Page 55 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
His eyes light up in a way I’ve never seen before, sending a shiver through me. “You are amazing,” he whispers, and then he presses his lips to my cheek.
We both freeze, neither of us breathing as we stand there. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but my thoughts are a convoluted mixture of warning bells and fireworks. My cheek is on fire, and I am all too aware of the way he puts his hand on my arm just above my elbow, like he’s holding me steady.
“Uh.” He seems to be working several different things across his tongue as he stares at me. “Sorry. That was…”
“Weird,” I finish for him. Which it was. But that doesn’t mean I hated it. Nope.
A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. “Sure.”
“I’m…” I look around for something to say that might make my pounding heart calm down. “I’m going to go sit back down. Let me know if you need any help?”
His lips twitch in the briefest of smiles. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t ask for help.
Houston’s team wins the game, which doesn’t surprise me. According to Jordan, this means they’ve won the World Series for the second time since my brother signed on with the team several years ago, which is incredibly impressive.
Houston wins more often than he loses—he hates losing more than anything—but as the TV turns to post-game interviews and commentary, Jordan relaxes, as if he’s just glad the game is over. I’m more convinced than ever that he knows something I don’t about my brother, though I have no idea what that might be.
I had way more fun than I thought I would watching this game. Jordan explained all the rules as things were happening, so they made sense for the first time in my life, and we did a lot of cheering and high-fiving, each contact sending an electric shock through me. I can almost imagine us doing this for all of Houston’s games, and the idea definitely doesn’t suck.
Not long after the game ends, an interview starts up with the most gorgeous sports reporter I’ve ever seen. She’s thin and curvy, with electric blue eyes and dark brown waves, and I’m instantly jealous of the way she rocks her body-hugging dress. I would never be brave enough to wear something like that.
“I’m Tamlin Park with Enhance Media,” she says brightly, “and I’m about to have the immense pleasure of being joined by none other than Houston Briggs.”
“This should be interesting,” Jordan mutters, though I don’t get a chance to ask why because Tamlin keeps talking.
“After a whirlwind week of nail-biting competitions, the Sun City Red-tails have come out victorious against the Oklahoma Burrs. Tonight’s Game Six win will no doubt be credited to the remarkable stamina of the Red-tails’ favorite starting pitcher, the only man in the sport this year known for consistently pitching entire games without relying on subs to finish out what he’s started. While some may question Red-tails manager Hiroshi Fujimura’s choice to not send in relief pitchers for Briggs, who clearly has a bit of a control issue by refusing to leave the mound, no one can deny the southpaw pitcher has a knack for carrying his team to victory.”
“I can’t decide if I love her or hate her,” I mutter.
Jordan chuckles and turns up the volume. “Tamlin has a talent for ambiguity,” he agrees.
“And here is the man of the hour,” Tamlin says as Houston steps up to her. “So, Houston, what’s your take on how well the Red-tails played tonight?”
I may not read people well, but I know my brother. And I know he would rather be anywhere but standing there talking to this reporter. He looks like he’s either going to throw up or start planning her murder. Maybe both. He’s still in his uniform, blond hair curling beneath his hat. (It never ceases to anger me that my brother’s hair will curl while mine won’t.) Though he stands relaxed, one hand is in a fist at his side, which means he’s wildly uncomfortable right now.
“We won,” he growls. I know for a fact he’s gone through a million trainings on how to interact with people from the media, being team captain, but he’s clearly not remembering any of that as he glares at the woman next to him.
Tamlin doesn’t seem to mind, all smiles. “Barely,” she replies in her husky voice. “Some might say you were looking pretty tired in the eighth inning.”
“Are you forgetting that strikeout I threw?”
“Right before Dalton hit that home run and pulled the Burrs into the lead? That strikeout?”
Houston is definitely going to throw up.
“Okay, I’m leaning toward hate,” I say right as Houston starts talking again.
“Luckily for me, I’ve got a good team behind me, and we regained the lead pretty—”
“So you admit the rest of the team had to make up for your subpar performance?”
I hiss, practically feeling the way Houston tenses up as he says, “That isn’t what I—”
“What do you say to all the people who think you’re losing your touch in your old age?”
This time Jordan hisses, though he’s got a weird little smile on his face. It’s like he knows this interview isn’t going well for my brother, but he’s almost glad about it? Though I can’t imagine why. “Don’t say it, Hou,” he mumbles.
