“You mean you kissed me,” he says.
His words snap my neck straight, and my eyes nearly pop out of my skull.
“Uh, ha. I’m sorry?” I want to laugh harder, but I’m so blown away by his response that the only biological response possible is severe stomach acid and a tightening chest that keeps me from screaming.
“That’s how I remember it.” His lips tuck in on one side, and the urgent feel of my racing pulse in my stomach is back again.
A quick glance around Earl’s gives me a bit of relief. As much as itfeelsas though all eyes are on us, nobody seems to give a rat’s ass that we’re talking. Coach Shuster is in the midst of a deep conversation with Abe, his pitching coach. And the other assistants are all gathered around one of the electronic dart machines.
“If we were ever friends at all, Jayden?—”
“Of course we were friends, Colby. We’re still friends.Alwaysfriends.Always. . .” Something in his voice tugs at the soft tissue encircling my heart. I lock on to his gaze and let myself remember our past for a few brief seconds. It plays in the back of my mind in a flash, a brief swell of hope chased by sharp disappointment.
“Okay, so we’re friends,” I say, pulling my focus back to the present. “And as my friend, I’m asking you to take it easy on stories about our past, and to maybe give me a little space. Just so it doesn’t look like I’m playing favorites, or—” I stop when I the tinge of red colors his cheeks.
“What?” I turn my head slightly, partly bracing myself for whatever he’s about to share next.
“I’m your eight a.m. And I also may have signed up for your next few morning openings.”
“Next few?” My chest tightens.
“Like . . . next seven. Or . . . well, eight. Okay, nine.”
My wide eyes sting from the blunt force of the air. The band starts its first song, and I blink.
“Ten,” he finally utters. I tilt my head, not sure I heard him right over the music.
“Ten,” he repeats, cupping his mouth and saying it louder.
I step toward my beer, and rather than abandoning it, I chug the pint in seconds and slam the empty mug back down on the bar top before wiping my chin with my forearm.
“Ahh,” I breathe out. “I needed that. Because of you.” I point at his chest, allowing my fingertip to poke his breastbone twice before I begin to walk away.
“It’s only because you’re a badass coach. That’s why I signed up for so many sessions.”
I wave him off, snagging my backpack from the back of the stool and slipping the straps over my arms.
“You want coaching? You’re going to get coaching. Brace yourself, Jayden Vargas. My dad? He took it easy on you. I’m not as soft.” I hold his stare for a beat, long enough to catch him swallow hard. “And don’t be late. I fucking hate that shit.”
I turn my back to him and swing by the coach’s table to put in the face time that matters more than smoothing things over with a boy I once had a crush on. I shake Coach’s hand before heading out the door, forcing my head full of Chet’s compliments—I’m a badass.I feel like one for a full four seconds, which is how long it takes before I glance over my shoulder with hope that the boy I clearly still have a crush on is following me.
Shocker. He is not.
FOUR
JAYDEN
The list of things I need to say to Colby grows longer by the day. She wants to keep things professional, and I understand that the hitting facility is not the right place for a deep, meaningful dissection of our past. But hell, where else will I get a chance to spend time with her alone? One on one. Without the Chets and the Jakes and the dozens of teammates all wanting their time with her.
I got here before the sun came up, hoping to practice my words before I had to utter them. But Colby is already in the hitting tunnel, setting up for our session. So rather than baring my soul and layering her with apologies right out of the gate, I drag one of the tees to the end of the tunnel and start taking hacks while she finishes programming the virtual scouting machine.
She drags one of the screens to the middle of the tunnel and plops a batting practice bag on a stool.
“All right. Let’s do some warm-up swings, half-speed, soft toss.”
I step into the batter’s box and touch the end of my bat to the far side of the plate. My bat rests on my left shoulder as I lower into my stance. My quads are still sore from overdoing it in thegym late last night, and my lower half vibrates from fatigue.Shit, maybe it’s nerves. I don’t know.I focus on the ball in Colby’s hand, and she tosses it to herself a few times before lobbing it toward me. I swing through it, hard, and it ricochets off the metal part of the screen protecting her.
She doesn’t flinch.
