I shake my head. “So wait, you’re a fan of baseball?”
Hello, dream woman, it’s me, your future husband.
Birdie laughs. “I am now.” She looks at me. “I admit, I wasn’t really growing up, but ever since Hattie went to work for them, I’ve become a fan because I’ve met some of the players and their families, and their passion for it rubbed off on me.”
“That is fucking cool,” I whisper-shout, making her laugh again. “I’ve been a Cobra fan my entire life. My dad was a huge fan, and if he could see me now, sitting in a private box watching the game with the most gorgeous woman on the planet, he would buy me a drink.”
She smiles softly at me. “I do believe your dad would be proud of you, Derek. I know I didn’t know him, but what’s not to be proud of? You’re working hard, you are kind, and you’re a good friend. There are literally no faults.”
I frown, leaning back in my chair, and reaching over, she places her hand easily in mine, letting me interlace our fingers together. “I have faults, Birdie. I’m a pain in the ass. I make everyone’s life harder and more chaotic. Sometimes I don’t know how to calm myself down, and I make a fool of myself before I can stop it. I can be.” I pause, not wanting to admit it, but knowing Birdie won’t judge me. “I can be embarrassing sometimes.”
Finally, I look at her and see the most bewildered look on her face. “Embarrassing? Derek.” She shakes her head and sits up, looking at me more head-on. “If you were so embarrassing, your friends would not take it. Theywouldn’t be singing your praises every time your back is turned, they wouldn’t tell me stories of what an amazing guy you are. You don’t give yourself enough credit, babe.”
Hearing the wordbabecome out of her mouth makes me want to press my lips to it, to hold on to this moment where the woman I’m falling—no, scratch that—the woman Ihavefallen for is calling mebabeand saying that I’m not an embarrassment like I’ve always felt I am.
Before I can, there’s the opening pitch, and we’re distracted, our eyes, just like everyone else, redirected at the sight down on the field.
For the next couple of hours, we drink and we talk. We talk about baseball and life and Rora. I make her laugh and vice versa. We get some food and share our plates like a disgustingly in-love couple that I hope to become someday.
At one point, her sister arrives, and I stand, holding out my hand for her. “Nice to officially meet you, I’m Derek.”
She looks me up and down, blatantly checking me over. The look on her face is not flirty but scrutinizing, and she’s got her mother’s eyes, which are sharp in their assessment.“Hmm. You too. I’ve heard a lot about you from the three-foot monster at home. I’m Hattie.”
Birdie nudges her and says, “Don’t call my daughter a monster.”
“I say it with all love, you know this,” Hattie says, like it’s not the first time they’ve talked like this, smiling at her sister sweetly. She looks back at me. “I’ve also heard many, many things about you from my big sister. I hope you’re worth the hype.”
I blink in surprise that Birdie’s been talking about me. If she talks about me half as much as I think about her, she probably never shuts up. “I’m trying my best.”
She nods and smiles at someone who calls her name. “Just so you know, the rage box is going off right now if you want to watch with a little more excitement.”
“The rage box?” I ask with a lifted brow, the name certainly doesn’t sound inviting.
Birdie smiles. “It’s basically a bar, all the crazy fans who yell at every play pile in there and scream together.”
“Sounds fun.” I tilt my head, considering. “And terrifying.”
“It’s mostly fun,” Hattie confirms, then says, “Just no fighting.”
Hattie heads off when someone gets her attention, and I turn mine back to Birdie. She shrugs and says, “Want to check it out? We can always come back up here.”
The rage box earns its name, people scream in excitement and outrage, calling fouls on the pitcher almost every play. Every time I’ve ever come to a game, we neverventured over to this particular bar, mostly because our seats were already nosebleeds enough that getting to and from them was no easy feat.
Birdie and I somehow manage to squeeze in enough to see out to the field, and I hold her close in front of me so that she’s protected from all the people.
The Cobras are up to bat, and Maddox steps up to the plate, getting into stance. The pitcher throws the ball and doesn’t get near where Maddox could hit, hitting him in the bicep instead.
“Oh, come the fuck on!” the guy next to me screams, and I mean screams so loud he could pierce a couple of eardrums standing near him. I cover Birdie’s ear on that side, and suddenly, the rage box doesn’t seem so fun anymore.
The man has a beer in his right hand and a growly look on his face. I stare at him for longer than I should, and he takes notice. “What?” He spits in my direction, making me immediately shake my head.
Dammit, Derek. Look away!
“Nothing.”
“You on the other team’s side, kid?”
Kid? Really? I’m in my thirties and still being called “kid.” Although, to be fair, based on the gray hairs peeking out inhis beard, I probably am considered a kid to this mammoth.
