Page 11 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“Big. Bad. Bodyguard?” I don’t think I’m quite that protective.

“You remember that guy from Northern State who hit on her after our series last year?” He quirks a brow, and I pretend to wrack my memory for his example. I know exactly who he means—Hunter Hyland, Northern’s jackass of a relief pitcher who nailed me with a ninety-eight-mile-per-hour fastball to the ribs after spending the whole game chatting up Nikki when he should have been putting in his bullpen work.

“Come on. I know you know who I mean,” Cole badgers me.

I wave him off again.

“Yeah, I know. But that was different. And so what? Nikki is important to me, and she deserves better than some guy who can only grow half a mustache.” Not that I should talk about facial hair. There’s a reason I stop after three days of stubble. Any more and I look like a creature from the woods.

“Look, all I’m saying is if she’s that important, maybe you’ve been thinking about your relationship with her in the wrong way.” He peers at me around the edge of his water bottle, eyebrows raised as he guzzles down a big drink.

Rather than continuing to debate him, I give him the biggest reason of all why I’ve never crossed that line with Nikki. There are times when it is actually the only reason, but it’s so steadfast that it’s enough.

“I hear you. And I appreciate you thinking I am even in that girl’s league. But when it comes to my relationship with Nikki Thomas, it’s just one of those things in life that’s too important.”

Cole holds my gaze for a second but eventually nods then tips his water bottle back to drain it.

Is Nikki beautiful? Yes. Is she the smartest woman I know? Another yes. Funniest? Kindest? Most resourceful? Honest? Yeah, she’s everything. It’s why she’s my best friend. She knows me better than anyone in my life. When I hurt, she hurts. When I fly? She flies. It’s why I struggled so hard telling her the shit about my dad. But in the end, of all people, Nikki is the one I tell. And what she and I have is too important to mess up with experiments. Even if I still dream about kissing her our freshman year on a dare. We are who we are, still, because that kiss never became anything else. She was into Brayden then, and is now, apparently.

“All right, but if she wants to marry a dentist one day, you better show up to our wedding.” Cole holds his serious expression in place for about half a second before a laugh breaks through half of his mouth.

“Brother, you could literally discover a new type of tooth, and there ain’t no way you’re getting on her radar,” I jest.

Truthfully? Cole’s a good looking guy. And he’s nice, despite needing to work on his manners. He’d probably treat her right, too. But my blessing? Hell no. I have yet to meet the guy who gets that from me when it comes to her.

3

nikki

Omar has officially cut me off from purchasing cheesecake. Literally. I stopped in this morning at Lolo’s Bake Shoppe to make good on my failure to deliver a love confession, and the worker took one look at my name on my debit card and put the slice of cheesecake I ordered away. She wouldn’t let me get the cookie either. Coffee or tea, and a bagel—plain. Those were her instructions. Because those aren’t things Omar likes.

He knows the sweet treats are my crutch with him. Like a get-out-of-jail free card, with excessive calories.

“Seriously? You called Lola’s?” I lean on the front desk in the dorm lobby and slide him the paper bag with a single plain bagel inside.

He eyes the sack suspiciously, then unfolds the top to peek inside.

“Yeah, no. Hard pass,” he says, tossing it back at me. I clutch it to my chest.

“Well, it could have been a piece of cheesecake, but noooo!” I bend down and tuck the bag inside my backpack, knowing I’ll probably nibble at it later when I’m in my accounting class. I should have a solid business sense, but I really hate numbers that aren’t associated with beats. My first indulgence if I make a go of this career will be to hire my own accountant.

“I can buy my own damn cheesecake, thank you. What I want from you is the excuse. I didn’t get the full story. All you said was you’d make it up to me with cheesecake, then you slammed your door and turned up music by that girl who dances weird.” He leans back in the rolling chair behind the front desk and threads his hands behind his neck as he stares me down.

“First, her name is Lorde, and she dances awesome,” I say, ignoring all evidence otherwise. It’s women like Lorde who pave the way to let girls like me be as strange and outside the box as we want.

“And second, he unloaded a lot of personal baggage on me before I got to say anything.” I flatten my hands on the counter and tilt my head to stare right back at him. Hard.

“Really? Before you said hi he just launched right into his personal issues with you?” His smug, flat-lined mouth is annoying.

“Okay, no. I said hi when I sat down, but excuse me for not leading with ‘By the way . . . I’m in love with you.’”

“By the way isn’t necessary,” Omar says, keeping his stoic expression in place. I knock over a cup of mini-pencils by my elbow, and they tumble around the computer keyboard, some falling into his lap. He gives in and laughs.

“Okay, fine. I relent. Definitely not great timing. But today—” He drops the pencils he’s collected back in the cup and returns it to his desktop, just out of my reach. “Today is a new day.”

His grin is obnoxious.

“Why are you so positive all the time?” I grumble, bending down to snag the strap of my backpack.

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