Out of My League

by Sarah Sutton

  She stepped fully into the room, eyeing my attire. “Nice shorts.”

  They were pink with little green cactuses on them, and little green pom-poms dangling from the hem. They were nice. “What’s up?”

  Edith quietly shut the door behind her, making a face. “Why does your house smell like my little brother’s upchuck?”

  Ugh. “Mom came home from work sick.”

  Edith sat down at my desk chair, spinning in it. Her two pigtail braids swung out as she picked up speed. “She’s not pregnant, is she?”

  “Don’t even joke.”

  She tipped her head back and chuckled a little. “So, guess who called me yesterday.”

  “Miss America?”

  “Ha. No. A certain Mr. Perfect.”

  Hang on a second. I blinked at her, unsure I heard right. “Walsh called you?”

  She couldn’t hide her smile. “He got my number from Zach, I guess. Asked if I heard from you. When I said no, he got all quiet and broody.”

  Okay, hold up. Why did Walsh call my best friend instead of me? Here I am stressing about him not calling me, not thinking about me, and he’s out hitting up Edith? “And?”

  “And then he said he had to go. Then he hung up.” She shook her head. “Not the best phone skills, that one. But you’d have been proud. I didn’t even squeal once at the fact that Walsh Hunter called me. I can feel my popularity status building.”

  Sometimes I forgot that Edith used to think that Walsh was cute—used to rant and rave about him from time to time. Those days seemed like forever ago.

  “Did you go on your date with Zach?”

  “It wasn’t a date,” she told me quickly. Edith pulled her legs into the chair, crisscrossing them and leaning back with a hand to her chest. “Just friends. It was fun.”

  “But—”

  “Just friends,” she cut me off, gaze serious. “For now, anyway. It’s easier that way. That way I can focus on volleyball, and he can focus on baseball.”

  I couldn’t help but smile a little at how flustered she was getting. “Ed, that’s a load of crap, you know that? Just because you’re saying it again doesn’t make it true.”

  “I didn’t ask him about paying off other teammates. It just felt weird. You get that, right?”

  I nodded, not blaming her. If the situation had been reversed, I’m not sure I’d have asked either.

  “How’s your article going?”

  The wind in my sails died down a little bit because her expression wasn’t a positive one. She wasn’t asking because she cared—she was asking because she wanted to try and convince me to stop writing it. “Can we not go into this again?”

  “Sooner or later, you’ll change your mind. Sophia, I just don’t want you to throw away a good thing. You and Walsh are perfect for each other.”

  Hearing that made something inside me dance. “Edith, it’s—”

  “Fake? I know.” Finally, thankfully, Edith rose from the desk chair and moved to sit next to me. She nudged me with her shoulder. “You two are still cute. I wouldn’t have guessed it in a billion years, because you two are just so different.”

  I stared at her hands, her nail polish an oddly comforting sight, and I rested my head on her shoulder. My cheeks warmed, and that was because talking about him made me like this. Warm. Happy. “I think…” I chuckled a little bit, the noise just whispering out of me. “I think I like him.”

  “You like him? Like, like him, like him?”

  With my eyes squeezed shut and my arms wrapped around her to prevent her from escaping, I told her everything. I told her about the Fourth of July, about how he set up the inflatable flamingo so we could sit and watch the fireworks. I told her about how he wanted me to meet his parents, and then going to the baseball field afterward. I really, really want to kiss you.

  In all those times, I could still imagine the blue hue of his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, the curve of his mouth.

  Throughout all of it, Edith stayed silent, letting me cling to her like a child holding onto her mother. Saying everything out loud, hearing the words and hearing the history through Walsh and me in these past weeks, everything became real. Those quiet touches, looks, jokes. It was like speaking the words made our story real, even if the story was only fake. Even if I was the only one who actually felt anything real.

  “It’s not real,” I told her, “but I want it to be. Is that bad?”

  She threaded her small fingers through my hair, gently twisting the red strands around. “What does Walsh want?”

  “I haven’t talked to him. Not about my…feelings.” Gosh, I couldn’t even imagine. Couldn’t imagine being so brave to even mention it to him.

  “Have you told him about your article?”

  I picked at my pom-poms. My silence was answer enough for her.

  “Sophia,” Edith said slowly, sounding the word out. “If you like Walsh—truly, deeply like him—you can’t use him for information for your article. You have to stop.”

  I knew that she was right. The dread and guilt that lived in my stomach every single time Walsh and I grew closer was really my subconscious telling me the truth, too. But it was too late now. There was no time to write something else. Today marked exactly one week until the article was due to Mrs. Gao, and on my calendar, the date was labeled “Do or Die.”

  Dramatic, I know. But I had no other ideas. Nothing.

  I shifted next to her, staring up at my ceiling. We were quiet for a moment, the hum of the central air the only sound. “What if he doesn’t like me back?”

  She snorted. “Now you’re sounding like a high school girl. Not trying to dig up secrets, not so focused on academics. A typical girl pining over a guy. I love it.”

  I swatted at her, unable to keep away a small smile. “Maybe I just need to pick a day and tell him. After their championship game.”

  “Procrastinator.”

  “No, think about it. I don’t want him stressing about it and losing, right?” Yeah, that’s a good excuse. Great job, Sophia.

  Edith looked skeptical but chuckled after a moment. “You’re a chicken. But fine, you wait. In the meantime, you need to stop the article.”

  She was right. I totally was a chicken. Too much of a chicken to tell her that the article was already finished, written on my notebook and waiting to be transferred onto my computer. Too chicken to tell her that I didn’t have any other choice.

  Too chicken to tell her, too chicken to tell Walsh.

  And that rock in my stomach was never going to go away.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wednesday morning, I decided to go for a walk. None of my dogs needed the extra exercise, but I figured I could just take the time to just think. However, the humidity clung to me like a second skin. The mid-July breeze made my skin feel sticky, pulling at the hair from my ponytail and making it stick to the back of my neck. It was hot. Like, get-me-a-popsicle-so-I-can-stick-it-down-my-shirt hot. I was about to collapse from heatstroke.

  Monday night, after Dad came home to find Mom on the couch, things were…strange. Beyond strange. He’d made us dinner even though it was Mom’s night to cook. When I came down to get my plate, I found them cuddled up on the couch together, Dad smoothing his hand down Mom’s back, brushing his fingers along her hairline. Seeing them like that together startled me, but it was even weirder when I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them cuddle.

  The general store came into view, and I made a beeline for it. The grocery store was a beautiful beacon of hope—hope of water bottles. As the electric doors slid open, a burst of beautiful, blessed air-conditioned air hit me, instantly chilling the sweat dampening my skin. The water bottles were a beacon of relief in the back, and I immediately made my way to them. I took the candy aisle on the way to the register and ended up plucking a caramel crunch bar from the shelf.

  I set both items onto the counter, fishing for the money in my pocket.

  “Hey, Sophia.”

  My eyes lifted at
the sound of my name, surprised. Scott came around the side of the counter and into view, greased back hair, stained polo and all. He was wearing a bad smile that somewhat resembled Walsh’s but wasn’t nearly as pretty. Seeing him startled me for a quick second, mostly because I’d forgotten that he worked here.

  “Can’t get enough?”

  “Of water, no. Of you—” I cut myself off, refusing to say anything that he could assume as flirting. “I’m out for a walk.”

  “I can see that,” Scott said, ringing up my candy bar. He eyed the collar of my shirt. “Unless you were doused with water, that was my guess.”

  I picked at my shirt, holding it away from my sticky skin. “Why aren’t you at practice?” I asked, fishing for something to say. The baseball team had early practices every morning up until Thursday, the team’s final game of the baseball season, to get everyone prepared. “Shouldn’t you be at the ballfield?”

  Scott gestured to his polo. “Couldn’t get off work. Coach isn’t happy with me.”

  “Careful,” I warned, watching as he scanned the water bottle. “Or you’ll be benched for the big game.”

  He punched a button, and the cash register beeped. “Four twenty-two, and yeah, bet Walsh would love that.”

  I handed over a five-dollar bill, inwardly groaning at the road this conversation went down. What did Walsh really want, anyway? I really, really want to kiss you. Kissing me couldn’t have been what he wanted all the time. Perhaps in that one moment, under the lights and stars and while we were high on our laughter, our bodies close together. But now, if he were to walk through the automatic doors, would he still feel the same?

  “I want to say that I’m sorry.” Scott lifted his head, still holding my change. “For the Fourth. And the party at Ryan’s. I acted…well, I acted like a jerk.”

  “Yeah, you did.” He’d acted like more than a jerk, but I wasn’t going to push it.

  Scott leaned his forearms on the countertop, running a hand over his greasy hair. “I’d like to try and get together again, to talk. About us.”

  I wanted to tell him that those days were over, long gone, but I knew “no, thanks” wouldn’t have gone over well. Instead, I simply said, “Maybe.” But probably not. Snatching up my candy bar and bottled water, I stepped away. I needed to get out before I said something stupid or he said something stupid, both entirely plausible. “Well, I’d better get going. I’ve got to get my heart rate back up.”

  “Looking at me doesn’t do it for you anymore?”

  I ignored that, trying hard not to roll my eyes. My legs felt shaky as they led me to the door, but I turned around just before it automatically slid open, something catching in my brain. Before I stopped to think about it, I drew in a breath. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Scott leaned his elbow onto the countertop. “Sure.”

  “I heard a rumor that I’m not sure is true,” I said, walking back to the counter, turning the water bottle over in my hands. It was starting to sweat, water beading along the plastic. “About the baseball team.”

  “What kind of rumor?”

  Now or never. “That you guys are paying off the other teams.”

  It was risky, so stupidly risky, to say that to him. To confront him like that. But if I asked Walsh this question, I didn’t know how he’d react. And quite honestly, I didn’t want to ask him, didn’t want to use our relationship to my advantage like this. Asking Scott felt like fair game, but that could totally backfire.

  Scott’s dark eyes remained steady as he watched me, his poker face impeccable. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “A source.”

  “You sounded like a real hard-hitting journalist there, Sophia,” Scott chuckled, leaning both elbows onto the counter now, propping up his head. “Why do you care what the baseball team does?”

  I lifted a shoulder, trying to feign a nonchalance genuine enough to convince him. “Just curious, is all. Walsh mentioned that Coach pushed you guys to win, so I didn’t know if you went to those kind of measures or not.”

  “So why don’t you ask Walsh?”

  I gave him a gooey smile. “You’ve always been honest with me.”

  Scott’s lips turned up into a smile, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. It was one that made my insides feel sick, like my intestines came down with a bout of the flu. It was an unpredictable one, one I couldn’t quite decipher.

  “We don’t pay off the other team,” Scott said finally, pulling away from the countertop. “We choose certain players who would take the cash, and they throw the game.”

  The way he spoke, so casual, so careless, made my eyes widen. We choose certain players. “Throw the game, like—”

  “Make a bad hit, miss an easy catch, run too slow, that kind of thing. Works every time to keep us on top.”

  For a long moment, I felt the need to pinch myself, because no way was he being so forthcoming. The water bottle was slick in my grasp, the coldness of it the only thing grounding me. “Why are you telling me all this?” I was too shocked to keep myself from asking. “This seems like the kind of thing you’d keep to yourself.”

  “Like you said—I’m always honest with you.” Scott winked at me, and my insides flinched in response. “And I know you can keep a secret.”

  The door slid open, and a young child with pigtails bounced in, followed by a girl about my age. I stepped back from the counter, almost embarrassed to be seen so close to Scott. “Thanks,” I said quickly, retreating to the doors. “I’ll—uh—bye.”

  “See you later, Sophia,” he called after me, that strange humor still clinging to his voice.

  Walking back into the awful summer heat after being in there was torture, and if it weren’t Scott working, I might’ve tried to hide in one of the refrigerators or something.

  But holy cow. So check getting proof for that off the list. I seriously hadn’t expected him to be so nonchalant about it all. I didn’t expect him to trust me so much with that kind of information. It almost made me feel sick thinking about putting it into the article now. But then again, why did he trust me with that information? He wouldn’t have told me any of that before when we were still together. Why now?

  I took a long drink from my water, the coldness coursing down my throat and settling in my stomach. It did little to chase away the dirty emotion, but it did help cool me down. The candy bar, though, I’d save for later.

  On impulse, I pulled my cell out of my pocket, scrolling through the contacts until I found the name I was looking for. I drafted a new text.

  Miss you.

  There. That was normal enough. Not confronting, not overwhelming. Normal. No smiley-faces, no exclamation points. After reading it a thousand times, I pressed send.

  Stupidity became my friend the second it went through. When baseball practice got out, that text would be waiting for him. What would he think when he saw it? Would he smile or would he cringe? Ugh, what if he thought it was stupid?

  We still hadn’t talked really since our kiss since he’d been so busy. And truth be told, I did miss him. But I wasn’t sure where Saturday night left us.

  My phone beeped in my hand, and it was Walsh calling, and I nearly jumped a mile. “Hi!” I said overenthusiastically, cringing. Try again. “H-Hey, Walsh, what’s up?”

  “I miss you, too.” Walsh’s voice came immediately and cheerful, almost cut-out by the people talking in the background. People of the male variety. “I’m sorry that I’ve been a little AWOL lately—things have been kind of crazy at the house.”

  Oh, so you haven’t been dodging me after our almost-kiss? “That’s okay,” I said faintly, reaching up and brushing a hand over my damp brow. I forced myself to walk in the other direction, toward my house and away from the baseball field. “How’s practice?”

  “Hot. Like we’re playing baseball in hell.”

  I imagined Walsh in his baseball uniform, sweaty, laughing. Putting his back into swinging at the ball, his muscles tightening. My insides twisted, and m
y steps faltered. “What are you doing? After practice, I mean.”

  “Dad’s made today a dedicated housework day,” he sighed. “But tomorrow though, after practice, we could get slushies. If you want to. I know you can never turn down a good slushy.”

  I tried to hide the enthusiasm in my voice with a blasé tone. “That sounds amazing.”

  Yep, nailed it.

  Walsh could totally hear my desperation, but instead of calling me out for it, he just laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “See you then,” I confirmed, and then forced myself to hang up before I said something really stupid, like I miss your beautiful face, or I love you. Jeez, definitely not I love you. I’d rather die of heatstroke.

  * * *

  Knowing that my fake-boyfriend was busy, and that my best friend was busy ,and I was sitting at home with nothing to do—it sucked. I’d been staring at my journal for what felt like hours now, reading the words I’d written with a detached sort of feeling. I should’ve been excited about the paragraphs I’d formed, thrilled at how close I was.

  Less than a week and I’d be turning this article into Mrs. Gao so she could present it to the school board. Less than a week to learn my fate—whether I’d be in the running for that internship or if I’d be sitting at home every night after school, staring at the ceiling.

  Walsh wouldn’t know of the article right away—surely it would take time for word to get around—but it would be following soon enough.

  I stared at the last line of my article for a long moment. It’s no secret that Bayview is a play-ball kind of school, but with all these secrets coming to light, I’m left to wonder—and surely you are wondering, too, dear reader—if the Bayview High School baseball team just swung their third and final strike.

  I ripped my glasses from my nose, pressing my fingers to my weary eyes.

  There was a knock on my bedroom door around seven-thirty, and my dad let himself in. “Hey, kiddo. Dinner’s ready.”

  I set down my pen gratefully, pushing my glasses up. “What are we having?”