Page 32 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“You’ll be there, yeah?” He chews at his bottom lip.

“Of course,” I say, stopping myself mid-step toward him. My shoulders drop, and I look to at my floor.

“Hey, no,” Alex says, closing the distance between us.

He tips my chin up and meets my gaze. My eyes are teary and I’m embarrassed by it, but fuck, man! How can I not feel terrified right now? I wrap my hands around his wrists and he cradles my face and runs his thumbs across my damp cheeks. I sniffle. Stupid emotions.

“We’ll talk about this when I’m not running off to a game. Give it the attention it deserves. Do it right.” He drops his chin a touch and levels me with his serious face. This is the way he looked at me when we were kids and I was afraid of something. He’d pull me aside and talk away my fears. I hope he can do that now. Still.

I know I should wait for when we have the time, but my gut won’t let me keep my mouth shut.

“Do you regret it?”

His eyes flinch—only for a heartbeat, but it happens. I feel it sit heavy in my gut. But before I can call it out, he leans in and presses his lips to mine, the kiss soft, chaste, but very much tender.

“Never,” he says, then heads out with his duffle bag and my heart.

* * *

I have an hour to kill before Alex’s game. I don’t want to get there too early and be forced to spend more time with Alicia than necessary. If she even shows up again.

There is a tiny smug part of me that hopes she’ll see me and just know—that glow about me, is that a thing? But I’m still twisted about how abruptly he left. And I wonder if he would have said anything at all if I hadn’t caught him.

Shaking my morning off, I bury myself in the sound lab and my project for my film and sound class. I’ve been recasting a soundtrack over a classic movie, changing the feel of specific scenes and turning the story into something else entirely. It’s a pretty cool assignment, but for some reason the gothic moodiness I’ve been trying to get just right isn’t translating at all.

I slip my headphones down and scan the lab for our student assistant.

“Hey, Chris? Can you give this a listen and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

“Sure,” he says, practically skipping over. He’s a grad student in his thirties, and I truly have never met a person who loves their job more. He’s also really good. Especially on film work.

He rolls a spare chair over and unplugs my headphones, scanning the visuals on my sound then dragging the player back to the beginning of this section. He presses play then sits back, holding his chin with his palm as he studies the screen.

“Do you mean to have that constant tone in there?” He leans forward and turns down some of the midrange dials on my mixer.

“I . . . I’m not sure.” I actually didn’t hear them.

I watch the screen as he drags the player back and replays the section we just heard. It sounds exactly the same to me.

“There, yeah. I think you’ve got it. Pretty cool, Nikki!” He gets up from his chair and I smile and mutter, “Thanks.”

My gaze flashes back to the screen, and I twist the dials like I had them before, then lower them again. I shake my head, confused as to why I’m not hearing the same thing Chris seemed to. I pull my headphones back on and run through the same fifteen seconds over and over, never once hearing the difference.

An uneasiness takes over, and I’m not sure if my ears are ringing because of stress or because of the onslaught of decibels. I’m usually pretty careful when I work. I’ve never been one to blast my music in my ear, and I’m not a fan of the thumping in the car. Too much bass washes out the good stuff. But I did hit a lot of live shows last month, and I do gravitate toward the stages—and the speakers. Maybe I just need to give my ears a rest. I bet that’s why I had that bout of vertigo.

I pack up my workstation and take my backpack to my room to drop it off before Alex’s game. He hasn’t brought up the party tonight, the one Brayden mentioned, so I’m not sure whether he’s going to want to go or if he’d rather spend time alone. There’s a lot up in the air about us, and it was good that he acknowledged we need to talk about what happened. But shouldn’t it be easy to talk about?

“Gah! Stop obsessing, Nikki!” I scold myself. I switch out my sweatshirt for my usual black hoodie then slip back into my lucky Alex jersey. I managed to rinse out the smudges from his eye black. I’m smirking to myself when a light knock at my door pushes it the rest of the way open. For a second, my heart leaps at the thought that it’s Alex somehow. Minutes before his game. Rushed over here to kiss me and say he loves me.

“Hey, Nik. Seats for three today?” Omar says.

I shake off my crazy thoughts and try to hide my embarrassed laugh, turning to the side and focusing on the buttons of Alex’s jersey.

“Three, huh? Does this mean I finally get to meet your hottie lacrosse boy—” My mouth hangs open in a giant O as the moment my head snaps up, Omar’s, well, we don’t know what to call him yet, is standing in the middle of my room with his hand out for a shake.

“Oh, my God.” I squeeze my eyes shut and slowly cover my face with my palm.

“Is that what he calls me?” Brian whispers, a hint of humor in his tone.

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