Page 42 of Fighting For You

"September eighth. It was on the paperwork at Ray's."

"Right."

Knox looked at me across the table. He just smiled, and it reached his eyes, and he looked like a man who was exactly where he wanted to be.

"So there's this thing the station does," he said after a moment. "Every year, we play LVMPD in a charity game. Softball. The guys call it the Badges." He leaned back. "Andy's playing on the LVMPD side this year, so it's going to be personal."

"When is it?"

"Two weeks. Saturday. The game's at the park in the afternoon, and there's a cookout at the station after." He looked at me. "You should come."

"Are you inviting me to watch you play softball?"

"I'm inviting you to watch us beat LVMPD at softball."

I laughed. "I'll be there."

On our way out, Knox put his hand on the small of my back. He walked me to the Corolla first.

"I had a great time," he said.

"I did too."

We stood there. The parking lot was quiet. The afternoon sun was hitting the side of his face, and he was looking at me the way he'd looked at me across the table, except closer now. I could see the flecks in his eyes. I could feel the warmth from where his hand had just been.

For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me.

Then he stepped back.

"Text me when you get home," he said.

"I will."

CHAPTER 11

Helmet Liner

KNOX

Every year, the fire departments in Las Vegas run charity events. Fill the Boot on the intersections. Pancake breakfasts at the station with the bay doors up. Toy drives in December where the engine rolls through neighborhoods with lights on and no siren, and kids come running out of their houses because a fire truck just showed up on their block with a bag of presents.

The one people look forward to most is the Badges.

It started as a pickup softball game between Station 110 and the cops at Northeast Area Command, back before anyone thought to put a name on it. Somebody brought a keg. Somebody else brought their kids. The departments put it on the calendar the following year, added a charity component, and it grew from there. Now it fills half of Lorenzi Park on a Saturday in June. LVMPD fields a team. The fire department fields a team. The money goes to whichever charity the winning side picks, and nobody lets you forget the score.

Last year was embarrassing. LVMPD beat us by nine runs and the department's team photo ended up on the precinct bulletin board with a caption underneath that read: Better luck next year, boys.

Thompson had it taken down. It went back up the following Monday.

We were down three runs in the bottom of the sixth when Nora found me.

I was on the bench behind third base, waiting for my spot in the order. Thompson was pacing behind us with his arms crossed, working through the lineup like he was running an actual operation. His wife was behind him with a cooler, pressing cold bottles of water into the hands of anyone who came off the field.

Nora came through the crowd in a tank top and shorts, a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, scanning the sideline until she spotted the Station 110 shirts. The tank top sat low across her collarbones and left her shoulders bare, and the shorts ended high enough on her thighs that my brain stalled for a full second. I watched her walk toward me and forgot about the game entirely. She dropped onto the bench beside me.

"How bad is it?"

"It's fine."