Page 44 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
Time to change the subject again. “Houston’s pitching again tonight, isn’t he?”
“Tomorrow.” Jordan watches me for a moment, then sighs. “The Red-tails only have three in their starting rotation, which is pretty small, but they like to play him as often as they can.”
“Is he really that good?” And am I really such a bad sister that I didn’t already know this? That feels like the kind of thing I should know, but every time Houston tries to explain sports to me, my mind wanders. I know he’s good enough to be in the pro league and make millions of dollars, but beyond that? I don’t know where he compares with other pitchers because he has always just claimed to be the best.
Laughing, Jordan hops to his feet and pulls me up with him. “He really is. I kind of hate how good he is, but it’s not like he hasn’t put in the work.”
That’s true. From the day he discovered baseball, Houston has dedicated his life to the sport. It would be inspiring if I understood any of it
“What about his contract?” I ask. “He has a year left, right? Can he keep playing in Sun City after that’s up?”
I definitely don’t expect the frown that appears on Jordan’s face when I ask that question. He tries to hide it by looking around the yard, but he isn’t fast enough. “He’ll be a free agent, so he can choose whatever team he wants.”
“But?”
Jordan glances at me. “But he’s getting up there in years.”
“He’s only twenty-eight. And are you calling me old? BecauseI’mtwenty-eight.”
“You’re older than me, which makes you ancient.”
“By three months.”
He cocks his head, laughter in his smile as he gazes at me. “You remember that?”
Apparently I do, though I have no idea how I know when Jordan’s birthday is. It’s not like I ever celebrated with him and Houston. Jordan was usually around for my birthday, but never the other way around. “Don’t read too much into it,” I mumble right as I realize Jordan hasn’t let go of my hand since helping me up.
He follows my eyes down to our fingers laced together and seems to contemplate the meaning of life while he stares at them. His thumb rubs over mine, making my breath catch, and he leans closer as if that might make this any less weird.
“Fun fact about Jordan,” he murmurs. “My whole job used to be reading between the lines. I’m really good at it.”
I’m not sure it’s actually October because with the way I’m sweating, it feels like the middle of July. “What does that mean?” I ask, apparently feeling brave.
His lips quirk up. “That’s a good question. I…” He sighs. “I should really finish the job before your landlord thinks I’m slacking and complains to Houston. Need to keep up good relations with my clients, few as they are.”
I reluctantly let go of his hand, feeling as if letting go of him is going to get harder and harder each time he touches me. That can’t be good for my emotional health. “Can I make you breakfast?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”
“As a thank you for taking care of me this weekend. And an apology for sending a picture to my friend without your permission.”
“You sent it to someone else?”
I cringe. “Maybe.”
“Did they agree with your assessment?”
Smacking him, I bend down and pick up my phone from where I left it by my feet. “She might have, yes. But don’t let it get to your head.”
“Were you listening to nothing I said earlier? I’ll be fine, Queens. And you’re not making breakfast.”
“Why?” Does he really have such little faith in my cooking abilities?
He laughs. “Because I want to make you French toast. This could be my last chance to make you breakfast.”
Oh, I really don’t like that. Does he think I won’t let him hang around after this Houston-mandated weekend? Maybe he doesn’twantto hang around. “We can be friends, right?”
I ask that right as he turns to head back to the lawn mower, but he freezes when he hears my question. Looking over his shoulder, he eyes me from head to toe. “Is that what you want?”
