Page 54 of The Art of Catching Feelings
Her tentative smile dropped a little. “I can ride in the back,” she said. “That’s not a problem.”
Now he had to hold out his arm to stop her from closing the door all the way. “No, no,” he said. “That was a joke. A bad one. Sorry, get in.”
She did, her body language still a little uncertain.
“It was because you were peering in like I was an Uber driver,” he said. “You know, the classic,is this Andrew’s black sedan?type of look. Like I said, bad joke.”
“Oh,” she said, relaxing into the seat. “I just wasn’t sure if you’d remember how to get here. I realized—”
She broke off suddenly, biting her lower lip. Somehow, though, he thought he knew what she was about to say. “We should’ve exchanged numbers,” he said, grabbing his phone from the cup holder next to him, unlocking it, and handing it to her without taking his eyes from the road. “Go ahead and text yourself and then we’ll have each other’s.”
“That’s okay,” she said, a little stiffly. She was looking at his phone like it was a snake. “I don’t think I’ll need a ride again after today.”
He could’ve pointed out that it might not hurt to have each other’s numbers anyway, but he wasn’t going to push it. She pressed her hands between her thighs, almost as if she needed to stop herself from touching anything. Or maybe she was just cold again—he’d noticed the goose bumps on her skin last night even though she’d insisted she was fine.
He’d noticed a lot about her, actually, despite his best efforts not to. Like now, the smooth strip of thigh from where her dresshad ridden up an inch, the hollow curve behind her knees. He cleared his throat, suddenly wishing he could blast the AC a little higher.
“Music?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He put on a playlist he’d made a while back with enough variety on it that he figured it’d be relatively inoffensive no matter what her musical tastes were. But then it opened with an older Rage Against the Machine song, and he almost skipped to the next track, not sure if that was a little heavy for what she’d be into.
“Did you ever figure out your walk-up song?” she asked, then immediately tensed up. He was keeping his eyes on the road, so he couldn’t see her expression, but he could tell her entire body language had stiffened in the seat next to him.
“No…” he said slowly. “Marv keeps threatening to pick one for me, but so far I’ve been getting away with just not having one. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” she said, her voice tight. “I just noticed you didn’t have one.”
“This was one of my walk-up songs in college, actually,” he said, gesturing toward the radio. “I don’t know, maybe I should use it again. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Nope,” she said. “I don’t really like music.”
Anymusic? Now he was wondering why she’d agreed to him putting on his playlist in the car. Maybe that explained why she’d suddenly gotten so tense and awkward. He reached over to turn the volume down.
“Sorry,” he said. “We don’t have to listen to anything. Or do you prefer talk radio, a podcast? Anything but sports, that’s all I ask.”
She rubbed her hands on her dress, and even though the fabric was a perfectly modest barrier between her palms and the bareskin of her thighs, he still found himself tracking the motion out of the corner of his eye.Whywas he having all these thoughts about the team sideline reporter, of all people? No way would he ever act on anything with her, even if he wanted to.
Did he want to?
He thought back to that moment after he’d gotten nailed by a pitch and come out of the game. It had been second nature to show her the bruise—he was used to it, having physical therapists and trainers and teammates inspect his body, put their hands on it, and figure out where he hurt, how to stretch a muscle. But the minute he’d lifted up his shirt for her, it had felt…different. Thrilling. He’d felt her gaze on him like it was a physical touch, and then he’d felt self-conscious about feeling that way. Vaguely guilty, too. In the end, he’d stuck around long enough to make sure she didn’t get hit with a foul ball off Mitch’s bat, and then he’d removed himself from the situation.
Either way, it didn’t matter now. A reporter for the team was definitely off-limits no matter what.
“I don’t actuallyhatemusic,” she said. “I don’t know why I said that. This song is nice.”
He didn’t challenge that, even thoughnicewas a bland word for a song that in his opinion was anything but.
“What would you think about letting the fans pick your walk-up song?” she suggested suddenly. “We could advertise it on the broadcast, run a poll on social media, let people fill out cards when they come to the ballpark. I don’t have all the logistics figured out, but it could be fun.”
He winced. “I don’t know. It could really bring out the trolls. The write-in opportunities alone.”
“What do you mean?”
He held up his hand, counting off even though he quickly ran out of fingers. “Smash Mouth’s ‘All Star,’ to show how I’mnotanAll-Star. Smash Mouth in general. Anything with the wordsslump, weak, choke, wimp, crybaby, loser, pussy, other homophobic or transphobic options I’m not even creative enough to think of…”
He probably shouldn’t have saidpussyout loud like that, even in a different context. Now it felt like the word reverberated through the car, and he wished he could turn the music back up without it being obvious.
