by Sara Ney
“Florida!” I almost shout. The Atlantic Ocean. Sand. Sun.
Sea life.
Coral and clownfish.
I give him a shy glance, brushing back a lock of hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”
“Right, I get it.” He laces our fingers together and I want to die. “You and your ocean fixation. If you said you grew up at Dodger Stadium, I’d have yelled, too.”
Cute.
I bite back a smile, teeth tugging on my bottom lip, watching as my feet hit the floorboards, giving the swing yet another boost.
“What about you? Where are you from?” he asks in kind, shooting me a sidelong glance, examining my profile. I can feel him skimming the side of my face, so I force my eyes straight ahead, cheeks burning.
“I’m from here, about two and a half hours north. I guess that makes me local?”
Here is Iowa. Long stretches of highway and soybean fields. Corn.
Landlocked.
“Why didn’t you stay in Florida?” I ask the night sky, searching out the stars among clusters of gray clouds. “Isn’t their baseball program decent?”
Better than decent, it’s phenomenal. I’ve heard my dad wax poetic about it a dozen times, when my family expected me to attend FSU.
“Tallahasse? Yeah, they’re decent.” He’s being modest; the university is top five for baseball in the nation. “But they didn’t offer me enough to play there.”
“What part of Florida are you from?”
“Tallahasse.” He chuckles ruefully. It’s throaty and deep, so deep and sensual, I’m grateful for the shadows shielding the heat creeping up my cheeks and the noises from inside the house drowning out the sound of my beating heart.
“You wanted to get the hell out of there, huh?”
“Basically. Growing up in a college town then staying in that college town? They couldn’t have offered me enough to stay, in all honestly. My mom would have been dropping in every damn weekend to bring me care packages and shit.”
“I know, but…” Guh. “Florida.”
My whispered sigh is dreamy and wistful.
Sun and sand and swimsuits…
“When you whisper the word like that, it’s creepy.” He laughs and I bump him with my elbow, teasing. Flirting. “You’ve got coral and dolphins and weird shit on the brain.”
Guilty.
I have him on the brain, too.
“I still don’t understand how anyone could up and leave Florida.” I know I sound a little over the top, but I don’t care. I’d give anything to live by the coast, near the wide open sea, the waves.
“Because it’s hot and crowded, and everywhere you go, it’s filled with annoying tourists or snowbirds in town for the winter.”
He nudges the swing forward when it slows.
“That cannot be the reason you aren’t going there.” I know I’m repeating myself, but who in their right mind passes up a scholarship to FSU?
An insane person, that’s who! I didn’t get accepted anywhere interesting, just Iowa, Iowa State, a school in Wisconsin, and one stuck between Minnesota and North Dakota.
No whales, no water.
“It’s not the only reason, obviously. When I came to Iowa for a visit, I really clicked with the team—their comradery game is strong. The facilities here are new, totally sick, and, I don’t know…it felt like the best decision for me at the time.”
At the time? “And now?”
“Now I only regret the decision when we lose.” He laughs, laying our joined hands on his hard thigh.
I look down at it, study the dark hairs sprinkled across his knuckles, which I can just make out in the light from the porch lanterns.
I swallow, blinking up at the moon.
“The Midwest isn’t exactly an epicenter of activity,” I can’t help pointing out, voice shaking a little. Dammit. “Don’t you get bored here?”
“Maybe a little, but I really love this campus—it’s pretty damn gorgeous. We don’t have buildings like this in the South.”
Quietly, I mentally list all the reasons he should have gone to school in his home state: in-state tuition, the beach, Disneyworld, year-round sunshine, the beach.
“Hurricanes.”
Shit. “Did I say that stuff out loud?”
“Just some of it.” He laughs softly. “You murmured it, really.”
I look toward the house, watching through the windows, looking at everyone inside, laughing and drinking and having fun. A few denim-clad asses are pressed against the glass, and within, people dance to the thumping, upbeat soundtrack.
It’s a loud, bumping bass, and not at all my taste in music.
I don’t miss the party one bit.
I’m rather content to sit out here with Rowdy—Sterling—and learn more about him.
“So what position do you play?”
“Shortstop.”
“Are you any good?”
“I got twenty-three full-ride scholarship offers.”
Holy shit. Does that actually happen to people?
“I haven’t come and watch the team play yet. Baseball is more my dad’s thing than mine,” I confess sheepishly.
Beside me, his wide shoulders give a casual shrug. “Usually girls come to the games for one of two reasons.” He stabs at his forefinger. “One, they’re huge fans of the game.” He stabs at his thumb. “Or two, they’re huge fans of the players.”
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like playing in front of huge crowds like that. Does it ever make you nervous?”
“It used to, back when I was freshman, but not anymore.”
“What’s your favorite part of the game?”
“Winning,” his husky voice informs me, unapologetic.
“That was always my favorite part, too.”
“Do you play baseball?”
“I did—softball, through high school. Honestly, it’s not really my passion, but I play here, too, in an intramural league. It’s something to do.” Like I said, my father is obsessed with the game, and when I was little, he signed me up for every recreational team our town had. Coached a few of them, too.
“No fucking way—what position?”
“Third base, usually, depending on who shows up.”
“Are you any good?”
“Let me put it this way; I was offered zero full-ride scholarships.”
Rowdy’s laugh is loud, punctuating the crisp night air like an exclamation point, his feet pumping the swing below our asses, making the chains creek.
“When does your season start?”
“After the winter break we start practicing, then we have a few pre-season games.”
January.
“Are you really a psych major? You weren’t kidding?” Lord, where are all these questions coming from?
“Yes, I’m really a psych major. If I don’t play baseball professionally, I’ll get my master’s and doctorate.” Rowdy dips his head, almost timidly, inspecting the ground as the swing rocks back and forth. “Maybe you should let me evaluate you—for science.”
I don’t know how he does it, but Rowdy twists his impressive form toward me, curling a leg under himself, unclasping our hands and draping an arm lazily on the back of the swing. Drums his fingers on the wood, green gaze learning all the lines in my face.
This is why I keep coming back—this moment right here. The intense way he’s watching me right now, like I’m pretty and interesting, even in these ridiculous clothes. The way his deep voice vibrates in my chest and awakens those damn butterflies every time he speaks.
His easy laugh. His disarming smile and the delicious way he smells, like aftershave and the shower and fresh air.
God, he’s fascinating. Good-looking and funny, and he makes my heart not just pound, but palpitate. Virile and strong, I spent the better part of last evening watching baseball videos of him online for two solid hours.
Two!
Videos of his hand dipping to retrieve a ball for drills infield before a g
ame.
Video after video of him gripping a ball with three fingers before lobbing it to the pitcher. I watched him study the field under the brim of his dusty, black cap, hair sticking up under the brim. Watched him wipe sweat away, ball clenched in his fist.
Six foot two inches of sweet, homegrown Florida citrus.
Mmm mmm mmm.
“I have a serious question—this is for your psych eval.”
I nod, fiddling with my mittens, stomach doing a slow roll. “Okay.”
“If you suddenly found out your internal monologue from the last hour was made audible, how screwed would you be?”
So freaking screwed. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Sure,” he draws out, relaxing his chin in the palm of his hand—the one he has perched against the seatback of the swing.
“Um, maybe a…” Twelve. “I don’t know, five?”
I hold his stare, unblinking. Unflinching.
His eyes narrow. “Are you lying?”
I force my mouth into a straight line. It betrays me. “Pfft, no.”
“Yes you are.” His grin is as lazy as his posture.
“I guess you’ll never know, will you?”
He rolls his eyes at me with a grin, and it’s positively endearing. “When’s the last time you had an indecent thought?”
Three minutes ago. “I can’t remember.”
Rowdy shakes his head because he knows I’m full of shit. I smile, big and toothy and fake. “What about you?”
“Guess you’ll never know, will you,” he deadpans, parroting me.
Dammit!
“Just tell me. Please?” I bat my lashes, hoping it looks pretty and not like I have a bug caught in my eye.
“Last indecent thought?” He rubs the scruff on his chin. “’Bout half an hour ago.”
What were we doing thirty minutes ago? “When we were eating?”
“Yes, Scarlett—you’re so unbelievably sexy when you inhale noodles.” Rowdy’s lips pucker and he sharply inhales, impersonating my noodle suckage, the sound it makes, and the sour look on my face when I eat them.
I cock my head, tapping my chin with the tip of my forefinger. “Why, Rowdy Wade, I was going to say the same thing about the way you eat chicken. Nom nom nom.”
I smack my lips like Cookie Monster then tip my head back, pantomiming the way he dumped the carton into his mouth.
“You’re so goddamn cute right now.” He laughs.
I was just going to say the same thing about you.
I cast my eyes downward, kicking at the ground, afraid to give myself away. “You’re just saying that because you like food.”
His hesitation is long. “Sure I am.”
I lift my head. “Was that you flirting with me?”
“Do you think I’m flirting with you?”
“Would you stop doing that? Answering questions with questions? The Sigmund Freud routine is getting stale.” Although, it does make me wonder… “Are you trying to reverse-psychology me into flirting with you?”
“No—but dang, why haven’t I thought of that? I’m going to keep that idea in my back pocket.”
“You do that, slip it right into that back pocket of yours.”
A few people drift out of the house, screen door banging against the frame with a clatter. I slip my cell out of my coat, waking it to check the time.
Nearly midnight. Holy crap.
I stop swinging. Stretch. “I really should get going.”
“Yeah, I should too.” Rowdy rises with me, stuffing those big paws into the deep pockets of his jacket. “It was really fucking cool that you brought food tonight. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“You need a ride, or…”
“No, I’m good. It’s not far.” I pull at my knit hat, securing it over my ears. “You should probably, you know, make sure everything is copacetic inside.”
“All right then.” Both of us are hedging, shuffling our feet. “Night, Scarlett.” He hesitates. “See you next week?”
I bury my chin inside my coat, bury the fact that I’m grinning. “We’ll see.”
We both know I’ll be here.
FOURTH FRIDAY
“The Friday Where I Put Moist Things in my Mouth.”
Rowdy
The first female voice drifts down the street at a high volume, and I lean farther over the railing to listen better.
“Did it occur to you that maybe he’s not her type? Why are you nagging at her?”
“Read my lips: You. Are. Insane. That boy is everyone’s type.”
“Not her type? Are you being serious right now? Rowdy Wade is so fucking hot.” That voice is definitely not Scarlett’s. “If he paid me even the slightest bit of attention, I’d get pregnant just by looking at him. I can’t believe you haven’t slept with him.”
“Or,” the first voice continues, “maybe he’s just not that into you?”
“God I loved that movie,” yet another voice cuts in, this one distinctively Scarlett’s. “I bet I’ve seen it seventy times.”
“Look at you. I swear, Scarlett, you wear shit like that on purpose.”
“It’s cold out!”
“Bet Rowdy could keep you warm. Once the clothes come off, it hardly matters what you left the house wearing.”
Jesus Christ, why are they so loud?
If I can hear every word, no doubt the fucking neighbors can, too.
Nevertheless, I chuckle, listening to the banter coming my direction from down the sidewalk. The girls are loud enough I hear them before I see them—chattering and laughing, declarations echoing down the very quiet street, the usual weekend activity having been moved to a different location.
There is no party here tonight.
The girls are earlier than usual, clomping down the street in heels, with purpose, shrouded in the dark until they’re illuminated under the first set of streetlamps.
There are five of them, all trussed up like miniature streetwalkers.
Correction: all but one. One of them stands out in the crowd of tight dresses and high heels. Only one of them isn’t heavily made up; all but one stomps in high heels, clicking and determined against the concrete.
Scarlett draws in all my attention in her black and white Chucks, thick winter coat, and black leggings, tote bag slung over one shoulder.
Who would have fucking thought?
I stand straighter at the sight of that bag, wondering what’s inside, my stomach as interested as my eyes just became. I know it’s food because she’s too fucking sweet, and I’m excited. The anticipation has my gut rumbling.
Scarlett’s recognizable laugh rings out for the second time, unabashed and drifting up the block toward the house, making me smile. Making me anxiously shake out the palms of my hands.
Too much nervous energy, I muse, dismissing the actions. I missed my run this morning, that’s all. Nothing else to it.
One hundred feet.
Eighty.
Thirty more. Come on, come on.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, hands crammed in the pockets of my jeans.
Ten feet.
Five.
Her hair is screwed up into two buns atop her head, and as they get even closer, I make out furry earmuffs pulled down over her ears. They’re black, the fur wispy, lightly grazing her cheeks.
The buns and the earmuffs? A goddamn adorable combination.
I could eat her up.
My smile broadens—Scarlett is dressed for a trip to the Arctic Circle, clearly not giving a shit what anyone thinks of her, halting to a stop behind her friends when our eyes finally meet. Stops at the edge of the yard, her tennis shoes stalled at the edge of the walkway, hands hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder.
She props it on her hips and stares back.
Wiggles her brows.
My hands come out of hibernation when I lean forward to brace them on the bannister railing.
One of her friends giggles, high-pitched and way t
oo enthusiastic. “Are you the official welcoming committee now?”
“Something like that.”
Everyone, including Scarlett, is giving their attention to the house behind me, obvious confusion falling on their expressions like fans doing the wave in the stands at a baseball game. And it’s no wonder—the lights inside are off, it’s eerily quiet, and no one is home.
“Where is everyone?” one of the blondes asks, biting down on a hot pink bottom lip. “Why is the house so dark?”
I lift my palms with no offering. “No party tonight.”
Protests of disappointment follow. “But we walked all the way over here—”
“—and my feet are already killing me—”
I interrupt them both. “Party has been moved to the Lambda house, ladies. The night isn’t over yet.”
Someone clears her throat. Another gets nudged in the back, stumbling forward a few feet.
“Are you coming out tonight, Rowdy?” the beautiful Latina blurts out, unable to stop herself. “You can walk with us.”
I glance down at Scarlett to gauge her reaction, our eyes meeting over four perfectly coiffed heads. Silently, she and I regard each other, and I can’t tell in this light what she could possibly be thinking.
“Yeah. I’ll walk over with you.”
I tell myself I’m only doing it to be chivalrous, and because anything can happen between point A and point B, regardless of the safety in numbers system. But, the truth is, I don’t live in the baseball house and had no reason to be loitering on the front porch.
I don’t bother checking to see if the door behind me is locked, or if all the lights are turned off, or if anyone is squatting inside.
Instead, I bound down the stairs to Scarlett’s side, giving her a playful bump with my shoulder, the contact of our bodies making the pit of my stomach turn over despite the heavy jackets separating our skin.
I shiver and obviously need to check myself, because this shit with her is getting so fucking weird.
Shaking off whatever the hell that electric spark was, I help steer the group to the left, down the walkway toward Greek Row. The large houses loom in the foreground, lit up, music so loud the bass can be heard several blocks over. From here, I can see people spilling onto the lawn of the Lambda house, and the desire to head home is strong.