“Full disclosure, I have no fucking idea what happens in baseball or what any of the positions are called,” I tell Kayla around a mouthful. I love this fake dating thing—I get to hang out with someone I like, but don’t have to worry about finding an attractive way to eat a hot dog.
“Those people are going to try and catch the ball, and hit the other team’s runner,” she says, pointing to our outfield and basemen.
“You’re thinking of dodgeball,” I correct, and she bursts out laughing. “Show me Brandon.”
She points him out, and I make the appropriate “oh wow, he looks very handsome” noises that are necessary when someone shows you their crush. As though she knows I’m bullshitting her, Kayla rolls her eyes and sticks an elbow into my ribs.
“What about you? Interested in anyone these days?” she asks, and my stomach clenches like someone squeezed it in their fist.Marcos.
“No, not really.” I shrug, and try to waylay further conversation by shoving the rest of the hot dog into my mouth. It’s not lost on me that it’s a remarkably phallic-shaped food item, which brings my thoughts right back around to the place they’ve been stuck for over a week: Marcos.
“Hey, Nate,” a timid voice says from my right, saving me from any further interrogation from Kayla. I look over to seeMax Kuemper standing in our row, a few seats away. I try to speed up my rate of chewing.
“Hey, Max,” I reply once I’ve swallowed, gasping. “What’s up? Here for some baseball?”
He steps a little closer, fingers playing with the hem of the gigantic shirt he’s wearing. “Yeah. Hi, I’m Max.”
“Hello! Kayla,” Kayla introduces herself, leaning around me to get a better look at him. She gestures to the seat next to me. “Are you meeting anyone? You should sit with us.”
Max thinks about this for a second, gaze bouncing around the open seats. I’m just opening my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to sit with us if he doesn’t want to, when he steps forward and plops down into the seat next to mine.
“Hot dog?” I hold out my remaining dog, but he shakes his head. “Peanuts?”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry,” he refuses politely.
“All right, well, just let me know. I can go get us more sustenance at intermission.”
“Oh, there isn’t an intermission,” Max says, face guilty as though he feels a little bad for having to correct me.
“The entire game is like one giant intermission,” Kayla muses from my other side, reclined back in her chair and watching the field. I laugh and we share a knowing look. A love of hockey was what brought her and I together in the first place.
“Who are you here for, Max? Or are you just a baseball fanatic?” I ask, taking a bite of hot dog number two and chasing stray mustard with my thumb.
“Well, I’m here to watch my…friend. Luke.” He points him out. “And my best friend, Marcos, plays too. He’s the catcher.”
I suck in a sharp breath at the name and send a chunk ofhot dog bun into my lung. Coughing, I lean forward in my seat and try to catch my breath. Kayla pats my back as though she’s trying to burp a baby.
“You have to chewbeforeyou swallow,” she advises helpfully.
Pressing a palm to my watering eyes, I take a sip of the water bottle Kayla hands me. Motherfucking Marcos plays baseball. I’ve been looking for him all week on campus, and here he is. When I turn back to Max, he’s watching me with a mildly concerned look on his face.
“Wrong pipe?” he asks.
“Yeah, hot dogs belong in your stomach, not your lungs,” I joke. “So, your best friend plays catcher? Which…which person is that?”
Max’s mouth pinches at the corners like he wants to laugh, but is too polite to do so. He clears his throat.
“He’s the one behind the batters. He signals what he wants the pitcher to throw. Marcos pretty much runs the entire game.”
I whip my head around toward the diamond so fast my neck cricks. There is indeed a guy squatting behind the current batter, legs spread wide and glove held up in front of his face. His other hand is dangling between his legs, and as I watch, he makes a signal at the pitcher that looks like an inverted peace sign. I can’t really see his face behind the cage on the helmet he’s wearing, but by the dark skin of his arms and thathand,I can tell it’s him. God, has a hand ever been so sexy?
There you are.
Forgetting that there are people around, I smile, unwilling to take my eyes off of him so as not to miss it whenhe lifts his helmet off. I want to see his face. I want to see him under the brightness of the sun, and not a badly lit party.
“Do you know Marcos?” Max asks, bringing my attention back over to him. He’s watching me with a quizzical tilt to his eyebrows, golden eyes on mine. His fingers still fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt.
“Well, no,” I answer slowly, glancing back over to make sure Marcos is still hunched behind the plate. “Just in passing.”
