“We’ll tell him,” I assure her.
“Oh, Aubrey willfor sure,” Brielle sings.
When I look at her, she’s smirking at me. “What does that mean?”
“I’m sure the two of you have another date tonight. Maybe you can congratulate him.”
“A date?” I ask innocently.
“Don’t even try. You know Wes has a blabber mouth.”
When it settles in, I groan, immediately looking down to the field. The catcher I’m ready to strangle is gone now, though, already in the dugout with the rest of the players, Finn included.
“It’s not like that,” I tell her, trying to sound as firm as possible.
“Yuh-huh. You’re just platonically dating, then?”
I reach for my slush and take a long sip before saying, “We’re not dating at all. He’s simply helping me get over my aversion to men.”
“Mmm. Okay.”
“Brielle,” I mutter, half scolding, half pleading for her to let go of the fascination she has with trying to get me to agree with her misplaced interest. It’s been something I’ve been battling for a few months now. “Don’t start.”
She claps her hands to her thighs and twists in her seat until she can stare at me head-on. “Too late. You know I don’t buy this best friend charade?—”
“Not here!” I squeak.
I’m too aware of the fans around us, watching and trying to listen in on our conversation. To anyone with knowledge of the Havoc’s families or their social media presence, they can recognize me and Sara. Sometimes they’ll spot Brielle, but she’s anti-social media to her core and doesn’t like Wes sharing her photo online.
It’s one part of Finn’s job that I’m not crazy about, but it’s also non-negotiable.
Brielle stamps her lips together and slumps back, thoroughly chastised. I release a tight breath and suck back my slush, feeling the cold seep into me. The babysitter doesn’t speak, so it’s just Sara left murmuring to herself. She’s watching the field intensely, ready to see her dad get back out there.
It’s only a handful of minutes later when the San Diego pitcher and outfielders head out. The first batter up from theHavoc is the eighth down the line and winds up hitting a foul before two more strikes. Sara boos when the pitcher celebrates his first strikeout and settles back in.
“I bet he stinks,” she attacks.
My laugh escapes me in a harsh exhale. “Sara!”
“It’s true.”
“I don’t disagree,” Brielle joins in, apparently done with her silence.
I shake my head and tuck my empty cup into the holder beneath my arm. “Inside thoughts, guys.”
“Don’t be a bore. You’re thinking it, too.”
“I’m not thinking that,” I disagree.
I’m thinking of something far worse. Words that I won’t say around Sara and risk her repeating them to Jett.
“Dad’s out now!” Sara squeals, pointing past the head of the old couple in front of us.
Jett’s swinging his bat off to the side of home plate, waiting his turn. His green helmet blocks half of his expression from us, but Sara doesn’t care. The only thing that matters to her is seeing him out there and cheering as loud as she can, hoping that he’ll hear her voice amongst the thousands of other ones.
The ninth hitter makes it onto first base, and the stands explode in cheers and screams. Jett’s face and stats pop up on the screen on the opposite side of the field, and I smile to myself when Sara pops out of her seat, jumping in place. The fans behind us laugh loud enough for me to pick it up as she freaks out the same way she has the last dozen times he’s taken to the plate.
He gets into position, and I let my gaze wander to where he came from. We’re sitting close enough to the dugout that if I stood, I might see into it. But I can’t get myself to. Brielle’s words bite at me, adding to the turmoil I’ve been suffering through since minigolf.
