Page 27 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“Sorry I can’t stay at your place. Hazard of the job,” Nik says, piling her pillows along the wall and turning her laptop to face us on her desk.

“I don’t mind it here, actually. No dudes screaming obscene shit up and down the stairs. Other than the fact I have to go up one floor to pee, I’m comfortable.”

I kick my shoes off and crawl into her bed, glad I put on my sweats and old high school hoodie. Something about being wrapped up in warm, worn-out clothes feels right for wallowing.

“Okay, do we want to relive our youth or watch something new?” She toggles her computer between two screens, one with our favorite show from fifth grade where a family of nine juggles life in New York City—super practical. The other option is a war movie, which feels dismal.

“Maybe just put on the hockey game?” I shrug, and she tilts her head back in laughter.

“Okay, Mr. Hockey Players Get Everything Around Here. I’ll put the Tiff game on. You know the student stream is shitty though, right?” She clicks a few links and soon the sound of blades on ice, grunting, and fans echoing in our arena takes over as white noise.

“I don’t really need to watch. I just like to listen. And maybe I’ll get some tips on confidence from Cutter. That guy’s never in a slump.” I sink down so my neck is bent and clutch Nikki’s giant stuffed strawberry to my chest.

“Cutter can’t hit a fastball,” she retorts, sinking down next to me, our shoulders touching.

“Ha! Neither can I.”

Nikki smacks my chest with her heart pillow and I grunt, though it didn’t really hurt. She rolls to her side and points at me.

“Rule number one—no negative talk tonight.” She lifts her brows and awaits my agreement. I know better than to refuse.

“Fair rule. Okay, I’ll try.” And I will try. But I feel pretty low right now. And I’m not sure how to stop this cycle that’s following me into the batter’s box.

Nikki picks up my arm and slides against my chest. I wrap my arm around her back and hold her shoulder, the same warmth I felt when we danced heating my palm. I tuck my chin, my view of her smoothed-back hair, her eyelashes, the round tip of her nose, and pouty upper lip. Her nose and cheeks are peppered with faint freckles that nobody would notice unless they were this close to her. And for some reason, the thought of anyone else being this close makes my chest squeeze.

“I was nice today,” she says, her eyes flitting up to meet my gaze. I’m surprisingly fine with her catching me looking at her. I squint one eye.

“Being nice is generally a good thing,” I say with a chuckle.

“No, I mean”—Her gaze drops and she moves her hand up to rest between my ribs. My insides tremble and tighten, and not because I’m ticklish. She lets out a heavy sigh before looking up again—“I was nice to Alicia.”

“Oh.” I’d honestly forgotten Alicia came. For a tiny second before the game started I noted it, but mostly because I wanted to tell Nikki she was wrong. Now, though, proving Nikki wrong feels pointless. And beyond that, mean.

“Well, thanks for being nice. I doubt she’ll be back.” Alicia is a lot like Brayden. Actually, maybe the two of them should hook up. They can sit next to each other and stare at their phones, looking at themselves.

“I don’t know. She seems like a pretty big Alex Mendoza fan.” Nikki’s mouth settles into a lopsided smile, and I get the feeling she’s jealous. I’ve always thought that to be the case on some level, but more because she and I are close, and anytime someone else pushes their way into our bubble things feel unbalanced. But now, I’m starting to think she might have a different kind of jealousy. A kind that isn’t just for friends.

I swallow the dryness in my throat and move my thumb along her bare shoulder. Her body beats with a sudden breath as her lips part. My gaze dips to the upturn of her top lip, but only for a second. Upon reflection, sweatpants were maybe not the best idea.

“You know I’m not getting back with Alicia, right?” I hold her stare as we both take a deep, slow breath.

“Okay,” she says, her raspy voice coming through. She gets this way when she’s tired. Or drunk. Or after a concert at which she’s been shouting lyrics for two hours straight.

Some of her hair has slipped from behind her ear and it crosses her forehead. I reach across and sweep it back in place, then let my hand linger along her cheek. My thumb caresses the curve of her cheekbone and she turns her head slightly, leaning into my touch as she blinks slowly and sighs.

“Are you trying to make me blush, Alex Mendoza?”

“How so?” I curl my fingers and run my knuckles along her jawline. I’m crossing boundaries right now, and I know better. But I can’t seem to stop.

“You’re staring at me, and it’s?—”

“Weird?” I quirk a brow, wondering if she’ll remember our kiss and my incredibly lame response.

She breathes out a tiny laugh and her mouth curves against my fingers.

“Yeah, weird,” she says, her eyes settling on mine.

Her body is so still, I think she may be holding her breath. I’m definitely guarding mine. No sudden movements. Nothing to disturb this fragile ecosystem. Only me and Nik and the line that I’m casually moving further and further from safe.

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