Page 20 of Strike Zone

“Yay!” Charlie squeals. “I know just what to wear too,” she adds, as she collects her trash from her lunch.

I can picture her now wearing my jersey. My name and number on her back cheering for me in the stands. Her long, brown hair up in a high ponytail. After the game, I’ll go back to her place and make a mess of her cherry red lips. Wait, brown hair? Red hair. Charlie has—

Wren's pointed-toe shoe hits me hard in the shin, waking me from my daydream. “What the fuck, Wren? That’s going to bruise.”

“Charlie left while you were daydreaming,” she says, with an air of annoyance. Damn it. “I need to go too. I—”

“Have class. I know. Today went well.”

“Uh-huh,” Wren says, delicately folding her napkin and placing it on her empty plate.

“It was our first date. There are bound to be some hiccups.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Will you stop saying that?” I take her trash from her and clear the rest of the table.

“In what universe do you think this lunch counts as a first date with Charlie? You didn’t ask her to come. You had me do it.” Wren continues to point out all the ways I’m messing this up before I even get started.

I usher her outside, my hand gliding against the smooth silk of her blouse on her back. For once she doesn’t shrink away from my touch.

“It’s close enough. You’re talking semantics. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to Charlie. Therefore it needs to matter to you.” She pokes me in the chest with her finger. I grab her hand and squeeze it briefly before releasing my grip.

“What’s with all the poking and kicking? I’m fragile.” I frown.

“Sure you are. I need to go. But good luck with…everything.” Wren starts walking away toward her next class.

“Why are you acting like I’m not going to see you again?” I tag along behind her.

“Our deal was to get her to lunch. I did that. You failed. Not me.”

“Wait a minute.” I jog ahead and block her path. “You’re going to the game. We need to talk about that.”

“I don’t think so. You get the tickets. We’ll show up. That’s the plan.” She huffs in frustration when she can’t get past me.

“Maybe we need to do something else first. The game won’t give me an opportunity to make my move.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” She attempts to push past me again.

“It might be my problem but you are going to help me solve it. I’ll text you later,” I say, then salute her and walk away. I’m not giving her time for rebuttal. The last word is mine.

She isn’t done with me until I say she is.

WYATT & WREN

WYATT

I was just thinking.

WREN

Don’t do that. You might hurt yourself.

WYATT

You are a terrible wingwoman.

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