Then again, this is a small stadium. I grab my phone and hit record on a video as fast as I can. I zoom in on him as he holds the bat and gets into the batter’s box.
And then?
Logan winks, waves the bat, then points it out at the Mississippi River in right field.
Heat rushes straight to my face.
“Oh my God,” Ivy hisses. “Was that?—”
“Sshhh,” I whisper.
The pitch comes in, and Logan swings.
The sound is immediate, sharp, and clean when he makes contact with the ball.
The ball launches high—higher than I expect—and for a split second, everything goes quiet.
Then the crowd erupts, standing up.
I follow it, squinting up into the sky as it sails out.
Over the wall. Way,wayover the wall, and straight toward the river.
“No way,” Jackson laughs. “No friggin’ way. Did he just call his shot like Babe Ruth?”
The ball disappears into the Mississippi, and the camera on the Jumbotron even catches the splash.
The stadium around us loses it.
People are on their feet. Cheering. Shouting. Some guy yells that it’s the coolest thing he’sever seen.
I’m still holding my phone up, heart pounding.
Because I got all of it: the wink, the swing,andthe home run.
And somehow, it feels like it was meant for me. A minute later, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Logan:Locker room after the game.
I stare at the screen, then back out at the field.
Where he just rounded the bases like nothing just happened.
I narrow in on the third-base dugout and see him texting me. He waves nonchalantly.
“Uh-oh,” Ivy says, leaning in. “That look means trouble. Are you…texting someone?”
I look over my shoulder and see that Jackson is a few people over, out of earshot.
I don’t even try to deny it.
Ivy’s eyes widen. “Does someone have a little crush? Who is that?”
“It’s…okay, it’s nothing.”
She leans in, already peeking at my screen.
Hot Cowboy.
