It’s childish, but a rush of victory sings through my veins.
Once she’s backed the car up a few rows, I ask her to put on the parking brake and pop the trunk.
Alex leans her hip against the car. “How do you feel about the new right fielder, Shane Seaver? I hear he’s a bit difficult to work with.”
“Oh no. Just because I’m helping you doesn’t mean I’m volunteering for an interview.”
After picking up the jack, I move to crouch in front of the chassis.
“I’m just asking.”
I level her with aYeah, rightlook before getting to work.
Alex remains silent, the lulling sounds of the desert interrupted only by the ping of lug nuts hitting the pavement.
“The woman I was photographed with last night is a friend from high school,” I tell her, not looking up. “I’d been out with several friends, actually, including herhusbandof four years. But it seems that Dylan was conveniently cropped out of the photo.”
Alex hums, noncommittal.
“I can direct you to several social media accounts for corroborating pictures if you don’t believe me.”
A pause hangs in the air before Alex says, “I believe you.”
“If you really want to play the question game, I have a few of my own,” I say, sliding on the spare.
“Too bad it’s my job to ask the questions.”
It’s my turn to hum, fully aware that I could Google search Alex Stevens as soon as she drives off and discover a good amount of information. But somehow, after all this time, that feels like cheating.
Still…there’s one thing I can’t let go of.
“Did you ever live in California?”
Alex sucks a breath through her teeth. “Strike one for Tenny Jackson—not listening.”
An unexpected laugh bursts from me as I shake my head.
“Because I went to UCSD before I was drafted,” I tell her, undeterred. “I spent two years on a Triple-A team before signing my current four-year contract with the Waves.”
“I’m aware. It was in your player bio.”
When Alex feigns a yawn, I laugh again. Something about bantering with her feels like sparklers ignited in my chest.
“Oh, it’s that dull, huh?”
Her eyes flash. “Twenty-six years old. Rudimentary skills. Meh stats. Just a basic first baseman.”
“Keeping me humble I see.”
Even though I’m still under contract, my agent is already in extension talks. The Waves wouldn’t want to keep me around if I was just abasic first baseman.
“Someone’s got to.”
When Alex shrugs, the waning sunlight seems to bend around her cheekbones in an affectionate caress. I’d been too frustrated earlier to notice how incredible she looks in casual clothes with her hair spilling from beneath her hat. I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to replace her basic black ballcap with my Waves hat.
Focusing on tightening the lug nuts, I say, “My youngest sister likes to say that’s her job. Brother humbler. College student. In that order.”
The sound of Alex’s laughter washes over me like a salve. My eyes fall closed before I can stop myself. I’ve never heard it before, but it’s exactly how I’d imagined it—bright with an almost smoky undertone. She’d chuckled in our interview, but I hadn’t been sure if her breathy mirth had been staged. This—her laughing at my sister’s antics in an empty parking lot—doesn’t feel forced.
