Page 64 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“You would know better than me. I took one biology class. And I barely got a B,” I respond.

He elbows me.

“Yeah, because I did half of your assignments,” he reminds me.

I give him a guilty look and hold out my palms, then turn my attention back to the field. Alex is walking toward me, though a couple hundred feet away on the field. It still feels like he’s close. It feels that way every time he moves toward me, looking at me, smiling the way he is. He tips his hat and I hold up my hand.

“You two are adorable, and I mean that in the most sincere, non-grossed-out way,” Omar says.

“Thanks,” I say, biting my bottom lip.

Brayden is on the mound today, and it’s hard not to watch him take his warmups. He makes a show of it, throwing for obscene distances from pole to pole in the outfield. He saw some MLB player do it once when he was young and it became his thing, though really it was the other guy’s thing. His thing is copying, but I’ll keep that knock to myself.

Glancing to my right, I spot Alex’s dad sitting in the same seat as yesterday. He’s not like other ballplayers when it comes to superstition. He likes routine, but the “voodoo shit,” as he calls it, is all in the head. He’s probably right, but I would still feel better if he moved one seat over just to change up the luck.

Alex texted me before the game and said that they had an extremely difficult talk. I didn’t ask for details, but I’m sure he’ll share them with me later. The parts he did share seem healthy, good. I hope it removes some of the weight from his mind so he can find himself again on the field. I guess today will be a good indicator. I look for signs as he jogs out to the left field grass to throw. It seems there’s more zip in his step, but maybe I’m simply hoping.

My eyes follow him everywhere he goes through warmups. And while we stand for the national anthem, I micro-focus on his hands clutched behind his back. He’s beautiful, every inch of him a work of discipline. But it’s the flaws I’m attracted to most, and maybe because they all have their own stories. Histories I was there for. Origins that involve me.

For example, his right pinky is a little crooked thanks to a hammer I swung when we tried to build our own treehouse. I think that piece of wood is still precariously nailed to the trunk of the tree in his mom’s backyard. That’s as far as we got in our construction after I broke his finger.

Then there’s the scar across his left knee, where he sliced his skin open on a sharp rock in the lake while we were swimming one summer. And his right eyebrow has the faintest gap. It almost looks intentional, like one of those trendy shaves guys do sometimes. I know better, though. That gap is there because of three stitches after Alex took a fist from a boy twice his size in fifth grade. That boy, Colton Wagner, tried to look up my skirt during school choir. Alex left a few marks of his own on Colton.

All of these slight imperfections build an amazing man, and I love him so much that sometimes my heart feels too full.

My phone buzzes as I sink down into my seat, ready for the first pitch. I read the short text, a confirmation for my CT scan in two days, and then the number to set up a consultation with a surgeon. Alex’s talk with his dad was hard, and I promised I’d meet him—hard thing for hard thing. But this feels too hard. Every time I truly think about the possibilities and the potential outcomes, I get a little queasy.

I put my phone away before that happens now and prop my feet up on the seat in front of me, my right foot finding its favorite nook. I smirk, and Omar catches me.

“What’s that look for?”

I wiggle my foot along the loose armrest.

“There are many reasons I love this seat. I’m just glad to have it back.”

I pull Alex’s hood up over my head and hold on to the strings to give myself something to fidget with, and Brayden slings the first pitch in for a strike.

“He is good,” Omar comments.

“And he knows it,” I add.

I filled my friend in on almost everything. He was most impressed that Alex chucked him through a screen door. I don’t think Omar really understands construction and the concept of flimsy.

But he is right—Brayden is good at one thing. He strikes out the side in eleven pitches, and his team rushes off the field behind him, every player patting him on the back as they pass by. Except Alex, who makes a point to praise the catcher instead.

Alex is back at short today, which eases my anxious insides on his behalf. But he’s batting eighth. It’s not where he should be, but I know he’ll get himself back to that lead-off spot or the two-hole. I just hope his streak starts today. I hope his time in the cage with his dad, while difficult, delivers the magic he always swore by growing up.

Tiff manages to score one run in the first, but Brayden gives up a solo shot to right in the second. We’re playing Commonwealth, a smaller Division One school with a lot of money. They suck at football, but they’ve always had great baseball squads. I think these have been some of my favorite games to watch over the years.

The pitcher slinging for them today is easily hitting a hundred on his fastball. Alex is convinced that parents are juicing up their kids young to max out their muscles early so they can throw so fast. I’m shitty at science, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. I can’t imagine guys like this can keep that sort of thing up for years. It has to tear up their arms. The ball hits the catcher’s mitt with a snap just as I have the thought.

Alex is up third this inning, and when the two hitters before him fly out to the centerfielder, I grow tense.

“Relax,” Omar says, squeezing my denim-covered knee. I grit my teeth because he’s trying to be a good friend, but I hate being told to relax. I don’t think I could right now for a million dollar bill, if that’s even a thing.

I tuck my hands under my thighs and lock in on my heart as Alex holds his bat up like a lightsaber and takes a deep breath as he stares at it. His shoulders fall on his exhale, and he steps into the box. I glance at Senior, who is sitting back, hands over his chest, sunglasses down. Everything is normal.

Okay. Come on, Alex.

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