“Actually,” I quietly say and discreetly sweep my gaze over the room, finding Bryson on the other end. Our eyes lock on each other briefly, but it’s long enough for him to glare at me before he looks away. “I kissed Josie.”
I don’t want to talk about this either, but it’s Josie or Adrian, and she’s easier to talk about than my brother.
Angel gawks at me in disbelief before he masks it away and bears a smug smile. He leans against the locker, folding his arms over his chest, eyes drifting over to where Bryson’s standing and then back to me.
“So much for just friends and roommates?” he faintly spurs, lifting a brow. “When was this? Are you guys…”
He doesn’t finish, but I know what he’s asking.
I shake my head, although I wish I was nodding it instead. She and that kiss is all that I’ve been thinking about, dreaming about, wishing about. God, it’s all I fucking want, but I know it’s not what she wants. No, it’s obvious she’s over it, probably long forgotten like it never happened because that’s how she’s been acting for a week.
No different then when we hardly knew each other. She hasn’t even said anything about my note.
“Last Friday after the bonfire. I was a dick and…I’m not going into details. It doesn’t matter anyway.” I lift my hat, raking my fingers through my hair frustratedly, then place it back.
His brows pull together and he stares at me in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. Then his arms slip, falling limply at his side, lips part in a muted O, and eyes slowly go round in what looks like realization.
“Holy shit. You like her.” It’s rhetorical but he wants an answer because he prods. “Danny, do you like her?”
My gaze swings back over to Bryson. “I doubt she likes me like that.”
“Okay and? That’s not what I asked. Do you like her?”
I rub the nape of my neck, dropping my gaze to the floor. My heart rockets, taking off, and fireworks explode. She doesn’t need to be in front of me anymore. I don’t need to see her smile for them to appear. Just the mere thought of her makes me feel…me.
I exhale a breath, my stomach intensely fluttering. “Yeah…I do.”
Angel smiles, clicking his tongue. “You’re so fucking cute. You’re going to make me throw up.”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up and don’t say anything. Nothing is going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“It was one and done.”
My walk-out song, “Pursuit of Happiness” by Kid Cudi blasts through the speaker. It was the last song Adrian listened to.
For the longest time, I couldn’t hear it without breaking out into tears and at times panic attacks. I still don’t listen to it fully,only when I’m at bat. I only brought myself to listen to it because a therapist told me it was good exposure therapy and I feel like I’m with Adrian, even if it’s for a few seconds.
Puffing out a breath, I step up to the plate. The bases are loaded, and this is the reason why I’m the fourth in the lineup. I’m the cleanup hitter, the cleanup spot. I bring the home runs. Just last year I led the NCAA in batting. I’m a damn—exceptionally brilliant, as a few have said—good hitter.
My accolades and achievements are all thanks to my father, the man who I know is somewhere up in the stands, who will probably utter a measly,“síguele echando ganas”or“podrías mejorar”after the game. That is, if he decides to stay afterwards.
I hope he doesn’t. It’s always awkward. Mom and Pen try to fill the silence with supportive words of affirmation, but in the end, it never helps. Whenever we’re standing in front of each other, it feels like I’m in front of a distant relative, a stranger even.
It’s been that way from the moment…
I blink away the memory that attempts to play in my head and take a practice swing. My hands tighten around the bat and I side-eye Noah who stands next to first base, knees slightly bent as he shuffles back and forth, ready to steal a base if he’ll need to. He’s third in our lineup and is exceptional at stealing.
My gloves crinkle as I grip the bat, squeezing it as I take my stance. My left foot is planted on the ground, but my right, I use the tip of my cleat to dig into the dirt as I lift my heel and bring my knee inward. My stance is something that always has the sports analysts, sports reporters, and everyone and their grandpa talking about.
I hear a mingled laugh and scoff come from the catcher. I agree, it’s an odd stance but it helps me and he knows that too; that’s why I have kids copying and tagging me in their videos.
“Don’t be jealous, Petey,” I mumble and make sure not to move my lips.
He scoffs again but doesn’t make a comment.
Wyatt, freshman and pitcher from Cal Poly, is feeling the pressure. He doesn’t show it, but the chants from the crowd are boisterously loud. We’re playing home and baseball season has commenced. It’s expected, but Wyatt isn’t playing like he saw it coming; he’s nervous as hell. It’s why the first three in the lineup have walked, and why I know I’ll be bringing my team home.
