Page 19 of Strike Zone

Her question makes me wonder what type of guy Charlie typically goes for. A clean cut, polo-wearing guy? She won’t find that here. I wasn’t raised in a barn, but I slept in one more nights than I can count.

“Is that rule number three hundred and forty-seven? Or four hundred and ninety-one? I’ve lost track.” I scowl back at her. Wren’s eyes stare back like laser beams cutting straight to the core of me.

“Whew, your foreplay is intense,” Charlie says, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of us. She picks at her salad and pops a tomato in her mouth.

“Foreplay? Really, Charlie? This,” Wren waves a hand between us, “is not foreplay. It’s Wyatt being…” her voice trails off as she tries to come up with the right word. Glancing up at me she must see my distress. I’m begging her not to say what she really thinks of me. I know it isn’t good. “Wyatt.”

“If you say so,” Charlie singsongs. I don’t like what she is insinuating.

“I do,” we say at the same time. Charlie smirks knowingly. We are doing a shitty job at proving her wrong.

Wren kicks my shin under the table so hard I almost choke on a French fry. What the hell?

Say something, she mouths with raised eyebrows and wide eyes.

Like what, I ask back. Wren grunts in frustration.

I’m grateful Charlie is looking at her phone and not paying attention to us at the moment.

Wren’s shoulders drop in resignation. My knee starts bouncing wildly waiting for Wren to start up a conversation.

“Charlie, did you know that Wyatt already has thirty-two strikeouts this year?”

Charlie puts her phone down and looks at Wren. Then at me. “I didn’t. Is that a lot?”

“It’s…decent.” I stumble over my response. I don’t want to come across as conceited, but it’s a good number.

“Don’t be so humble, Wyatt.” Wren grins. It’s more like a creepy grimace. “The other starter only has fifteen. Wyatt is number two in the division.” Wren takes a dainty bite of her sandwich.

“That’s incredible, Wyatt.” Charlie beams at me. “Tell me more about your stats.”

I take a sip of my drink to give myself time to think of something impressive. Nothing really comes to mind. I don’t obsess over stats and rankings like some players do. I play baseball. As long as I’m pitching well and winning games, I don’t care. Obsessing over numbers and rankings takes time away from practicing and honing my skills.

“He has the best earned run average and one of the highest batting averages for a pitcher,” Wren speaks for me. I’m shocked she even knows this information.

Why does she know? Did she study and prepare? I laugh to myself. Of course she did. Wren doesn’t do anything in half measures. I bet she has all my stats written down on one of her cute little notepads.

“What can I say? I’m good with my bat.” I wink at Charlie.

“Is that so?” Charlie asks, leaning towards me. I lean in too, bringing our faces closer together.

“Statistically, yes,” Wren interjects. “Some sources have reported you could be better,” she says, without missing a beat. What is she doing? She’s supposed to be helping me.

I flash Wren with the best ‘what in the actual fuck’ look I can. She peers back at me innocently with her big doe eyes, but she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Maybe I need to see for myself. We should go to a game,” Charlie says to Wren.

“It’s outside,” Wren says.

“You won’t melt,” Charlie counters.

“I don’t know. Isn’t that how the wicked witch finally gets taken out? I’m melting. I’m melting,” I add, mimicking the line from the movie and sliding down in the booth for emphasis.

Wren kicks me again under the table. A low growl rumbles in my throat. She needs to quit that shit.

“You know what. I think it sounds like…oh what’s the word I’m looking for? Fun,” she says, glaring at me.

“Great,” I grind out. “I’ll get you tickets near Lauren and Sydney’s seats.”

---