Page 17 of Triple Play

Absolutely none. “Just the occasional north Georgia thunderstorm.”

Paquette clears his throat. If his beard didn’t hide so much of his face, I’d be convinced he looks smug. “I know how to drive in the snow.”

Of course he does. Of course he’s using this as some kind of one-upmanship.

“Thanks for the offer, guys,” Shira says, “but Lilac needs a certain kind of touch.” She hops into the driver’s seat before we can argue, then sets about adjusting her mirrors. Her arm extends just so. Her fingers wrap around the mirror, tilting it as she studies her own reflection, thumb against her lip like she’s correcting some barely visible smudge.

I get a little lost looking at her. It’s funny how that works. When you like someone—really like them—you either can’t look directly at them for fear of embarrassment or never want to look away.

Except Paquette’s staring too, the way he did when we met up at the baggage claim.

Don’t look at her like that.

A feeling that’s definitely not jealousy surges within me. Ballplayers come in two flavors: gentleman and dirtbag. I know which of those I am. Paquette can be a dirtbag to people I’m not dating. I trust Shira. She’s a good girl. Good girls don’t want guys looking at them like that.

Meaning I need to put as much space as possible between him and Shira for her sake. “I call shotgun.”

“Sure.” Paquette makes it sound like a challenge.

A blare interrupts us: Shira taps on the horn, laughing. “C’mon, guys, we need to go.” Fog from Lilac’s exhaust is beginning to fill the air.

So I ease open the passenger-side door. Of course the hinges squeak. “Hey, babe,” I say as I slide in.

Shira pauses where she’s fiddling with the radio dial. Her hair falls softly around her face. How is possible anyone looks so beautiful in yellow garage lighting? I like the lean slope of her shoulders, the point of her chin. The slight scatter of freckles across her nose that make her look playful. Everything, really.

Including the way she’s looking at me in question, her mouth slightly parted.

“When we get to Florida,” I say, “we’re getting that door looked at by a mechanic.”

“That’s just how Lilac sounds—she’s got an accent.”

“You mean like you?” I tease.

She rolls her eyes playfully and taps me on my chest. “No, like you. And I’m sure she’s fine. The door has sounded like that for years.”

“Years? Why didn’t you get it fixed?”

Shira bites her lip. I get lost in the press of her teeth against the pinkish curve of her mouth. “Just didn’t have time.” She gives a polite cough like time might mean money. And even if I never went to college—my parents thought it was better for me to get drafted right out of high school—I know students aren’t exactly rich. It doesn’t sit right with me that I make more money than I could ever spend and she’s driving around like this.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to take care of you.”

For some reason, that makes her shift in her seat. Lilac’s springs complain. “You know you don’t have to,” Shira says.

“But I can if I want to, right?” I lean to kiss her…

Just as Paquette drops—heavily—into the backseat, bouncing Lilac’s suspension like he’s doing it on purpose. “Hey, snow’s really coming down.”

“We better get going then.” Shira pulls back, then does something elaborate with the gear shift to put the car in reverse.

There isn’t a backup camera—there’s still a CD player where one would normally be—so she has to turn around fully to see through the rear windshield. Another mark in Lilac’s disfavor, even if it gets me the drape of Shira’s arm around me, right in front of where Paquette is sitting. Just reminding you of who she’s with.

“Felix, could you duck down?” she says. “You’re kinda taking up my whole field of view.”

She calls him by his first name. I test out how it sounds in my mind. Felix. A name with a story behind it like Shira—even if I don’t know the story behind her name, I want to know it, just like I want to know everything about her. Felix is certainly more distinctive than Blake. I roll the name around again. Felix. No, that sounds like what a friend would call him rather than a teammate. I’ll stick with Paquette.

He also hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled across the backseat, being…infuriatingly large. He’s probably pulling his shirt tight across his chest on purpose. Some of the buttons are beginning to strain and small glimpses of his furred chest show through.

Something about my glare makes his lips curve beneath the scruff of his beard. “You good?” he asks, like he wants me to know he caught me looking.

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