All I want is more.
Alex telling me myToo muchtendencies weren’t a problem swiftly followed by her being an absolute goon to save me from an unwanted fan interaction made my week.
Maybe my lifetime?
I want to hug Alex, to express the gratitude swelling in my veins. I don’t think I’ve ever felt it was okay tofullybe myself with anyone else. I’ve let my personality out in fits and spurts, but I’d only felt comfortable being my true self with my family.
This week, I challenged the voice in my head that told me I wasToo much. If I wanted to be goofy with baserunners the last few games, I cracked jokes. If I wanted to hoot and slap my chest after a home run, I did. I hugged my teammates and cheered at the railing, and I didn’t give a whip what anyone said, because Alex was beaming at me with a microphone poised beneath her chin after each game.
I know.
I’m in deep.
It might be a problem.
Alex might give me the cold shoulder again. This time, I’m willing to deal with the fallout. The way I feel when I’m around her is too incredible not to risk it.
That’s why I showed up unannounced yesterday morning with a bird protection system for Alex’s balcony. I hummed at her gentle ribbing as I put up a net, reflectors, and bought Leaf a friend in the way of a potted outdoor hydrangea. Alex playfully rolled her eyes at me when I suggested that she bring Leaf out occasionally for a botanical bonding. After that, I insisted on assembling her new furniture until it was time to report to the stadium.
But now, I’m sock-footed, a little sweaty, and overwhelmed. My mind feels like three dozen cats are chasing balls of yarn. I tried the mental strategies that Dr. Porter—or Darius, as he insists I call him—suggested already. My sports psychologist gave me tips on breathing and visualization, but counting while inhaling and seeing myself having a great game hasn’t decreased the jittery energy sprinting through me.
I hang my head, letting the ocean breeze cool the back of my neck.
“I need to add stairs to my workout routine,” Alex says with a forceful exhale as she climbs the bleachers.
When I glance up, it’s like a shove to the chest. Alex is wearing a fitted, professional black dress with gray sparkle Vans today. She looks like a newcasting goddess, but I still prefer the makeup-free and delightfully surprised expression when I knocked on her door yesterday.
“I want to buy you those in every color, but especially Waves blue.”
The honest sentence is probably the wrong thing to say, but Alex glances at her feet, that pink settling over her cheeks.
Holy crap. Did I just make Alex blush?
“The only shoes we should be talking about are yours, Mister,” she tells me with a mocking tone as she takes the stadium seat beside mine. Alex could have easily sat in any of the four chairs I left between me and the aisle, so my blood hums at her proximity.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, staring at the press badge looped around her neck.
Again, it’s too honest.
Apparently, I don’t have a filter today.
“Sure you can.” Alex’s upbeat voice draws my gaze.
Her eyes are practically sparkling, like the glittering ocean waves that are visible only from this high up in the stadium. It’s the one ballpark where the cheap seats behind third base are actually sought after. Unlike in Oracle Park, where the home runs fire right into the San Francisco Bay, an extensive netting system keeps any of our home runs from hitting beachgoers on the sand.
“Because I have the perfect substitution song.”
I scrub my beard scruff with my palm, almost afraid to ask. “What is it?”
Alex makes me wait, the anticipation nearly killing me.
“Come on. I’m obviously a wreck. Put me out of my misery.”
Her smile is entirely too wicked. “You’re going to sing ‘Thong Song’ by Sisqó.”
I rear back, mouth twisting like I’ve eaten a putrid pickle. “What?”
“It’s the perfect replaceme—”
