Page 12 of Pitcher

“Who eats fish tacos anyway?” I scrunch up my nose. “You should have ordered the beef ones like we always do. Then I wouldn’t have had to open the windows and ask Ms. Carmine down the hall if I could use her shower.”

Okay, so I feel a little bad about it. But really, it could have been a virus this time too.

“I wanted something different! Brody said they were good.”

I flash him my you-should-have-known-better look and turn off my iPad, setting it down on the sofa where he’ll probably knock it off later by flopping down like an injured seal.

“Well, now you know. Variety isn’t always the best thing for you.”

Hint, hint. Keep a girl a little longer than a few hours, Von Bremen.

“I know thatnow, no thanks to you.”

I ignore that cute little hate glare he has going on and, instead, offer him something I know will make him feel better.

“How ’bout I make your game-day cookies a little earlier so you can have two?”

Those navy eyes brighten with one word. Two. The boyalwayswants two cookies. What he gets: one cookie. Refined sugar is Theo’s demon. And if he wasn’t going to go run this off in a few hours, then I wouldn’t give it to him. Theo after sugar is like driving on the autobahn. It’s all fun and games until someone slows down.

“Okay, go shower and I’ll make your cookies.”

With a wary glance, Theo chugs the rest of his water and tosses the bottle in our recycling bin. “Promise?”

Have mercy.

“Yes, I promise, you can have two. Hurry so we can stretch your shoulder before you leave.”

The man who kills bugs for me pops a ridiculous grin on his face. “Deal.”

We’re late.

It’s all Theo’s fault.

“I can’t believe you had to stop by three stores to find your passion fruit bubble gum for game day,” he teases sarcastically, shoving two pieces in his mouth.

My eyes roll at his blatant lie. We all know who needed the gum. You don’t come between a player and his game-day ritual. These guys have a strict superstition that must be followed. If he requires passion fruit bubble gum, then passion fruit gum he will get. Even if it does put us at the field ten minutes before first pitch.

“Go, weirdo, before Coach benches you. I’ll lock up.”

Gah, the grin he gives me is downright kissable.

“That’s my girl.”

He turns his cheek to the side, and if we had more time, I would aggravate him and ask if he needs anything else, but since we don’t, I give in to another ritual and plant a good-luck kiss to his dimpled cheek.

“Go get ’em, Teddy.”

“Ugh. Don’t call me Teddy.”

I’ll call him anything I want. After all the years we’ve been friends, I have earned the right to call him Teddy.

“Fine. Go get ’em, T-Dog.”

His face is one of horror.

“I take it back. Teddy is fine.”

See? I knew he would come around.

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