From behind me, I heard an awkward cough as Elliot slid back into his seat, uncertain where to look.
“We were just toasting fart logic.” Riley explained, offering the flask to him. “Daiquiri?”
“Thanks but no,” he said. Then, “Fart logic?”
“It’s a new philosophy Lucie wants me to embrace,” she told him.
He looked at me curiously. “Is this a London thing?”
“No,” I said, “it’s a really intellectual way of describing the truth as better out than in, and, er, my boobs have nothing to do with it.” I regretted the last sentence as soon as I said it. “Sorry, think I’ve had a bit too much booze.”
“No, that’s okay,” he said woodenly, his eyes firmly fixed on the pitch, where the players were taking their places, charming in matching raglan T-Shirts and caps.
I eyed Elliot. How was I going to endear myself to him, make him take me seriously? I decided to play it safe, talk about the game. “Did you play in this league then?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’m the pitcher.”
“That’s the thrower, right?”
“Yes, Lucie, that’s the thrower,” he replied with a possible hint of a smile. I matched it with my own; making this man smile felt like a win.
“Did you play baseball growing up?” I asked. “We used to play something called rounders in summer, which I think is similar. But I was never very good at it. I’m not built for speed, and I’m not coordinated, like, at all. I actually developed a borderline anxiety around rounders after seeing Rachel Turner get hit in the eye with a ball so hard, she had to go to hospital!”
Elliot glanced back at me curiously. “It’s true!” I blurted. “She didn’t break any bones, but she got so paranoid about her bruises she got her big sister Macy to cover them with make-up, although she got absolutely rinsed over it because it made her look like she had a really bad tan job around her eye – I mean, what eleven-year-old knows what they’re doing with make-up?”
Elliot’s lips parted but no words came out and I groaned internally. I couldn’t just blame the rum coursing through my veins for reducing me to a babbling idiot. He made it impossible for the professional in me to shine.
“That sounds very traumatic,” he said eventually.
I squinted at him. Was he being truly sympathetic or throwing me a platitude to shut the hell up? I couldn’t tell. “It was.”
“And yes, I played Little League growing up,” he said. “Although I didn’t excel in this particular game, I do enjoy sport. I like moving my body, being outdoors.”
Riley leaned across me to poke his arm. “Sorry, couldn’t help overhearing. Elliot, it wasn’t that you didn’t excel, you flat-out sucked! You got tapped out, like, immediately. You can pitch, sure, but as a batter? You blew!”
“That’s rich coming from the girl who just hung out in the outfield talking about computer games with Noah!” he shot back with a laugh.
“In our defense,Cold Legacyhad just come out!” Riley said.
Elliot shook his head ruefully and turned back to me. “So, we lost because as a team, we sucked. But the important takeaway is … we had fun.”
The crowd cheered and it was then I realized the game had begun while we’d been talking. There seemed to be a lot of stopping and starting and a whole lot of shouting. “So how does this work?”
Elliot heaved a big sigh, as if talking to me was the worst burden imaginable. “Two teams, four bases if you include the home plate. The pitcher must keep his foot on the pitcher’s mound.” He pointed to the center of the green diamond. “Pitcher throws, batter hits as hard as they can and then tries to make it around the bases to score a run.”
“So, rounders then,” I said.
“Similar, but no eleven-year-olds in make-up,” he replied.
Was that a joke he’d just attempted? It was at least proof he’d actually listened to one thing I’d said, even if it had been a garbled anecdote from my childhood. “Well, I’m excited to experience something properly American.”
“Not only American,” Elliot said. “Baseball was invented right here in New York City.”
“Really?” I said. “You didn’t steal it from some country you’d colonized?”
He made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Really? Colonizer jokes from a Brit?”
“Fair.” I was encouraged by our conversation. He’d managed to avoid direct insults for the duration of it. Things were looking up! “So, tell me about your Tribeca movie.”
