Page 144 of How to Win the Girl

She kisses it—kisses me as if I’m going to change my mind about—

“Hey! You shot me!” she shouts, blowing our cover.

“You’re being so dramatic.” I give her another kiss on the forehead before jumping out of the box ahead of her, dashing off in a different direction than she came. “Go respawn, loser.”

“I freaking hate this game!”

forty

daisy

Date Three

“Remindme again howyougot to choose this date when you chose the last one, too?”

Drake kicks at the bat he’s holding in his left hand, dragging it to the cage. “’Cause you couldn’t decide and then you told me to ‘just pick somethin’ already, I don’t care.’” He makes his voice sound high-pitched.

Is he doing an impression of me?

“I didnotsound like that.” I pause, staring down at the rack of ugly, plastic batting helmets. “Is it really necessary for me to wear that thing? It’s ugly.”

And I did my hair.

“Yes, it’s necessary. If one of those balls hits your head, you’ll end up seriously injured.”

Yes, yes, Dad, I know.

“Balls flying at my face…” I joke.

“I didn’t say balls flyin’ at your face, you perv. I said flyin’ at your head.”

I notice he is all business when it comes to sports.

Admirable? Yes.

Kind of annoying? Also yes.

“It’s the same thing,” I argue. “If I have to wear protective headgear when we hang out, I might have to rethink this.”

I’m only teasing, but I loathe having to wear the helmet.

“It’s for your own safety,” he says. “Now grab a bat and get your sweet buns over here.”

Ugh. “Fine.”

Melodramatically, I make a show of choosing a baseball bat from the rack; drag it across the pavement toward the plate on the ground that designates where we should stand for the pitching machine…so we don’t get hit by a flying ball.

Drake is busy knocking the bat against his sneakers—as if he were standing at home plate on a professional baseball field. As if he were knocking dirt off a pair of cleats. I don’t know anything about baseball, but I’ve seen guys do this in high school gym class.

Everyone thinks they’re a pro.

“You actually thought this would be a good idea?” I squint at him.

“Yes. I get to stare at your ass.”

And I yours.

It’s a nice one, and he’s wearing athletic pants—the mesh kind that give him a wedgie when he sits down and stands up, leaving nothing to the imagination, including an outline of his dick on his frontside.

---