Page 5 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“I’ll only be a minute,” he says, leaving the engine running.

“Oh, okay,” I say, quietly clicking my seat belt back in place.

I pause my mix, figuring I’ll start it over when we hit the road for real. Plus, I’m hoping I’ll be able to hear something if I crack the window. Alex’s dad says something to one of his players then walks around the dugout to meet his son. They’re too far for me to eavesdrop, but I do my best to read the body language. There isn’t a handshake. The two men haven’t hugged in years. Their stances are similar, however, both nodding with their arms folded over their chests, eyes peering down at the ground between them.

As promised, Alex is heading back to the car in less than a minute. Whatever their conversation, it was brief.

“Thanks,” Alex says, slipping back into the driver’s seat as if he merely stepped out to wash the windshield. I stare at him as he snaps his belt back in place and shifts into drive. He relents and meets my gaze after a few long seconds.

“It’s fine. We’re . . . fine.” Nothing about his tone sounds fine.

He flexes his hands on the steering wheel. I shift my gaze out my window and chew the inside of my mouth to keep from needling him. The quiet feels thick, though, and I don’t want to simply replace it with my music.

“Good thing he’s not your coach anymore, I guess.” It’s a bit passive aggressive, but it’s also not a direct question, and Alex relents with a sighed laugh.

“I asked him not to come to my games is all. For a while, at least.”

My eyebrows have always betrayed me, and I feel them touch my hairline when Alex looks at me.

“For a while, I said,” he repeats, a little snap to his retort.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” I throw back. He doesn’t have to tell me what’s going on between him and his dad if he doesn’t want to, but he does have to redirect his bad mood. I’m definitely not revealing my years-long crush to him now. Hell, if he keeps this attitude up I may just quash my feelings for good.

Probably not.

I let the silence grow, waiting him out. I know him well enough to realize he hopes I’ll just drop this subject and get lost in sharing my work with him. Normally, I would. But this feels serious. He finally breaks, rolling his head and grabbing the back of his neck as he sighs.

“I haven’t been hitting great in scrimmages. And there’s this freshman?—”

“Edwin,” I fill in, knowing who he means. Because I’ve watched the scrimmages. And he’s right, he hasn’t been hitting great. And Edwin has. But Alex has three years of evidence for what he can do in the batter’s box. He shouldn’t let a few rough weeks of fall ball eat away at him. Which is easy for me to say, I suppose.

“Yeah. Anyway, he’s probably going to get to DH a lot to start, and if I can’t turn it around . . .”

I swivel my head in time to see him swallow hard. He glances my way briefly but returns his focus to the road.

“I don’t know. It’s just got me thinking about distractions is all. And he’s one hell of a distraction.” Our eyes meet for a second and he flashes me a quick, guilty half-smirk.

“I understand.”

His mouth is pulled into a tight line. He’s grinding his teeth. I recognize the ripples along his jawline. I place my hand on his forearm and his gaze shifts to me again. He lets go of the wheel and links our hands, squeezing my palm in his. It’s warm and safe. Like always.

“Thanks,” he says, letting go of his hold and returning his hands to the ever-so-safe ten and two.

I leave the obvious things off to the side, like the fact his dad really is proud of his son. Whatever this strife is, I doubt it has to do with him wanting his father’s approval or attention. If anything, he’s always wanted a little less of it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to suck the air out of the car. You were about to explain why I should like this hot take on your dad’s record collection.” He turns the music up as he cracks a joke, his way of changing subjects.

“Right.” I exhale. “So, first off, this phrase is from a Diana Ross song. And it’s my record, thank you very much.” Alex relaxes into a soft laugh. I continue, my mind splitting into two different paths. There’s my present, here in the car, continuing to talk about my passion with my friend, and then there’s the other me, drifting down the rabbit hole of worries for my friend, and owning that I won’t be admitting my feelings to him anytime soon. Also, I need to stop for cheesecake.

* * *

I’m not sure what clued Omar in first, the fact that he opened the door to my scrunched-up, guilty expression or the box of frozen cheesecake I clutched in my hands. Perhaps it was both pieces of evidence together. Regardless, here we are on the floor of his resident assistant room with a couple of forks, frosty raspberry-topped cheesecake, and box wine that we are drinking right from the spout.

“I hear what you’re saying, Nikki. I wouldn’t have wanted to talk about my crush on that drive home either,” Omar says, sliding his fork into a piece of the cake.

“Good, you understand then. Thank you,” I say, piercing my next bite.

“Ah, but . . .” He cups his mouth to chew and talk at the same time.

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