Page 49 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

I nod.

“It’s happened a few times,” I admit.

More hands over faces, and now we’ve added giggling.

I stop when I spot Alicia, this time here alone, without her posse. Why is she here? My chest tightens, but Omar is quick to shake me—literally, though gently. “Do not go there, Nikki. You had sex a few times,” he repeats my words back to me.

I shoot him a grin.

“I did, didn’t I?”

Feeling more confident and a little like bragging, I decide to step over the seats this time rather than endure passing by my least favorite person at Tiff. I give her a wave that she sneers at, then slump down in my seat. Omar strategically positions himself between her and me—along with the dozen or so other seats I’ve built into the barrier.

“Oh, she’s going to hate you,” he says.

“Good, it’s mutual.”

“So, spill it. Does this mean you two are a thing? Did you drop the big L? What did he say? I want play-by-play, though not sure I need to know about your skivvies and junk,” he says, sprinkling his fingertips in the air over my crotch.

“Omar!” My mouth widens as I chastise him.

He shrugs, and I do my best to cool my body temperature. I must be glowing red.

“We haven’t really talked about, I don’t know, terms?” I’m not sure what words to use here, but that one feels too legal.

“Okay, so you aren’t defining things just yet. That’s okay.”

I sigh.

“Is it?” I look out on the field, catching Alex’s gaze. He tips his hat and my chest warms as I lift my palm.

“Nik, you’ve been imagining for years how all this would go down. It doesn’t have to fall into place all at once. But”—he stops and literally takes my hand in his, closing it between both of his. It’s strange for him to be serious like this. I meet his eyes—“You have to make sure you tell him how you truly feel. Not just the lust part, but the love part.”

My shoulders hike up.

“I don’t want to overwhelm him. I’m so happy that we’re here, and that we clearly both have feelings. Love is a big leap.”

And just to prove why he’s my friend, he echoes my words right back in my face.

“Is it?”

* * *

It’s a miracle I’m able to follow the game. My mind is spring boarding between my own problems, the advice from Omar, and the new problem playing out on the field—Alex isn’t at shortstop. Coach moved him to the outfield today, giving Edwin a start at short.

“Is he really going to be that upset?” Omar asks.

“Yes,” both Brian and I say at the same time. We make eyes, and I’m glad Omar is dating an athlete because he gets it. I’m sure there are similar pressures in lacrosse.

Alex managed a base hit for his first at bat. Nothing memorable but a solid slap down the line. His speed stands out, like it always does. And he’s made some good plays in the outfield. But as he goes through the motions outside the dugout, taking practice hacks off to the side, I see the forces starting to crush him. And all it does is make me wonder if he’s noticed the man sitting by himself far along the third base side.

Alex Sr. showed up alone about twenty minutes ago. He’s wearing his Tiff jacket, which is unique enough that it draws eyes. If he’s in view of the dugout, there’s no way Alex hasn’t noticed him.

I lean forward in my seat, scanning between Senior and Junior. Alex is first up for the inning. He digs his back foot in and hovers his bat over the plate. It’s a different look for him, different from his last at bat, which was also different from his norm. He’s trying things, which is common for guys going through slumps. But nothing is landing. It’s getting him through, but everything looks so uncomfortable.

Whatever his thought process was for this new approach, it was wrong, because he swings at the first pitch and sends the ball straight up for an easy out with the catcher. I hold my breath and suck in my bottom lip, willing Alex to keep his cool as he walks back into the dugout. I flinch at the sound of metal clanking against wood, and I can’t help but glance back at his father after Alex threw his bat into the rack. Senior never tolerated that type of outburst on his field—in his son. “Emotions are good,” he would say. “But tantrums? Those are for babies.”

I watch as his father rubs his hands over his face and shifts in his chair.

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