Page 67 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“Okay,” she says.

“Yes,” she utters, standing and holding the clipboard flat against her legs, kicking it with her thighs as she marches forward like a stubborn, nervous grade-schooler.

“Hi, Nikki. I’m Jasmine,” the technician says, and Nikki flashes me a quick smile to see if I caught that her name is the same as Nikki’s middle.

I give her a thumbs up.

All good signs.

When she disappears behind the door, I lean forward and look through the game film I had our hitting coach send me from our last series. I’m improving, and my average is finally starting to look like me again. But something still feels off, so I want to study my swings.

I play the clips a few times, slowing them down and zooming in to check my rotation, my hips and shoulders all seemingly lined up right. I memorized Nikki’s routine for this scan based on the paperwork so I keep checking the time to imagine the steps she’s at. The actual scan itself is quick, but the contrast solution administration takes some time. Nikki doesn’t love needles, so I imagine the IV process was somewhat challenging for all.

She should be well into that, though. I just hope she doesn’t vomit from anxiety or the solution. I read some people do. And Nikki sure does like a good cookie-tossing session. It’s half the reason she stopped drinking a lot at parties our freshman year. Though a part of me likes to think she blames her intoxication for her poor judgment in ever saying yes to Brayden.

I run through my video clips one more time, putting off what my inner voice suggested I do this morning—send them to my dad.

I’m so fucking conflicted over him. I can’t really stand being in the same room with him, but there’s also a part of me that wants to get over that. I think my mom would prefer I don’t hold a lifelong grudge. That’s her way, though. Marie Mendoza is an optimist, the world rose-colored through her eyes, her son perfect, her ex-husband flawed but trying. I aspire to find more of her in my fabric. I hope it’s there. But I’ve come around to the idea that a lot of my father is. And if his flaws are part of me too, at least I’m aware of them. Giving up on making Nikki happy simply isn’t an option.

After another twenty minutes, I relent and type out a message, sending my father the video links and asking for his input. I know he’ll see what I’m missing. He always says that sometimes we look for things to use as a crutch. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. And if that’s the case, he’ll tell me—in all his harsh and direct glory. It’s baseball, not intimacy. Perhaps that’s why my father has always been better at speaking its language.

He responds a few minutes after my text.

SENIOR: Are you coming to Odell anytime soon?

I sigh and read his words a few times, knowing what he means. He’s found something. And he’d like to help me fix it. A part of me would like that too.

ME: Did not plan on it.

His response comes fast.

SENIOR: I’ll drive up Friday.

I swallow but also realize that he has my schedule memorized. He knows that Friday is an off-day for us. We have a doubleheader Saturday and a game Sunday instead. If Friday goes well, maybe I’ll invite him to stay for the games. Or maybe I won’t, and he’ll just invite his damn self like he did last time.

I chuckle quietly.

ME: K

No I love you or friendly banter. It’s all business for now. Maybe in a few months we can add in some chatter about playoffs and other teams. And if the draft goes well, maybe . . . maybe . . . I’ll ask him to be a part of the signing.

He’s already one up on me for son-to-father favors as it is. Fucker drove behind the field after my grand slam and nabbed the ball. Sent me a pic of it later that night. Said he’s keeping it on his desk at work.

I’m not sure I would have given it to him if I had the option, but part of me is also glad he has it. It feels nice to know he’s proud. One more thing my mom was right about.

“Sir?”

I pop my head up and shove my phone into my back pocket to meet the eyes of the assistant who led Nikki back for her scan. My pulse picks up with worry.

“Yes.” I scramble to my feet.

She smiles softly, probably amused at how my panic matches the patient’s, but it puts me at ease.

“She’s getting dressed. She was a little anxious, and she’s afraid she might faint, so she asked if you could come back and help her out to the car.”

“Of course.” I follow her back to the dressing room area. I wait with her outside the door while my eyes focus on the shadows moving around the space at the bottom of the doorway. Nikki’s hopping, trying to push her foot into her shoe, so I knock softly.

“Hey, Nik? You need a hand?”

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