“Aggressive lead on the base path by Adams, but he’s called out at second,” Garrett says.
“Aggressive?” I repeat with a touch of snark. “Is that a new word for ‘poor base running’?”
His eyes flash with surprise as he gestures to the field. “That was a great opportunity to take a free base. You’ve got a lefty on the mound with a terrible move.”
“But you’ve got a catcher with a rocket for an arm. And I’m sorry, but Adams was so off-balance.”
“Because he was shuffling.”
“That was not a shuffle.”
“You kidding? He could enter a dance contest with that move.”
“And he’d end up exactly the same way he did here: out.”
There’s laughter outside the booth, and if Garrett has a comeback, there’s no time for it because Everly, who’s up to bat, hits a pop fly to short and the inning is over.
“That’s the end of five,” Garrett says, “and the score is tied two all. We’ll be back after the break.”
There’s a bang on the door, and Rich, one of the assistant coaches, says, “I can hear you guys through the wall. That’s funny stuff.”
Garrett’s grin is catching. By now, I’ve realized we’ve got a similar sense of humor and I expected there to be some back-and-forth, but I had no idea I’d feel this rush. I don’t even know what it is, but I think Garrett feels it, too. We’re in sync, and yet there’s also a current of tension. A push-pull. Maybe it’s because this is so new, because we don’t know what to expect.
Because we both thought it might be good, but not this good.
Uncomfortable with my thoughts, I reach into my backpack for my bottle of water. I find it, but end up knocking over Garrett’s pack in the process. “Sorry,” I say. As I straighten it, a paper sticks up from the unzipped main compartment. I don’t mean to look, but the large 67 in red ink is hard to miss.
My eyes flicker to Garrett. “Ouch.”
He shrugs at the math test. “Whatever.”
Whatever? I double-check that I didn’t misread the number. I also note that it’s the same quarterly test I took and it’s worth a chunk of our grade. “I thought math was your thing?”
“It is.” He shoves the test in and zips up his pack. “School isn’t.”
I gape, not sure what that means. He doesn’t test well? Or he doesn’t study? I don’t have time to think about it because he turns the volume back on the headsets and the next inning begins. I shrug off the uncomfortable thoughts and force myself to refocus on the game. It takes a little while, but we work back into a rhythm and before I know it, it’s the seventh and final inning. I’m glad high school doesn’t play nine like they do in college and the majors. I’m having too much fun. That wasn’t part of the plan.
“The Warriors take the field,” Garrett announces. “We’re still tied at two all. The plate is in shadows and we’ve got Evan Harris up to bat.”
I speak into my mic. “If this team has done their homework, Harris will see nothing but curveballs.”
“And the first pitch is a curveball outside. Harris swings for strike one.”
I lean forward. “Wait for it—number two is on its way.”
Sure enough, another breaking ball whizzes by while Harris swings wildly. I shoot Garrett a smile. I love being right. But he’s looking at the field. Worried. Or maybe pissed. I’ve never seen Garrett pissed, but a nerve is ticking in his jaw and his fingers are tapping a nervous beat on the counter. I’m guessing this is what it looks like. When Harris strikes out, I swallow back a snarky comment. I forget that these are Garrett’s friends.
“Sorry,” I say, covering my mic. “He’s your buddy. It must be hard to watch him struggle.”
“He’ll get it.”
“He won’t.”
“How can you say that?” he snaps.
“Because my dad was a power hitter in the minor leagues for the first eleven years of my life and a hitting coach after that. I grew up watching guys at the plate. Guys who can’t see the curve can’t hit it. Harris…” I shrug. “He looks lost every time one comes over the plate.”
“Doesn’t mean he won’t get it. He just needs more practice.”
Practice doesn’t fix everything. I have an eye for talent the way my dad does, but I keep quiet. I don’t want to rub salt in the wound.
Fortunately for the Wildcats, Anthony Adams hits a bomb over the left field fence, breaking the tie. Garrett is up with a fist pump, Harris completely forgotten, as he watches Anthony circle the bases. Cholla wins and Mai is going crazy on the bleachers, yelling loud enough for me to hear her over everyone else.
The teams are still shaking hands on the field when Garrett shuts down the equipment and I pack up my stuff. There’s a thrum of energy in the stadium. It’s that feeling of a close game—a last-minute win. It crackles in the air and even finds its way into the booth.
Garrett lets out a long breath. “That was fun. Fact, that was the most fun I’ve had at a baseball game since the last time I threw a pitch.” He’s biting his lip again, damn it, his eyes shining at me like I just handed him a World Series ring.
I’m off-balance again, caught in the tractor-beam of his happiness, feeling more than I want. I shrug. “It didn’t totally suck.”
He laughs as he shoulders his pack. “Can you meet this weekend? I want to fill you in on the contest entry. There are a few other requirements.”
“Requirements?”
“We can figure it out in twenty minutes.”
“How about tomorrow afternoon? I finish at the bookstore at one o’clock.” I wonder what he’ll say—Saturday is the day for his secret-whatever meeting with Kyle Masters.
But he nods right away. “I’ll meet you at the bookstore when your shift is over.”
I think about Saturday and story time. About the costume I’ll be wearing. “Let’s meet at the café next door.”
“It’s a date,” he says.
“Ooh, it’s a date,” Mai repeats. I didn’t hear her walk up.
“Not that kind of a date.”
Garrett nods beside me. “Walters and I are buddies.”
Mai raises her brows. “The kind that starts with f—”
“No!” I snap before she can say more. “We’re not buddies. We’re partners. You drank a soda, didn’t you?”
She smiles and I groan. Mai is unfiltered in general, but on a sugar high she’s frightening. “We’re leaving,” I tell Garrett. I take Mai by the elbow.
As we walk out, Coach Richards looks up from the field. “Josie Walters,” he says.
Mr. Richards teaches history and though I never had him for a class, I know who he is. And now, apparently, he knows who I am.
He gives me an approving nod. “Nice job today. You two are a good team.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Garrett says, answering from behind. “We are.”
I hate letting him get the last word, but even I can’t argue that.
Chapter Twelve
The dinosaur costume is hot. And I don’t mean sexy.
It’s also itchy. Like, bug itchy.
Can ticks live on fake fur?
The thought makes me itch more.
“How are you doing?”
I recognize Bryan’s voice. A second later, a hand waves in front of the eye slits. I get a flash of dark wavy hair and worried brown eyes.
“It’s a thousand degrees in here and the head weighs more than a bowling ball.”
“Hang on.”
Something shifts and the pressure is off my neck.
“The head wasn’t on right.”
“Thanks! I must have knocked it loose during the dancing.”
Today, I was Dina the Dancing Dino. It’s a new costume character for story time. Doing the Hokey Pokey with miniature yellow arms and huge stuffed feet is a little humiliating, but so worth it. The kids laughed their butts off and so did I. “I thought Ciera was going to bring me down that one time.”
“I was ready t
o catch you.”
Inside my oversize head, I smile. Bryan is the kind of guy who would, too. “Is it time for me to reemerge as a sweatier and more dehydrated version of myself?”
He laughs. I like that about Bryan. He laughs when he’s supposed to. Not when I insult him—as if I ever would. He made me another origami animal this morning. Something with a really long nose. Maybe an aardvark? I’m afraid to ask, because why would you make an aardvark? But I thanked him in generic terms.
“Two minutes. Brandi wants me to get some photos.”
A low groan slips out. I’m not sure what time it is and I don’t want to be late to the café. “I have a meeting thing, so as long as it’s quick.” I lift my flappy felt-covered hands. Dina the Dino is permanently smiling. “Should I move?”
“You’re perfect where you are.” I hear a click and hold still.
“Brandi had an interview this morning,” Bryan tells me. “For your replacement.”
“Oh yeah?” My voice sounds tight, and I clear my throat. I’m glad she’s interviewing. My dancing dino days will be over soon, and I want to help Brandi train my replacement. “Anyone promising?”
“Not sure,” he says, and I remind myself to stay still as I hear more clicks from his phone camera. “That should be enough.”
“Thank God. Can you help me out of this?” I turn so he can reach the hook at the back of my costume. “Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s one o’clock,” a voice says.
Not Bryan’s voice.
Shit.
“Blondie,” I say.
“Deeno,” he says.
“It’s Dina,” I correct with as much self-respect as I can muster. Then I turn and whack my tail into something.
“Careful,” Bryan says.
“I’ll meet you in the café, Garrett.” My voice is sharp.
I hear a full-throated laugh in response. “Nice tail.”
My face is burning. “Bryan, can you help me, please?”
His hand is on my arm as he leads me to the activity room. He undoes the top hook and unzips the costume while I twist the lumpy head free. The heavy yellow material puddles around my feet while deliciously cool air prickles over my arms and legs. My blue tank and stretchy gym shorts are both on the damp side. I push back sweaty bangs and unwind the messy bun of my hair, finger combing it quickly before pulling it into a high pony. “Thanks.”
“So who was that?”
“A guy from school. We’re doing a project together.”
“Oh.” I see the hesitation in his eyes. He’s only a year older than me, but he’s in college. He’s not like the goofball boys at Cholla. I’ve talked to him enough to know that he’s serious about school, serious about the future. And now he’s wondering what kind of girl I am. What am I doing with someone like Garrett Reeves? But I’m not with him. And we’re not doing anything. Except…how do I answer a question that hasn’t been asked?
Apparently by babbling, which is what I begin to do. “It’s a broadcasting project,” I say. “He’s a baseball player. Was. And there’s a contest. It’s sponsored by ASU, which is why we’re meeting, because there are requirements. For the broadcasting thing.” Before I can mention my father and revenge, I bite my lip. Hard. I want to pull on the dinosaur head and bury my face in itchy fur. “I’ll hang up the costume,” I tell him.
His smile is back. “I’ll take it. You go.”
“You sure?” I’m flushed with heat and embarrassment but he looks at me as if I’m, well, beautiful.
“I’m sure. I’ll see you Wednesday?” he adds.
“Wednesday. And thanks again for the, uh…for the origami.” I give him one last smile and head out. I make a mental note to look up a picture of an aardvark when I get home.
Chapter Thirteen
Garrett is sitting at a booth with two water bottles.
I slide in across from him, setting my purse and a cream cardigan down beside me. I planned on wearing it to meet Garrett, but I’m still too warm, even with the air conditioning on full blast. “You were supposed to wait for me here.”
“You were supposed to be on time.” He slides one of the water bottles toward me. “For you.”
“Thanks.” The icy bottle feels good on my fingers. “That was…nice of you.”
“Relax, Walters. It doesn’t mean you owe me a kidney. I figured you might be thirsty. After seeing you, I was having Halloween costume flashbacks.” He downs half his bottle in one go. His hair is damp, too, but I’m guessing his is from a shower.
“So who was the guy in the bookstore?” he asks.
“Bryan? He works part-time in the office.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I roll the cool bottle over my now even warmer cheeks. “No, not that it’s any of your business.”
He looks at me through slightly lowered lids. “Because he was giving you that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of a guy who’s interested.”
“You can tell that after knowing him for two seconds?”
“I’m just saying. In case, you know, that’s your type.”
The way he says it is not exactly complimentary to Bryan. I set down the bottle, the plastic crunching under my grip. “Bryan is a great guy. He’s smart and nice and very thoughtful and—”
“He giggles.”
“He does not giggle!”
“I heard him. It reminded me of tea parties with my sisters.”
I blink, my thoughts derailed. “You have tea parties?”
“Not recently. But my sisters, Lilah and Felice, are both older, which meant they were in charge of daily activities growing up. And it was the only way I got cookies.” He lifts his bottle with a pinky finger sticking out. “But I never giggled.”
“Please,” I mutter. “I am not taking relationship advice from you. Have you ever had an actual girlfriend? And I don’t mean a hookup.”
“Walters!” He bats his eyelashes in mock hurt. “What kind of a guy do you think I am?”
“I’ve seen the ever-changing parade of girls at your locker.”
“You’ve been stalking me?” He looks extremely happy at the thought.
“I walk by your locker on the way to mine. You probably haven’t noticed, surrounded as you usually are.”
“Friends, Walters. Can’t a guy have friends?”
“Friends with benefits?”
“Every friendship is beneficial.”
My laugh breaks free. “You are so full of shit.”
He laughs with me as he leans back, sliding an arm over the top of the seat bench. I realize I’m as relaxed as he is. He’s easy to be around. “To answer your question,” he says, “I’m not interested in anything serious right now, but I have had an actual girlfriend. We dated most of our freshman year. Annette Cruz?”
I shake my head. I don’t know her.
“Anyway. It got to be too hard. For some guys, baseball is a spring sport. For me, it’s a year-round commitment. Doesn’t leave room for a relationship.”
“So now you just play the field?”
His expression lights up. “A baseball metaphor, Walters? I’m kind of turned on.”
“Well, turn off,” I retort. “You’re not my type, Blondie.”
“What? I’m everyone’s type.” He puffs out his chest.
“Put those muscles away before you hurt yourself.” I roll my eyes. “You and me—we are strictly professional. We’re about revenge. Money. Winning.” I tick each item off with a finger. “There will be no flirting. Add that to our list of rules.”
“You’re cute when you’re giving orders.”
“That’s flirting.”
“Sorry. I’ll work on it.” But the knowing look in his eyes says, No, I won’t. He’s obviously having too much fun.
Worse than that, so am I.
He’s so frustrating. And so… I purse my lips because I don’t want to think about what he is. I’m already irritated that he’s smarte
r and funnier than I expected. I should hate him—I want to hate him—and instead I…don’t.
“Can we get to work?” I ask. “What are these other requirements?”
Chapter Fourteen
Garrett’s gaze sharpens and the flirty playboy is gone. When it comes to this broadcasting contest, Garrett is 100 percent serious. I can’t help but respect that.
“The most important part of our application is going to be the game tape,” he says. “We provide the link to one regular-season game, our choice. We also have to complete an on-air interview. It can be with a player, a coach, or anyone else involved in running the team. Three to five minutes on any topic we choose.”
“You know who you want to interview?”
“Not really.” He picks at the label on the water bottle. “I’ve been looking for an angle. Someone with a story that will stand out.”
“So you’re thinking of a background piece? Is there someone on the team who’s gone through a challenge?”
“Nothing comes to mind, but guys don’t usually share the hard stuff.”
“And if they did, would they share it on-air?”
He nods, conceding my point. “Maybe we need to go in a different direction.”
“Or maybe we choose someone other than a player or a coach,” I suggest.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. Just thinking out loud. Like, maybe the equipment guy or the trainer? Find a behind-the-scenes story.”
He chews a divot into his bottom lip until a sudden smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “That gives me an idea. We’ve got a guy, he’s a senior now, but he’s been helping out since his freshman year. Not a player, but he loves the game. His name is Scottie, and he does a little bit of everything. You get hurt and need an ice pack, Scottie is there. You need the field chalked, Scottie does it.”
“What’s his story?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Garrett admits. “I’ve never asked him. We could do it together.”
I twirl the bottle between my fingers.
He points to it. “You want something else? I would have gotten you a soda but they didn’t have lemonade for a mix.”
Announcing Trouble Page 6