Page 2 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“I just wonder if there will be a coronation,” I say, leaning in. He drops his chin to his chest and puffs out a short laugh. I can’t see his eyes, but I know they’re closed. He’s also probably smiling because as snarky as I am, I’m also funny. Nobody makes him laugh like I do. Especially girls named Tiara.

“Perhaps a knighting ceremony. Ooooh! Will you give her a favor? Will there be jousting?” It’s too late to stop the flood from my mouth. It’s one of my flaws, but knowing it’s a flaw is only half the battle. I have time to work on keeping it in check later. Besides, Tiara is talking to an older guy near the keg. Seems she’s already cut Alex loose. Or maybe she simply added him to her collection.

Alex stands tall and stares at me over his cup as he takes a slow sip. I shrug, my non-verbal version of, “What?”

“You’re a real dick sometimes, you know that?” he says.

Our banter has always been like this. Buddies. Bros. Familiar. Yet my cheeks are hot and I swear I can feel the prickling of tears in the corners of my eyes. His words have never burned in my chest before. But right now? I’m on fire.

“Sorry,” I mutter, glancing away and turning my body along with my gaze. I blink rapidly, regretting the stupid eyelashes and wishing I wore my ripped-up jeans and Toxic Pillows tour shirt instead of this scooped-neck top that barely covers my midriff and chest at the same time.

I reach down with my free hand and tug my skirt lower a half-second before Alex’s hand covers mine. My eyes dart up to his. He’s standing close. It’s loud in here, but I swear I can’t hear a thing beyond the thumping of my heart. I’m not supposed to react this way. The thousands of times we’ve touched hands—hell, slept next to each other in a tent or on the living room floor, for that matter—touching shouldn’t affect me like this.

He squeezes my fingers in his palm, and everything becomes . . . more.

“I didn’t mean it.” He blinks a few times, but his gaze sticks to mine. Somehow, the burning in my chest has changed. It’s still hot, but it also vibrates with what feels like electricity. A touch of terror. But mostly electricity.

“I know.” My voice is as close to a whisper as I can get it yet still be heard.

Alex shakes my hand softly then lets go, my fingers flexing with an instant hunger to be grasped again. My hand is cold. My neck is cold. I’m cold. Alex took one step back and his eyes left me, and that’s all it took for me to feel his departure.

I have to keep swimming. If I don’t, I’ll drown like this.

“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the open living room where two guys seem to be arguing over who gets to put the next song in the queue on the computer. Judging by the rancid noise nearly busting the speaker, my vote is for neither of them.

“You should probably introduce yourself,” Alex says, nudging me toward the wannabe-DJs. I give him side eyes, and a playful smirk tickles the side of my mouth.

“Go on. You know you’re dying to take over.”

“I am,” I laugh out softly before leaving my best friend to the already full sectional sofa filled with his future female fans. They gobble him up like piranhas the second he sinks into the corner seat.

Alex came to Tiff on a full ride to play baseball. He’ll likely be one of the first freshmen to start at shortstop for Tiff since his dad did twenty-six years ago. He’s bound for the big leagues, assuming he wants them. His dad didn’t, which is something Alex has wrestled with for years. I think he blames himself—more specifically, his birth. I believe his dad chose a family life because it’s what he wanted. Alex has always struggled with the idea that anything could be better than being in the game. It’s where his heart beats strongest. Anyone watching him play can see it.

It's beautiful.

And the coeds fighting over who sits next to him right now are going to have bona fide wars for his attention when fall ball starts up in a month.

“Vipers,” I mutter to myself. I roll my shoulders and do my best to shake off the tinge of jealousy before introducing myself to the two guys working the computer.

“Hey, I’m Nikki. Mind if I . . .” I flash a crooked smile and lift a shoulder, and their gazes dart down to my cleavage.

“Right, so that’s a yes. Excuse me.” I step in front of the taller one with unkempt curly hair. He smells of cotton candy and spearmint, the new college cologne thanks to an abundance of vape stores near campus.

“Just keep it chill,” his friend advises me, his breath somehow leaving condensation on my neck. Gross.

“I got it,” I say, snarky Nikki making an appearance.

He reacts with the probably appropriate okay as he holds up his hands. Alex’s words immediately echo in my mind.

You’re a real dick sometimes.

I’m not sure that applies when guys like this breathe way too close and ogle my tits, but perhaps I snapped too soon.

“And no chick music,” he adds, reaffirming my initial summation.

I don’t even bother looking at him this time. But I do let his misogyny and general douchey-ness inspire the mix I build. Most people don’t know how to use these music apps to their full capability, but you spend enough time hiding behind mixers and messing around loading your dad’s old albums into digital and you pick up a thing or two. In about five minutes, I’ve built a steady R&B beat that will carry on for the next thirty minutes, rotating through mixes made of Taylor Swift hits, Pink, and, because I really love the old-school stuff, Tina Turner.

“That dude enough for you?” I pat the chatty one on the chest and push past his curly-haired friend, wedging my way next to my best friend on the sofa.

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