Page 32 of Bad Call

“Hey,” he croaked, which sent him into a coughing fit.

“You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible. I’m not gonna be able to make it. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave my ticket away to someone else.”

I didn’t care who I was stuck sitting next to today, aslong as I got to see my team play. “I don’t mind at all. I just hate that you’re going to miss out.”

“Don’t rub it in,” he groaned, scrubbing his face. Marcus handed me his ticket.

“Who did you give your?—”

I jumped when someone behind me shouted, “P.A.D.R.E.S.” I’d know that voice anywhere. No one had a louder mouth than…

My eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, no, no.”

Marcus reached into the pocket of his sleep pants and pulled out another ticket, handing it to the man behind me. “Catch me a game ball.”

“Shit, if I catch a game ball, I’m keeping it.” He smacked me on the back way too hard for a friendly greeting. “What are you doing here, Coach?”

“No. No, no, no.” I kept repeating it like a mantra, hoping it would make him disappear.

“I gave him my ticket,” Marcus explained. “Have fun. I’ve got to go lay down.” And then he shut the door in our faces, and I was left standing there, staring at my seatmate.

Slowly, I turned to face my nemesis. Baylor grinned like his day hadn’t just been ruined as badly as mine had.

“You want to take my car or yours?”

The unfortunate eventuality set in, along with a pounding headache. “Mine, I guess.”

Baylor pulled his cooler from his back seat and wrestled it into mine, bumping my door panel and scratchingit all to hell. I could feel my blood pressure rising and reminded myself to take deep, calming breaths.

When he tried to stuff himself into the front seat, smacking me in the face with his giant foam finger, I lost my shit.

“Would you fucking quit!”

He tossed it in the back and when he turned around, he almost took my damn eye out with his Padres pennant. “Lighten up, Collins. We’re having fun.”

“We are? When does the fun start?”

Baylor gave me a look. “I brought an extra one if you want it.”

I huffed. “I wouldn’t wave a Padres pennant if I were stranded on an island and it was the only way to signal for help.” I took in the full assault of his appearance. Two red slashes of face paint cut under his eyes. His cap and jersey were Padres, and he wore white baseball pants to match, as if he were on the actual team. And who could forget the foam finger and pennant paraphernalia? I snorted, choking on my resentment. “You look fucking ridiculous.”

He glared back. “Look who’s talking,” he laughed bitterly.

“What’s wrong with my outfit?” He was pushing his luck. If he didn’t watch it, he’d be walking to Seattle.

“That jersey is a waste of money. The hat is a fucking crime.”

“My hat?” I wore the vintage white cap with the Mariners name and logo and had added a tridentkeychain to dangle off the side of the bill. “This hat is fucking awesome!”

Baylor huffed, shaking his head. “If they zoom in on us with the camera, duck.”

A genuine laugh escaped before I could bite it back. Sometimes, he could be funny. “What’s in the cooler?”

“Beer,” he joked.

“You can’t bring beer into the stadium, jackass.”

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