Page 394 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

As if he heard me, the guy looks over. His laugh fades and he tosses an arrogant wink at us.

The bones in Andrew’s jaw lock up.

“He’s no one.”

I let out a defeated laugh that turns into a groan. “What’s goin’ on, Drew?”

“Nothin’,” we say at the same time,

my voice dressed up as Andrew.

His gaze skips back to me, a helpless smile breaking through his anger. “You’re so annoying,” he mutters dotingly, the other half of his trapped breath escaping. “Look—if he tries talkin’, don’t engage, alright?”

“Yeah.” I scoff. “‘Cause I do real well with men tellin’ me what to do.”

Andrew backs away, tracking the other guy’s movements across the white lines. “Right. My bad. Engage it up. Make a new friend.”

I find a spot off to the side of the dugout that’s not really a dugout. It’s a bench behind a wall of black netting, gym bags spilling everywhere, men talking shit back and forth.

Andrew drops onto the bench to switch shoes—sneakers off, cleats on, laces yanked tight with pissed-off fingers. He stands without throwing a single look my way, blindly tossing his Gatorade bottle into his bag before jogging out onto the turf, tugging the brim of his cap down over his eyes.

We’re in that ugly, grey zone.

The one between ‘fuck you’ and ‘fuck off.’

Where neither of you know what you are, but both of your bitch-ass feelings are hurt.

This is couple shit.

Way outside the agreed-upon terms.

From across the line,

Peter fires a ball at Andrew’s chest.

Andrew catches it—a lazy, effortless snag, as if the ball had simply chased after his palm—and the loud, leather pops.

He hurls it back, saying something to Peter, but the dome eats up all his words. Peter barks out a laugh, head falling back, gum flashing between his white teeth before he pitches the ball back twice as hard.

Andrew’s attention travels across the field, landing on that guy, and his next throw leaves his fingers with too much heat.

Over on the Bronx bench,

the guy’s eyes are digging right into me.

He wants my attention.

More than that,

he wants Andrew to watch him steal it.

I can’t take the pressure.

I stand up so abruptly

the chair almost tips back.

Andrew’s focus whips to me instantly, firing the ball back to Peter without looking.