Page 16 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

Her gaze shifts to me, her expression matching mine, though her tight-lined mouth due less to sarcasm and more to aggravation.

“Maybe I’m tired because I have to drive all over the Midwest going to baseball games,” she says, her eyes blinking rapidly the moment the words escape her.

“Wow.” My brow flirts with my hairline as I hold her gaze. She clears her throat and looks at the screen again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. Her eyes flit to me once more, briefly. “Really. I’m sorry.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I shift my body to get more comfortable and to turn the screen more in her direction while I click around a few options and clear the duplicate entries in her account.

“And that should always show zero when it’s right,” I say, hovering the cursor over the two total sums.

She slaps her hands to her cheeks, dragging the bottoms of her eyes down as her mouth hangs open.

“You fixed it in like four minutes.”

“More like ten, but . . . yeah.” I click save and move the computer to her bed.

I lie down and prop my head on an elbow as she sits and takes over to turn in her assignment remotely. The light music in the background is a familiar mix. It’s one she made freshman year, all R&B blending old and new. It’s smooth.

“I always liked this one,” I say, leaning my head toward the Bose speaker on her dresser.

She snaps her laptop shut and runs her palms over the surface, seemingly relieved to have that assignment done. She grins at me, always proud of her work. She should be.

“Yeah? I should send you the link. This one’s good for stress.” She leans to the side to set her laptop on the night table, trading it out for her phone. A few seconds later I feel mine buzz in my pocket.

“There. Sent.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling on one side of my mouth.

She sees right through me. I bet Nikki sensed there was more to my stress long before I told her about my parents. She’s always so tuned in, usually more than I am to myself. I should try harder to give her the same kind of support. Maybe I’m a shitty friend.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away,” I say, my racing thoughts finding their way out of my mouth. She tosses her phone on the bed and shifts to lie opposite me, propping her head up the same.

“Hmm? Oh, about your parents? I understand?—”

“Seriously, Nik,” I interrupt, circling her wrist with my other hand. She takes in a sharp breath, so I run my thumb along her skin. I meant that to be tender.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want you to know that I appreciate how you’re always there for me. And I’m sorry I didn’t trust that.”

Her gaze locks on mine and her nostrils flex with a breath.

“Mmm hmm,” she says with a tiny nod.

I squeeze her wrist and let go, instantly calculating how thin her wrist feels in my grip, how smooth her skin is, how hard her pulse beats, and how still she is. Nikki plays tough, but she’s also breakable. I have to protect her.

“It means a lot to me,” I say, and her eyes draw in, her brow puzzling.

“Alex, were you afraid I’d judge you? Because of your dad? It’s me. It’s . . . us.”

I flatten my arm on her mattress and lower my head to my bicep as I shrug.

“Not really. But if I’m being honest . . . I’m pretty embarrassed by him.” Mortified, really. Odell is a small town, and what he did won’t be a secret for much longer, no matter how hard my mom tries to keep it one. And then people will talk, and going home won’t feel like going home anymore.

“I understand. But he’s not you.” Nikki reaches for me this time, her palm curving over my shoulder. For the first time, maybe ever, I’m singularly focused on the way her hand feels on my skin. Her palm is cool, but not cold. The hard edge of her thumbnail tickles along my shoulder. It’s somehow sharp yet soft. Her focus is on her touch, but mine is on her eyes. I’ve always known they’re this strange mix of green and brown, but I’ve never really appreciated how unique they are. Suddenly, her gaze shifts, and she catches me. Her hand freezes, then balls into a fist that she tucks against her chest as it slips away from my arm .

“Thank you for coming to my games. All of them, I mean. I should say that more.” I should tell her she doesn’t have to and relieve her of the pressure, but I want her there. When my game is off, knowing she’s there rooting for me somehow makes me fight through the doubt.

“I wouldn’t miss them for the world,” she says.

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