Page 60 of The Fake Out

And people might have a lot to say about me doing it. My mind heard screams of nepotism because Chris was my brother. Or lack of experience or talent. Or just lack of the right look to be part of professional sports. Because I wasn’t athletic and definitely didn’t look like I was.

“Look at my girl, getting attention everywhere she goes,” Pop boasted proudly to Mr. Jacobs.

That was exactly why I didn’t want to say too much.

Dad’s eyes were still alight, like he was ready to launch into a game of twenty questions about the logo, but I was saved from having to answer a single one when Avery came squealing out the door.

“Oh man, Chris is so mad,” she said, grinning at her phone. “Hannah is making him do a team dance!” She bounced on her toes. “He hates Hannah, but I love her. She’s so fun.”

“What are they doing?” Pop asked.

“Is it about Dumpty? Because he’s listed as possible,” Mr. Jacobs said.

“Mason’s playing. I’d bet my car on it,” Wren stated, smirking.

“Your expensive shoes aren’t conducive to walking, child of mine, so I’d be careful about reckless bets,” her father warned.

Our conversation was cut short when the opening bars of “Centerfield” blasted, and Emerson and three mascots trotted out onto the field, clapping their hands over their heads.

Warmth spread through me at the sight of him, and the sensation only deepened at the happiness in his expression.

I knew the song. Who didn’t, really? But after what Emerson had told me about his high school experience, it took on a whole new meaning. Begging the coach, dreaming of playing center field—it all pulled at me.

Below us, the Revs mascots danced around. One trotted around on its fake horse. Another beat on its drum, and the third was doing the Floss. One by one, they tried to drag Emerson into their antics, but instead, he swung an invisible bat and tilted his head back like he was watching his ball fly through the air. Then he took off, running the bases.

Dressed for the game in his pin-striped jersey with a big number 21 on his back, he worked the crowd as he rounded home plate, getting them up on their feet, clapping and dancing with him. Fans loved him. It was crazy to think that he didn’t see it. He literally had the attention of the entire stadium, me included. Although he had mine a lot lately.

As that thought crossed my mind, he turned and looked up my way. I swore that as his smile grew, my heart skipped.

Last night had been intense. And the way he’d held me through the night made it hard not to think that he might have also been thinking that once wasn’t enough. So what if I asked for more? A slightly longer-term fling? Could I?

“Put me in coach!” Wren called when a glaring Coach Wilson came up on the Jumbotron, standing next to Price and Martinez.

Emerson ran back to the dugout just as the chorus started, clasping his hands in front of him and begging Coach Wilson—who looked anything but amused by the situation—to let him play center field.

Coach Wilson waved the catcher and shortstop onto the field, and both Price and Martinez trotted over to a row of bins near the stands, Sharpies in their hands. There, they got busy signing balls and T-shirts, then they handed them off so the mascots could fire them into the stands.

Emerson was still dancing on the other side of the field, wholeheartedly fulfilling his role and engaging as many people as he could. He worked his way back along the first base line, and then home plate, putting him right back in front of Coach Wilson as the chorus hit. Dropping to his knees, he launched back into pleading to play center field. The whole thing made me laugh.

Instead of giving in, Coach waved two more players onto the field. Kyle Bosco and Jasper Quinn stepped up and headed over to sign the shit the mascots were shooting up into the stand.

“Is Chris doing this?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine him goofing off like the rest of the guys.

Avery shrugged while she clapped and bounced to the beat. “I think he has to. It’s team building.”

Just about every person in attendance was dancing now. Emerson had that effect on people. Even I was smiling and clapping.

The coach waved a few more players onto the field until only the pitcher and center fielder were missing from the roster.

Chris was pitching today. But until Emerson danced down the steps and clasped my brother’s wrist, I doubted he’d join this game. Chris waved to fans half-heartly, clapped, and, fighting a glare, strode over and got to work signing balls, all while keeping his head down.

Just before the last chorus began, Emerson centered himself in front of the dugout, and as the words “Centerfield” echoed around the ballpark, the entire starting lineup pointed to the dugout, and Mason Dumpty ran up the steps.

The fans had been enjoying the song, but the noise level was insane when the center fielder who had been listed as IL came trotting up the steps. Everyone was on their feet. They hadn’t seen him in a week, and by their reaction, it was clear Boston loved the guy.

He ran straight to Emerson and bro hugged him before they trotted to the bin of balls. There, Mason started signing, and Emerson began tossing them into the stands.

What a way to introduce him.

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