“He’s doing all right, but he’s pretty upset with Senior.” I plop my phone on my bed and turn it to speaker so I can change for Alex’s game while my mom continues to share her emotional journey.

“Talk about upset! Marie is letting him off easy, in my opinion. And I told her we are putting her up on all the dating sites. Right now. Forget this trial separation business. There’s no three strikes for this. It’s one strike. Right? Isn’t that how it goes?”

I sigh quietly to myself, not wanting her to hear me.

“Yes, Mama.” I know when it’s time to use my sweet voice. And when to tell her she’s right. I’ll let her go on for a while. Maybe getting it out of her system with me will save Marie from having to deal with it.

“I agree,” I add in, setting off a new rant. She’s picking up steam and shifting to the angry side. This version of her will be more beneficial to Marie.

I wiggle out of the oversized T-shirt I’ve lived in for the past two days and tip over my basket of clean laundry, cursing myself for never putting stuff away. Most of my shirts are wrinkled, but the jersey Alex gave me from his freshman year isn’t too bad. I slip on my snug black hoodie and then toss the jersey over it. The wind is very much present today, so I’m going to want to have that hood up. Plus, since I’m going to the game alone, this means I won’t have to talk to anyone. The hoodie is a sure-fire way of securing introvert status.

I slip on my jeans and sneakers, then feel around my crumpled blankets for my Tiff baseball cap. I pull my hair through the back then pull the hoodie up over the top.

“Mama? Hey, I . . .” She doesn’t seem to hear me, so I pop my earbuds in and let her continue to vent as I gather up my keys and wallet, then head out for Alex’s game.

My mom manages to slip through three complete stages of friendship sympathy during my walk to the stadium—grief, anger, and now party planning.

“I’m not sure Julianne is ready for a girls’ night just yet, but you probably know best,” I say, showing my student ID to the security officer. He waves me through, and I drop my cell phone in the bin as I pass through the metal detector. I pick it up on the other side, my mom none the wiser.

“Hey, Mom?” I manage to catch her between breaths.

“Yes, baby.”

“I have to get to Alex’s game. So I need to go. But can you send me our insurance info? I need to make an appointment?—”

“Nikki Thomas, are you pregnant?” she shouts into my ear. I’m glad I don’t feel the way I did yesterday. That shrill question would have busted my ear drum.

“Jesus, Ma! No, I’m not. I have an earache. I just need to go to student health. It’s fine.” I scan the seats, which are half-filled because it’s opening day. The only time this place is full is for concerts and playoffs.

“Okay, but you better not get pregnant!”

I laugh because this is how the sex talk with my mom started when I was twelve. There was no easing me into birds and bees, which, face it, I had already picked up the details from classmates on the playground. My mom went right to the scare tactics—teenage pregnancy risks, how it affects college attendance, graduation rates, future employment. I dared to bring up Aunt Mara, who had my cousin Sonia at sixteen. That’s when I learned about how hard Mara worked to get where she is—owning her own boutique in Iowa City. I’ll admit it gave me good perspective, but also—maybe would have been nice to get the speech about two people being in love and waiting. That’s the version Alex got. We compared notes.

“I’ll text you a picture of the card. Tell me how it goes at the appointment. You know I worry,” she says.

“Oh, I know.”

I hear her grumble but she relents and says she loves me before ending the call.

I pull my earbuds out and tuck them in my case and then my pocket, and scan the stadium for Alicia. As I feared, she’s in the same seat as last time—my seat. I could run and hide as I did before or suck it up and play nice. Since this is where I’ve sat for every home game over the last three years, I decide Alex knowing where to find me is more important than my ego, so I push my phone in my back pocket and take a deep breath.

“Hey, got room for one more?” I ask, noting that she’s brought two friends with her. They’re all taking selfies right now.

“Yeah, down there,” Alicia says, nodding to the seat that puts two people between us.

“Thanks,” I say, begrudgingly. She’s in my seat, but I promised I’d be nice. And Alex is stressed today. He’ll find me three feet in another direction.

I keep my hoodie up until it’s time to stand for the national anthem. I slip it off and pull my hat from my head and stare at my favorite player on the field. His hands fidget with his hat behind his back, and I can tell he’s nervous. This isn’t my normal Alex.

While my seatmates giggle through the ceremonial first pitch and group together to take more selfies with the field in the background, I tuck my hair through my hat again and leave the hoodie down for now so Alex can spot me. He’s stretching just outside the dugout, pulling his legs up to get loose. Once he’s still, punching his fist into the pocket of his mitt, the brim of his hat tips up and I can tell he’s found me. I nod, and he nods back. I sink into my seat and prop one foot on the cupholder to my right as I seriously consider moving down an extra seat or two.

Be nice, he said.

Our guys take the field, which means, for now, I can relax. Fielding has never been a worry, as he proves by making a diving stop and managing to throw the runner out from his knees.

“Wow!” one of Alicia’s friends says, clapping. I smirk, part of me proud of her for noticing and acknowledging it.

“I told you he was good,” Alicia adds.