“You want to be friends with benefits?”
“No,” Liam says, looking horrified. “Never mind on the less. Only the more.”
“So you want to date?” I ask.
His smile is light. “Would that make me the worst best friend ever?”
“Yes,” I say, pushing past him to the field. “Now, let’s do what we came here to do as a part of ourfriendship pact.”
When I turn back to see if he’s following me, Liam looks like he’s got more to say, but he bites it back when he catches my ruthless expression.
The grass and dirt have been baking under the southern spring heat all day, and the resultant smell is lawn-mower-esque. There’s no dugout on these fields apart from two metal benches that look singeing hot to the touch, a mysterious bag hiding beneath one of them.
Liam dumps his bat bag on the ground by home plate, sets the cooler under one of the benches. “I figured we’d warm up throwing the ball back and forth, and then I’ll see how your swing is?”
“I don’t have a glove,” I say, rubbing the heels of my palms against each other.
“I bought one for you.” He unzips the bag and pulls out two baseball gloves. One is large, worn, caramel colored. The other is brand-new, a bit smaller. He tosses it to me.
“I’ll pay you for this,” I promise.
“Don’t. It’s a gift.”
“It looks expensive.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” Liam mutters to his bag. I absolutely do not believe him. This boy pinches pennies more than Zara and I pinch pennies. He gets a telltale expression when he’s stressed about money. His eyebrows draw in and his mouth twists sideways. It’s the same look I saw when he checked the cost of a steak he wanted one night.
He pulls out a dirt-stained baseball. Only when he starts to rise do I notice, at long last, his baseball pants with closed elastic hems by his ankles. His thighs strain against the fabric.
Focus! On! The glove!
I slip my fingers into each hole, surprised at the lack of stiffness. The leather is supple.
“Are you sure this is new?” I ask.
He flicks his eyes over. “I broke it in for you. Warm water, rubber bands, mallet, the whole thing.”
He comes to me and pushes the ball into my glove.
“Grip it,” he murmurs, voice focused and low in his throat. I form a fist around the ball. “Tighter. Good, now release. One more time. Grip, release.”
My mind is spiraling, but I do the thing, counting his eyelashes as his focus holds tight to my catching hand.
“Does it feel okay?”
I make a noise that isnota grammatically correct word. Then: “Feels good.”
“Good fit, I think.” Liam pinches the leather at the top of my glove’s middle finger. He catches the tip of my actual finger underneath, wiggling it.
My heart swells at the thoroughness with which he’s prepared me to play a simple game of catch. My learning baseballwaspart of our friendship pact. But this feels intentional in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“On your day off, you wanted to play more baseball?” I ask.
Liam’s eyes sweep up to mine as he drops his hand away from my glove. “Of course. I love baseball.”
“Is baseballinyou?”
“Baseball is in all of us.”
