announcers are saying, and these guys are awful. I’m sure the only people listening are parents and grandparents, but even so, they deserve better.
“That’s a hit from Clemens.” It’s the one with the higher voice. He must be right by the door because I hear him the loudest. “Too bad it was caught by the right fielder.”
I knock my knuckles against my forehead. “It’s not a hit if it gets caught.”
“Shhh,” Mai says. “Don’t distract me with actual information about the game.”
“I thought you liked learning new things.”
“Not about this.”
“Mai Senn.” I add her last name because I know she hates it. It sounds like you’re saying “My Sin.” Her first name is actually Maya. It has something to do with a Greek goddess, springtime, and the month of May—which is when her parents adopted her. But everyone calls her Mai.
I’m thinking about how to get her out of here when she squeezes my arm. “Did you see that? Anthony almost caught the ball with his mitt-thing.”
“It’s a baseball glove.”
Mai has to be the only one here who knows less than the announcers. To be fair, the guy doing play-by-play knows his stuff. But the guy who’s supposed to add color with his commentary—hence the title “color commentary”—could have his brains completely removed with a teaspoon. “He’s terrible,” I complain.
“Who?” Anthony is adjusting himself at third base, and Mai is riveted.
“He’s wearing a cup,” I say. “It’s not real.”
“Do not kill my buzz.”
I swallow a laugh. Mai is kind of adorable when irrational. Who knew.
Then I hear the announcer again, his words setting me on edge. “That should have been called a balk. That pitcher didn’t come set.”
I shoot to my feet. “I can not listen to this for one more second.” I take two steps down and tug the door open. Both guys turn at the noise. I ignore the blond who’s doing the play-by-play and point a finger at the blithering idiot closest to me. “You. Stop. You are terrible.”
“What?” He gapes at me.
“My ears are bleeding. I can’t take it anymore.”
He yanks down the microphone piece attached to his headset. “You can’t come in here!” He looks to his partner for support.
I recognize Blondie. Even if you hate sports, it’s hard to avoid knowing who the star athletes are at our school. Not to mention he’s one of the other players whose locker I walk by every morning. His name is Garrett Reeves and he’s hurt this year, which is probably why he’s in the booth. I’d heard broken arm, but other than a scar on the inside of his elbow, he looks ridiculously fit. If he’s supposed to carry me bodily from the booth, he could do it.
He adjusts a knob on the equipment, then swivels his stool toward me but makes no move to get up. “And you are?”
“Annoyed,” I answer. “You can’t have a balk without a runner on base. This guy obviously has no idea what the infield fly rule is, and that foul ball he was raving about? It was a hit by pitch.”
A slow smile works across Garrett’s face. “And you could do better?”
I scoff. “In my sleep.”
“Big talker. Should we see if she can back it up, Nathan?”
“What? No way,” Nathan blusters. “She needs to get out of here. Now.”
Garrett is still grinning. I roll my eyes. Dark blond hair and denim blue eyes. Completely gorgeous. He’s such a cliché. “Shouldn’t you be doing your job?” I ask. “Number 54 just walked. We got a sub coming to the plate. You want to tell the listeners?”
Eyebrows a few shades darker than his hair shoot up. He studies me another second with a look of approval and something else that makes his eyes spark and the back of my neck warm. Then he tips his head at Nathan. “She’s right about the balk. And you were wrong last inning when the pitcher struck the hitter’s hands.”
Well. Blondie knows his baseball.
“Come on, Nathan,” he adds in an easy voice. “She obviously knows her stuff. Let’s see what she can do when we’re live.”
Nathan yanks off the headphones. “If I leave, I’m not coming back. You’re on your own. For the competition, too.”
There’s a silent exchange I don’t understand. It lasts long enough for the player at the plate to foul off the next pitch. Then Garrett shrugs. “Do what you gotta do.”
Nathan tosses the headphones on the counter and manages to jab his elbow into my arm on his way out.
“Ow! Jerk face!”
“Sorry about that,” Garrett says. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I mutter, rubbing the sting out of my arm.
He gestures to the now vacant stool. The backstop rattles at the impact of another foul ball, and he glances down at the field. “Let’s get you on air.”
On air.
I take a steadying breath. I’m thrilled that the bad smelling cologne was Nathan’s and not the guy I’m left with for the next two innings. But the next two innings? My heart drops like a breaking ball and I realize I’ve just committed myself to calling the rest of this game.
I blame it on this sport. It makes me lose my mind.
“You sitting?” he asks. “Or was all of that a show?” He crosses his arms over his chest. I wonder if that’s a practiced move to make his biceps flex. Which they do.
I shake off my nerves. I’m not one to back down—and no way am I backing down from a ballplayer. His smirk is too much like all the self-centered players I grew up around.
Too much like my father’s.
I sit and lift my gaze to his. “Plug me in, Blondie.”
…