Page 39 of Triple Play

“Is that what you’re taking?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

I give a low whistle.

“Well, it’s not impressive if I don’t pass.” Her face twists. “I remember being good at this.”

It must be from one of the parts of her life she doesn’t talk about, which is most of them. Parts I want to know more about, to help her move past if that’s what she wants.

“I took calculus in college,” Felix says. “I probably remember some stuff.”

That puts a wrinkle between Shira’s eyebrows. “Huh, I didn’t know that.”

Why would you? Maybe that’s her way of getting him to talk about it. What struck me about her the first time we met: how I felt like I could tell her almost anything. Almost.

“Where’d you go to school?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Most guys who play go to junior college for a year or two. Maybe he’s sensitive that he went somewhere like that, though my back stiffens at the idea of him being ashamed of something Shira obviously worked for.

“Um,” Felix says, “I did a couple years at Dartmouth.”

Shira practically gags. “If you got into Dartmouth, why were you…” She clicks her mouth shut, like she’s afraid of sticking her metaphorical foot in it. Because Felix is a decent first baseman, but I’m a better one. Why spend years in the underpaid minor leagues if you have options? Especially if he’s likely to end up right back there this season.

“Dartmouth,” she says again in slight disbelief. “What’d you study?”

“History.”

“Huh.”

“I don’t seem like I studied history at a lesser Ivy?” Felix says. No, not says, teases.

I should mind him flirting with her. I should mind…but I don’t, not when she lights up with a grin. And I definitely shouldn’t get in on it. “You seem like you were born in work boots.”

Felix laughs. “Did I just get called country by a guy who walks out to Sam Hunt?”

“So you’ve been watching my at-bats?”

“Maybe.” Said in a way where he means yes.

My stomach goes warm—the good weather, the familiar food. The two of them. When we get to Florida, I’m taking Felix’s job, which should piss him off. Standing here, it’s hard to remember that twenty-four hours ago he was glaring holes at me. Now, in this strange space, we could be friends.

“Blake,” I say.

Felix blinks at me like he doesn’t know why I just said my own first name.

“You called me Forsyth earlier. Blake’s fine too.”

“Sure.” Felix smiles slowly, and that warmth in my belly spreads outward. “I could call you that.”

Shira clears her throat—not like she’s annoyed but like she’s amused, though I’m not sure by what. “So, Mr. Dartmouth,” she says, “are you going to teach me what the fuck a derivative is? Because at this point the professor has been talking about them for a week and I’m afraid to ask.”

Felix’s eyes dart toward me as if I’m going to object. Part of me is a little sad I can’t help her myself—that I didn’t get to go to school for real. College was never a serious possibility: scouts started coming to my games in tenth grade, right about the same time my parents started taking “informational meetings” to get around rules prohibiting me from having an agent until I turned eighteen. If Felix can help her, and I can’t, I shouldn’t let my ego stand in her way.

“Y’all have fun with that,” I say, “and let the dumb jock drive the car.”

“You are a very good driver,” Shira says, reassuringly.

“Thanks?”

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