Page 72 of The Fake Out

My accent, although barely noticeable now, had been thick back then. I didn’t understand half of the slang terms the other kids used, and I ended up in mostly ESL classes. Taunted for being slow to read. Teased for sounding funny. Fourteen-year-olds were just mean.

Baseball had been my saving grace. And by my senior year, I was almost comfortable. And then, once again, my life flipped.

I’d never regret moving to Triple-A and helping my mom, but starting over again that time was even harder than in high school.

I cracked the knuckles on my other hand. “No problems with Gi. She’s easy.”

Chris scoffed and roughed a hand down his face. “She’s not. But is there something going on between you two?” His lips dropped to a straight line.

Any lie was acid on my tongue, and I was terrible at it. “Between us? Like are we together?” Giving up the idea was so hard. But I had to. “Nah. I mean, she’s great.” Nerves made my words spew out too fast. “Totally cool chick. But she’s headed back to New York. She doesn’t need anything derailing her plans.” Least of all me. I could enjoy what little time we had together, but that was it. “Not that I have any intention of derailing anything.” I’d hold on to the moments, because they would be fleeting. “I just want to support her in stuff.” Too fast. I was talking too fast. Like I did when I let anger get the best of me. “Unless it’s her boss. That man needs to be hit by a bus.” I clenched my teeth to make myself shut up.

Chris snorted. “Hell yeah, he does.” Quickly, his expression went serious again. “So what’s the deal? You’re not yourself.”

Was I not? Maybe I wasn’t putting enough effort into my forced cheerfulness.

“You don’t go out anymore.”

That was an odd statement coming from him, though I kept that to myself. “I just agreed to go to the bar tonight.”

He frowned, clearly not ready to let this go. “You’re currently fully dressed, which is never a thing.”

Because I knew I’d have to leave the damn room to call his sister, and I couldn’t walk around the hall in boxers.

“I don’t even know when the last time you flung yourself at me was.”

My eyes widened at that. He was right. “Aw, you miss it.” With a painted-on smirk, I jumped up. “Bring it in, man.” I leaped over the space and smothered him. He jerked back, pushing his chair onto its back legs.

“Oh, shit.” Bosco barked a laugh.

I was attacking him the way I had for years when the chair tilted to one side. It hovered there for one breath, and then we toppled over.

I slammed down, banging my shoulder into the wall of his chest as we crashed in a heap.

“Jesus,” he snapped, shoving me off him.

I rolled around on the Roaster’s red carpet, laughing.

He tried to glare, but even my grumpy best friend struggled to fight a smile. “How do you always make this shit happen?”

I lay flat on my back, then pushed myself up on my elbows. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Seems like the same old Bambi to me.” With a chuckle, Mason reached down and pulled me off the floor.

Coach Wilson stood at the door to the coach’s room, shaking his head. “Dumbasses,” he muttered before turning and leaving.

Martinez pulled Chris to his feet. “Did you offer him your hand in marriage or something?”

Chris snorted. “No, I told him he was being weird, and his response was to fucking tackle me.”

“What can I say? I love being noticed,” I joked.

Discreetly, I breathed out a sigh of relief. My antics had successfully ended the conversation about my weirdness. Because this goofball of a guy was who they expected me to be.

Wren: Both Hank and Tim approved all three paintings.

Me: Wow, in two days? You said it would take at least a week.

Wren: They loved them. It took no convincing at all.

---