Page 4 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

I lean in and close my eyes, hoping he’ll meet me halfway. I’m not sure whether everyone’s holding their breath or I’ve lost my hearing. Either way, it’s complete silence in our tiny bubble. Alex’s hand cups my right cheek, fingertips gliding through my hairline as a tiny breath leaves my lips. The electricity touches my lips first, followed by the warm, soft fullness of his mouth against mine. Time may have slowed, but regardless, I firmly believe he isn’t rushing this. I know I’m not. I lean in, boldly clutching the front of his shirt as he sucks in my bottom lip, his tongue grazing it. A soft whimper is trapped in my throat and I let it out, hoping it’s both loud enough for Alex to hear and soft enough for our audience to not.

Alex’s hand fades away from my skin, his fingertips lingering under my chin as his lips leave mine. I exhale softly and blink my eyes open in time to witness Alex doing the same. For a beat, our eyes lock, and I would swear on my soul—on his soul—that he felt something in our kiss. If we were alone, I’d challenge him and insist he prove otherwise if he didn’t admit it. But we’re not alone. And Alicia claps her hands together once with the force of a third-grade teacher attempting to wrangle students hyped on sugar. Her sharp interruption bursts our bubble, breaking our gaze.

“Well? How was it?” She slips into the space next to Alex, where I was sitting. My space.

“It was . . . I don’t know . . .” Alex glances at me, and I can’t tell whether he’s waiting for me to answer or if he’s searching for the right words. His brow draws in, almost as if he’s searching, then his shoulders rise. “Weird, I guess?”

Weird. Not magical. Not even interesting. Hell, strange would have been better. But weird? He said weird.

“Huh. I guess you guys were right.” Alicia sums up our experience without even asking me what I think. I don’t dispute it, though, because my God, how embarrassing would that be? Instead, I chuckle through the utter despair settling into my chest cavity. I mutter, “Yeah, weird,” the room no longer interested.

A few minutes pass and the conversation shifts. I make my way back to the computer where my playlist is still going strong and drown myself in a folder titled VINTAGE 70s. And after an hour of showing my tricks to the two hopeless music geeks who let me horn in on their space, I spot Alex linking hands with Alicia and heading up the stairs.

1

nikki thomas, senior year

My eyes connect with Alex’s over the roof of his car just as my mom rushes from the garage with one more bag of nearly-expired baked goods she picked up from the clearance bakery. At first, our friends at Tiff didn’t believe us when we told them the clearance bakery was a thing. But now that we’ve consistently come back from Odell, our hometown about three hours north of Tiff, with sacks upon sacks of baked goods, they’ve all bought into the truth. The problem is they encourage our moms’ obsession. Mostly because we return to campus with treats every time we go home.

“I knew I had one more. Here, Nik. You can put it on the floor.” My mom hooks the bag on my finger then plops a quick kiss on my cheek before running back into the garage and shutting it behind her.

“Remind me again why we came home for a three-day weekend?” I peek inside the bag as I slump into the passenger seat.

“Because if we didn’t come here, they would come to us,” Alex reminds me, his eyes crinkling in that sweet way that accompanies his smile.

“Ah,” I respond, pulling out the box of last-chance powdered donuts and cracking the lid. “Well, we better eat these on the road. They expire tomorrow.”

I pluck one out and take a bite. Alex nudges the box lid down, scanning it with his eyes, and laughs.

“They expired two days ago,” he says, and I cough out a fog of powdered sugar. Flipping the box lid back open, he nods for me to dispose of the remains. I power through chewing what I already ate, my mind working through the psychology of whether I realized the donut was stale before or after I knew the date.

We both buckle up for the drive. I turn my attention to syncing my phone with his car so I can continue testing my mixes on him—and avoiding the conversation I promised my friend Omar I would have. I made a deal for the last piece of cheesecake at our resident hall staff meeting last week that during this trip with Alex, I would finally let him know how I feel. Seeing as I have a couple hours and a few hundred miles left in the trip, I think I might owe Omar cheesecake.

I start the next song in the queue and am about to explain my thought process on the songs I chose when Alex halts me with a sharp laugh. My brow draws in tight.

“What?” My hand immediately goes to the corners of my mouth, feeling the sugar.

“Hold on. You’re making it worse.” Alex twists in his seat and cradles my face in his palms, his thumbs smudging away what probably looks like cocaine or paste by this point from both sides of my mouth. I’d be embarrassed if I weren’t busy relishing this moment.

I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat.

“Better?” I ask, my own breath fighting against self-control. How is it I feel as if I just finished sprinting a forty? I should be better at suppressing my physical reaction to him by now. Years of practice and all that. But the fact that finally confessing how I feel to him has been balancing on the edge of my lips all weekend is making it hard.

“Yeah. I got you,” Alex says, snapping me from my haze. He winks as his hands drop from my face. They’re back on the wheel a half second later and we’re on our way back toward campus.

I settle into my seat and tie the last-minute bakery bag into a knot at the top and drop it at my feet. I’m sure one of Alex’s teammates won’t care that the donuts are stale. Or that I ate half of one.

Forcing myself to refocus, I restart the music. I’m applying for an apprenticeship with a sound studio after graduation, mostly to build my portfolio before attempting to branch out on my own. I want to own my own studio, work with female indie artists, maybe run the sound for a tour one day. I’ve spent three and a half years in Tiff’s broadcasting school making connections and nerding out with sound engineers, but the experience has all been with sports. It’s time for me to turn my passion for music into a career. My portfolio needs to show more than my work for play-by-play and commercial breaks. That’s why I made these mixes as a supplement. I was hoping Alex could help me narrow down the best two or three to include.

The beat thumps through the sub in Alex’s trunk, rattling some of the boxes our moms sent with us back to campus. I lean on the console to mess with the bass levels, though I’d prefer to mess with the boxes instead. I find a happy medium and am about to launch back into my thought process for slowing down a classic disco refrain when Alex speaks.

“I know we need to get back, but mind stopping at the high school?”

I snap my mouth shut and consider the clues in his words. Alex Sr. is there, at the field, working out the high school team for pre-season. I noticed Alex didn’t visit practice all weekend. In fact, he hasn’t stopped by the school to see the team or help out his dad since he left for summer ball before our senior year at Tiff. And he spent more time at our house than his over winter break last month. Same with this weekend trip. His relationship with his dad has always been hard to pin down. I figure when your dad is both your idol and your coach, things get strained. I was there for the tough rides home after bad games. And his dad was always extra hard on him, partly to avoid showing favoritism. But also, I think there was a part of him that rose or fell depending on his son’s successes and failures. Alex shuts me down when I bring up this new level of tension, insisting everything is the same. He forgets that I’m one of the few people in his life who recognizes when it's not.

“Of course,” I answer, my gaze lingering on his. He seems hesitant, as if he wants to change his mind. Eventually, though, he nods and moves his focus to the rearview mirror before shifting into reverse. I settle into my seat and buckle up.

We’re at the school in minutes. Alex pulls along the fence, parking under the tree he and I used to climb up in when we were young to watch his dad coach. I unclasp my safety belt and put my hand on the door.

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