Page 51 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

I head back to my seat and plop down next to Omar, feeling both his and Brian’s eyes on me. I glance at Omar and give him the tight smile I do when I don’t want to talk about something.

“Okay. Later, maybe,” he says.

I nod and look back to the field.

“Later, but definitely.” I’m going to need to talk to someone about this mess, and it can’t be Alex.

Tiff ends up losing by two runs, and the new pitcher, the one I saw buckle Alex’s knees during practice, was the one to blow the small lead we had. I’m a little smug about it. He might be a nice guy, but the fact he kicked Alex when he was already down, so to speak, puts him on my shit list.

Alex’s dad left before the ninth. I’m relieved. This is going to be difficult as it is because I’m sure Alex saw us talking. I send Brian and Omar to Patty’s without me and take a seat on a folding chair one of the coaches left just outside the clubhouse. Alicia is lingering by the gate. I want to tell her she’s been cut loose, but also, she’s not my concern right now. Alex is.

He’s one of the first to exit for once, which catches me off-guard. He doesn’t spot me right away and starts to walk in the other direction, scouring the walkways that circle the field.

“I’m right here,” I say.

He spins around fast, and his expression isn’t what I expect at all.

“Oh, I figured you’d be giving my dad a tour or something.”

“Alex, what?” My mouth hangs open, and his lips pull tight as he steps in close, his eyes narrowing.

“That was a pretty long chat. Nice welcome hug. How is the old man?” His tone is curt. He’s hot, which I did expect. Just . . . not . . . this hot.

“He’s been watching your games at home. He wanted to help. And?—”

I know the words aren’t coming out right as I utter them. I prepared what to say, but in the heat of the moment, it all jumbles.

“Ohhhh, he wanted to help. He should have stayed home, then. Hope you didn’t invite him to my next game,” he says, turning his back to me. He starts to walk toward the gate and I follow.

“Wait a second, that’s not fair,” I utter.

Alex turns around but continues moving away.

“You know what? I’m just in a mood. I had another shit game. I got moved to the outfield. I might not even play tomorrow, and now my best friend is cozying up to the guy who ruined my life. I just . . . I need a minute.” He holds his palms out, then lets them fall to his sides.

I stop, letting the distance between us grow.

“You need a minute?” For whatever reason, my mind replays his dad’s advice. It’s locked in there. Why is that what I’m remembering?

“I told Alicia I’d give her a ride home. I’ll . . . let me go home, shower, get my shit together. I’ll . . . I’ll text you.” He spins around and continues his walk.

I have a lot of my mother in me, but my temper? That comes from my dad. There’s a reason he’s in a job where he doesn’t have to talk to people often, where he’s essentially in charge. Because discourse? Not his thing.

Without missing a beat, I pull my sneaker from my right foot and throw it at Alex as hard as I can. It smacks him in the center of his back, a vivid dirt-colored shoe print left in its wake. Alex stops and turns around to stare at my shoe.

“Nikki, what the fuck? Did you throw your shoe at me?” He holds his palms out again, which pulls my dad’s traits out even more. I pull my other shoe off and throw it at his head. He deflects it and it goes tumbling down a small grass ravine.

“You’re being nuts!” He bends down and picks up my shoe, then marches to the other one before carrying them both back to me, dropping them at my feet.

My nostrils flex.

“You’re taking Alicia home?” I point at her over his shoulder. She sees me, so I give her the middle finger.

“Jesus, Nik. She doesn’t have a ride.” He shakes his head, then bites the tip of his tongue. “You . . . you hugged my dad.”

His voice cracks with that last bit. I knew it would be a risk to talk to him in front of Alex, but I did anyway. I did it to help him. Though now that I’m in the middle of this fight with him, I’m not sure what reasoning made me follow through with it. It was a bad idea.

“I’ll call you after I drop her off,” he finally says, dropping his hand the same way his dad used to do when he was done with a conversation. I open my mouth to point it out but stop myself because too many ironies have already piled up.

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