Page 46 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“Yeah, yeah. I got your back,” Cole says, taking my seat and dropping his own backpack at his feet. He glances up at me with the smile of a six-year-old.

“What?” I ask, checking the office door one more time. It’s open but the coach inside is still sitting with his feet up and his back to the room.

“Are you going to scoot my chair in like a gentleman?” His lips quirk into this tight fucking smug expression as he barely contains his laugh.

“You’re an ass, Cole. Get to work,” I say, leaving him to snicker quietly like Cookie Monster behind me.

I slip back out the door without a sound and, luckily, don’t run into anyone else from the team on my way out. I go the long way just to be safe, circling the media center and walking along the street to avoid the sports offices on my way to the campus café. Cole’s soup idea was a good one, so I stop and pick up chicken tortilla along with a bag of Fritos and peanut butter M&Ms, Nikki’s favorite. Five minutes later, I’m at her door. I sent her a quick text in case she really is sleeping. I don’t want to scare her.

ME: Knock knock

I hold my breath while the message delivers, and I’m relieved when the reply dots pop up.

NIKKI: Who’s there?

She adds the eyerolling emoji and I chuckle loud enough from outside her door she has to hear me. I respond just in case.

ME: Alex

Her door opens about a second later and her eyes widen with surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Her gaze drops to the soup in my palm, which my phone is balancing on precariously.

“Could you?” I nod toward the dangerous Jenga combo in my hand.

“Oh, yes,” she says, grabbing my phone in one hand and the soup in the other.

I step inside and she closes her door behind me. She’s still wearing what I assume she went to class in this morning, minus her sneakers. Whatever’s going on must not be a head cold or a stomach bug because when Nikki gets those she wears the wallowing look well.

“Before you freak out, I’m covered. I logged in and it’s the track coaches’ day.” She nods, knowing the inner workings of the Tiff sports staff fairly well, having been at my side for three years.

“Still, you didn’t have to?—”

I press my finger to her lips to halt her and lower my gaze.

“I wanted to come. Now, get in bed and let me take care of you,” I command.

Her lips pucker into a bashful smile and she ekes out a soft, “Okay.”

I fluff her blanket and build a backrest of pillows, then coax her to sit while I help remove the lid from the soup I brought.

“You have Fritos?” she asks when she notes the soup flavor. It’s a tradition she and I have, and it drives our moms nuts. We add Fritos on top of everything, which they say is basically like putting ketchup on a gourmet steak. I’m pretty sure the café soup is far from gourmet. I think it’s closer to mass canned.

I pull the bag of chips from my backpack and tear the top open with my teeth while she claps. I sprinkle a few onto the soup then climb into her bed to sit next to her with the rest of the bag.

“I don’t think it’s hot,” I say, watching her blow on her first spoonful.

“You’re right. It’s never hot,” she says, laughing. She takes her first bite, the Frito crunch bringing a bigger smile to her face.

“Best medicine ever?” I offer.

She nods.

I reach over and feel her head, checking for a fever, but she shakes her head and pushes my hand away.

“I’m not sick like that,” she says.

I flush with instant sweat and feel the blood drain from my face as my mouth hangs open. Nikki takes another bite and turns her gaze to me, forehead crinkling when she sees my face, pausing with the spoon in her mouth. She studies me for a second, then her eyes flash wide.

---