“Is that why you wanted to work in baseball?”
“At first. To prove something, like I could be involved with the game without a ball and a bat. But I guess it’s in my blood.” I laugh, but it’s half hiccup. I swipe at my cheek to do away with the evidence of tears. “I love it. Sitting in the stands during batting practice, watching the bleachers fill up when we open the gate. The crack of a bat, the National Anthem, the smell of the grill, the families, and the laughter. Even the drunks. I can’t see myself doing anything else.”
“My dad used to take me to every minor league game in my hometown. He never played, just wanted me to. I can’t imagine not sharing baseball with him. I can’t believe a father could ignore someone as amazing as you.”
“I have Ernie. He’s all the dad I need. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
We’re so close. Cricket song floats in through the open windows, and the air is warm instead of humid. Ben’s not made one move toward me, not even a lean, but I can sense him holding back. I know what he wants. The reason he won’t take it doesn’t register.
“Ernie’s a good guy,” he says.
“He feels the same way about you.”
Ben cocks his head to the side, and it’s ridiculously cute.
I clear my throat. “Until this season, Ernie’s been on board with me staying away from players. Encouraged the hate, actually. But not you. He swears you’re one of the good ones.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he could be right.” Tears spring unbidden again. Like I’m a damn faucet.
He reaches over, wipes one away, and pulls his hand back. “Are you willing to take the chance, try to find out?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s leaving it to me. Leaning against the door, one arm on the seat and the other on the steering wheel, waiting.
I’m scared to touch him and scared not to. Afraid to start something, and afraid he’ll finish it. I’ve guarded myself for so long, but now that I’ve opened up to who he’s proven himself to be, the hurt of walking away would outweigh the pain of trying.
“Liza.” He still hasn’t moved. “I can’t make you any promises about how things will end between us. But I’m pretty sure if they start, I won’t ever want them to stop.”
I lean a little closer to him. Notice his close shave and the brown fleck in his left eye. Smell detergent and deodorant. See him trembling.
Lifting my hand, I trace his lips. His jaw flexes. I put one hand on each side of his face and lean in even more, leaving my eyes open.
I am a breath away.
“Liza?’
“Hmm?” Nervous energy shoots through me like I’m plugged into a wall socket.
“Tell me before I cross any lines, okay? Because it’s going to be hard to keep my hands off you.”
The sweat on my skin goes cold, but not from fear. I believe him. I trust him. I want him.
Our lips meet, gently at first. And then he’s touching my face, my hair, my waist. He pulls me as close as he can over the gearshift, holding me like he can’t get enough. I vacillate between anxiety and the desire to be somewhere more comfortable, but mostly I’m lost in the taste of him.
“So sweet.” His words come between gasping breaths, and once they’re out, he pulls away. “Too sweet. Not here.”
“Here,” I demand.
Awkwardly, I crawl over the shift to straddle him. I don’t care how I look doing it, I just need more of me to be touching more of him. I take off his hat, throw it in the floorboard, and run my hands through his hair. He kisses my lips, my neck, my collarbone. All my primal responses are full-blown, and from my position in his lap, so are his.
“Liza . . .”
“Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up don’t ruin it.” If he stops, I’ll stop. And if I stop, I might never get started again.
Except I know that’s a lie. I’ve wanted him for so long, and after admitting it to myself, I realize I’m freaking ripe on the vine.
I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off him either.
Ben
“WE SHOULD GET out of the car.” I whisper in her ear. I worry the gearshift is digging into her side, that this is too fast, that what I want from her is too much. That I’m going to give in and take it if she offers.
“No, we shouldn’t.” She grabs the back of my seat and pulls herself closer. Her hips move just the way I want them to, but not the way I need them to. Not in this exact moment. “Unless you want to take it inside.”
“We can’t.”
“Why?”
I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Now isn’t the time to think about how much I want her. How long I’ve wanted her. I try not to picture it, even though the only thing keeping us apart is clothing. She puts her lips on mine again, and for a few minutes the only sound is our erratic breathing.
“There will be too much talk,” I finally get out. “Too many people in your place who’ll see it as a hookup.”
“People are going to talk anyway.” Her words are a whisper against my skin. “They saw us together; they’ll make their assumptions. I saw the way the girls looked at you in Trippy’s. I see the way they look at you all the time.” She runs a hand down my chest, tucks one finger into my waistband. Licks her lips. “Maybe I want you to forget every single one of them but me.”
She teases.
I die.
“Tell me this,” I ask, mentally willing her not to move her hips. “Did I look at any of them tonight?”
“No.” Her grin is powerful.
“Have you seen me look at anyone all season?”
She thinks, and the grin grows to a full-blown smile. “No.”
I shake my head. “No. Because I can only see you.”
“I believe that. What I can’t believe is how long it took me to do it.” Leaning over, she whispers in my ear. “Now, I want you to show me.”
She’s so soft. So warm. So perfect.
When she pulls my shirt over my head, I return the favor, telling her how beautiful she is with all the words I can manage. Then I show her. Taste her. Run my fingers over every inch of skin I can reach. I trail kisses from one bare shoulder to the other, relishing in the feel of chill bumps. I use my tongue to explore the swell of her breasts and almost lose myself in the sound she makes. Her bra is black. Lacy, sheer. And it’s killing me. I want it on the floorboard with our shirts.
Along with everything else she’s wearing.
“Liza, wait.” I almost lose my resolve when I look up into her eyes—wide pools of chocolate brown. “When we . . . do this, I want to soak in every single bit of you. To spend time with you. Time on you.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“But now isn’t the time, and here isn’t the place.”
When she realizes what I’m saying, she climbs off of me and scoots back, pressing into the corner of her seat, her arms clutched over her chest. I’d do anything to take away the hurt I see in her eyes.
I grit my teeth and reach for my T-shirt. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I can’t believe you are either. I didn’t think you’d reject me before you got me naked.”
“Liza, listen.” I focus on what I need to say. “Look at me.”
She does.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with rejection, or how much I want to be with you. I don’t want anyone—especially you—to think this is some kind of conquest. I leave tomorrow, for three days. If I can’t see you, or touch you, you might doubt me. Doubt us. And I definitely don’t want the first time we . . . make love . . . to be in a car. In a public parking lot. I want more than that. A lot more.”
“You realize you’re making me want to take off the rest of my clothes, right?”
All I can offer in reply is another groan.
“So we’ll stop.” She tugs her tank over her head as she stares out the windshield. My stomach sinks a little.
“We’ll stop.” I slide my arms t
hrough the sleeves of my shirt.
“Wait,” she says. “Make . . . love?”
I finish putting on the shirt and take a deep breath. It’s now or never, Benny. Don’t strike out.
“Love.” I reach out to take her hand, keeping my focus on the windshield, too. “I think. I haven’t been waiting for you this long for it to be anything else.”
We sit for a moment, hand in hand, just breathing.
“I think the feeling could be . . . is . . . mutual.”
“I’m glad that’s covered, then.”
She turns to face me. “Well, if you won’t make love to me—”
“Right now.” I meet her eyes.
“Right now.” She smiles. “The least you can do is kiss me senseless before I go inside.” She runs a finger along the neckline of her tank top, focuses on my mouth. “Is that a problem, player?”
The wait might be the death of me. Or it might be the best part.
“No.” I start for her lips. “No problem at all.”
About the Author
MYRA McENTIRE lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband and two sons. You can visit her online at www.MyraMcEntire.com
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This Is My Sign
HANNAH MOSKOWITZ
I met Stephanie when we were seven
at a playgroup for Deaf children that was
strangely arranged
We were in different groups because Stephanie
had 15% hearing in one ear (not anymore)
and 30% in the other (not anymore
she annihilated them both with rock and roll,
my girl) and I was what they callProfoundly Deaf
even though at that point I didn’t think about anything very
profound, or think about much at all,
or write any poetry
Stephanie and I weren’t supposed to play together but we did
anyway, just like when we weren’t supposed to play together
because she had chicken pox but we did
anyway, and then we itched together and spelled out words on
each other’s
skin
Tonight the lights are off
our eyes are closed
our hands are all over each other
so there is no
talking
I guess you could say we’ve been together for eleven years
I guess you could say we’d been waiting for
a sign
For a while when we were younger we kissed every day
At 3:41, exactly, because that was when
we’d be walking home from school and far enough
away from each that no one
could see us
We would actually be right under one of those
WATCH FOR DEAF CHILDREN signs,
coincidentally,
except if people had known that this was
what they’d be watching Deaf children do
they might have asked for the signs to be
reconsidered
The lights are off
our eyes are closed
we don’t need
watching
My hand crawls underneath her shirt
traces ribs.
This is our last night, because tomorrow
she leaves for school;
she’s going to Gallaudet, Deaf heaven in the big city.
I didn’t get in.
I have community college
an interpreter
people who will think there’s something wrong with me.
Stephanie’s tightening grip on my wrist tells me
that she thinks there is something wrong with me
after all and that thing is that
I am going too slowly
Her fingernails dig into my palm.
This is my sign.
Stephanie is breathing hard, heart against mine
beating so strongly we’re shaking
or maybe that’s me
I’ve told her more than I’ve ever told anyone
signed with her under the table during classes
or over my mom’s head when she’s not looking
on our webcams when she’s on vacation
with sticky ice cream fingers
with our hands full of groceries
with big gloves on in the snow
We’ve said everything to each other
including occasionally asking
why haven’t we had sex yet
what are we waiting for
I never had an answer
but here now,
in the dark,
our eyes closed,
our hands all over each other,
I am thinking that maybe we never did because
we were so busy
with our hands
In this silence,
with my lips on hers,
I miss her,
for a minute.
In a few hours I will miss her for a long time.
She signs my name against my chest
and I know how it feels and there she is
there’s my girl
there is me.
This is my sign.
I’m good at feeling things,
like whether the floor above our heads is shaking (it’s not)
with my mother’s footsteps when she’s awake (she isn’t)
and I’m good at feeling Stephanie’s dark skin
and tiny hands and big curls
and I’m good at feeling warm and alive and
educated, lying on top of this girl
thinking my profound thoughts at
inopportune
times
she nips at my chin,
kisses me deeper.
Smelling her sweat
she is signing yes yes yes
a rocked hand, a
pounding
and it scares me all of a sudden
to be this close and to sense with all of my
everything this person I’m going to lose
this person who I wasn’t ever
supposed to have
going away to the only place I ever wanted to go
and I never knew why until she I found out she was going
this person
this person
this person
making an I love you with my left hand
and pushing it into her thigh until it will hurt her
like it hurts me
tonight
and then she opens her eyes
and I realize there’s enough light for me to see them
see her
it is not so dark
after all
I kiss her throat
her skin pulls a little
vibrates
This is my sign.
This is my
fucking
Deaf heaven.
About the Author
HANNAH MOSKOWITZ wrote her first story, about a kitten named Lilly on the run from cat hunters, for a contest when she was seven years old. It was disqualified for violence. She’s the author of ten books, including Break, aYALSA’s 2010Popular Paperbacks for Young Adults, and Gone, Gone, Gone, a Stonewall Award Honor Book for 2013. She lives in New York City.
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Going for Broke
LYLA PAYNE
One
Tressa
THE WEIGHT OF my best friend’s gaze tightens my back muscles into a cramp as I walk toward my ’85 Camaro. It’s only a matter of time before she tries one final time to convince me that this whole thing is a waste of energy. That it’s been two years since Noel and I have spoken, and it’s past time to let it go. That it’s selfish of me to disrupt what’s supposed to be the happiest day of his life.
But this is my last ch
ance to shake the regret that’s been dogging me for years. I refuse to live the rest of my life knowing that the first time I fell in real, heartbreaking, painful love, I didn’t ever say the words. If I don’t say them now, it will be like it never happened—Noel and me. As though I never loved him, and he never loved me, and maybe that I imagined everything we went through that summer and in the tumultuous months that followed.
“As your friend, I must advise against crossing the line from pathetic ex-girlfriend to stalker ex-girlfriend.” I turn around to receive Ashlee’s look, her brown eyes a typical mix of tough love and sarcasm.
Ever since I’d told her my plan to go see Noel before his wedding, she’d been none too subtle about her opposition to the idea. It’s the first time I’ve ever crashed a wedding, though, so who knows what will happen. I don’t expect Noel to call it off or anything, but some closure would be nice. Of the two of us, I’m the more optimistic. Which isn’t saying much.
“You know, we’re not living in a movie,” Ashlee soldiered on. “In real life, people don’t wait. They move on. He’s not going to be happy to see you. He’s going to think you’ve lost your ever-loving mind.”
“I’m pretty sure he already thinks that after our last meeting.”
“Case in point. You cannot expect him to still consider you viable relationship material after chucking pretzel sticks off a roof at his girlfriend.”
I banish the memory of that horrible night to the back of my mind, the night I’d been determined to finally tell him how I felt but had run into the slight snag of him having moved on and forgotten to tell me. And then I’d nailed my coffin shut by climbing on the roof, wasted and emotionally demolished, and hurling delicious, salty snacks at his now-fiancée. Not my finest hour.
“Do we have to rehash this? I know you think it’s crazy, I know he’s going to think it’s crazy, but I have to go. I’m twenty-two years old. I’m not living with this shit on my heart for the next seventy-five years.”
“Tressa, be serious. Have you seen the crap food you eat? No way you’re making it past eighty.” Ashlee gives me a smile, the signal that she heard me about dropping the subject.
We haven’t been friends for almost twenty years for nothing.
“Does this trip mean I’m covering rent this month?”
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