He went to Texas, came back. It’s been just over a week since—
“Fuck,” he says. “I wanna kiss you.”
His sweat has soaked through the fabric of his cap and his dark, damp hair curls at the nape of his neck. Dirt on his bare forearms, white pants marred, bat bag slung across his shoulder blades, hands fisted around the strap.
I swallow thickly, taken wholly off guard by my body’s charged reaction to his physical state. His eyes trace the contours of my face.
“You—can,” I say.
Liam nods, looking like he’s trying to suppress a smile, but doesn’t come closer. “What happened to Z?”
“Good question.” I crane my neck looking for her again, then call her, then fire off a text when she sends me to voicemail.
Had to scooch to the library!she replies.
You didn’t have your backpack with you???I send back.
“Little wretch,” I mumble. “She’s already fled the scene.”
Liam jerks his head at the parking lot. “C’mon.”
I trail along beside him. “You don’t have plans right now? An after-party? A televised interview? Icing a few body parts?”
“You’re the plans right now.”
Liam is parked at the front of the lot. I climb into the passenger seat and ask, “Where are we going?”
“Yours. You’ve already had enough baseball education for one day, and I want to hear more of your songs.”
My throat tightens. “Hang on, I don’t know if—”
“Paige.” He shoots me a warning look, then turns his eyes back on the road. “I played for you. Now you play for me.”
While he was gone, we texted every spare second we had, and I let it slip that I’d written a few other songs, mostly about Evan. Liam asked me to send recordings but I’d stipulated (as a delay tactic) that they’d have to be played in person the first time.
“You looked great out there,” I say.
He’s quiet for a moment. “I may have been showing off. I’m not supposed to throw like that for easy games.”
Something tugs at the corner of my mind. “You said in the bookshop you might be too injured to go pro?”
Liam rubs at his elbow. “Yeah. I could’ve gotten drafted last summer—it’s the first eligible year for college players—but I injured my left elbow in the middle of the season. Thankfully that was my nondominant side, so I’ve been focusing on my right for the past year, but there are still teams who aren’t looking at me anymore since I’m not as ambidextrous as I used to be.”
“Wasn’t that around the time your…?”
“Dad died?” Liam fills in. “Yeah, it was the same month, actually. Bad year.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly.
He reaches over, grabs my index finger, like the predecessor to hand-holding. His eyes graze mine with intention briefly before flicking back to the road. “This year’s been better.”
After a pause he adds, “It was probably dramatic, saying I could be too injured to go pro. I was nervous, deflecting. I just have to stay healthy from here on out.”
“You will,” I say softly.
We head upstairs to the second-floor landing, and Liam waits, a shoulder against the wall, while I fiddle with my keys. I have noidea how long Zara plans to stay at the “library,” but I assume it’ll be hours yet, especially if she’s scheming.
The living room is dark and cold when we walk inside. I disappear to my bedroom to grab a sweatshirt and my guitar and flick on a dimmer light when I head back. Liam is on the floor, legs out, ankles crossed, his back against the couch.
