“Okay,that took way longer than expected,” Blythe huffs while plopping down in the seat next to me. “I got my paperwork at the hospital finished, though. What did I miss?”
“Pretty much all of it,” I answer with a laugh. “They’re about to start the bottom of the eighth inning.”
We both lean back to prop our feet on the empty seats in front of us. On the other side of me, Savannah’s legs are crossed as she tosses popcorn into her mouth.
“Dang. Well, at least I’ll catch the end of it with y’all,” Blythe points out while leaning toward me to get a look at what I’m staring at on my phone. “Whatcha got there?”
“Sorry,” I respond, clicking the side button to make the screen go black and then tucking the phone face down in my lap. “Just an email. It can wait.”
Savannah quirks a brow. “They’re bothering you with emails on Sundays now?”
“Unfortunately.” I sigh and look toward the field. “It’s kind of necessary to pull seven-day work weeks if we want to meet our deadline at the end of the summer.”
Blythe lifts her hand to lightly massage the space between my neck and shoulder. My eyes involuntarily close, and I roll my head to the side.
“You failed my stress test,” she states while lowering her hand back to her lap. “Work pressure kills.”
“Literally.” The batter and the ump argue strikes at home plate while I mull over the topic of conversation as if we’re not in the middle of watching a baseball game. “Why do you think I left my job and moved to the country?”
“I did the exact same thing,” Blythe admits. We laugh over our shared suffering while Savannah fixes her face with a worried expression. “Where did Tripp run off to?”
I look around and then shrug at Blythe’s question. “He was sitting right here not long ago. Savannah and I went to get a drink, and he was gone when we got back.”
For a split second, I was relieved that he wasn’t in the seat next to mine when we returned from the concession stand. Not because I hated him being there, but because Ididn’thate it. At all. I wasn’t prepared for how much I’d enjoy watching the game with someone who loves the team and this sport as much as I do.
In the few light-hearted arguments we had over a questionable call or borderline pitch, I didn’t actually disagree with his opinion. I was selfishly egging him on so that the warm spark in my chest wouldn’t burn out.
As we’d explicitly decided on the way here, Tripp and I are just friends. I’m keenly aware of our mutually agreed upon status, but I think it may have already slipped his mind a time or two during the game.
His arm found its way to the back of my chair not once, but twice. He pulled the brim of my hat down over my eyes when our best hitter struck out. The outside of his thigh kept brushing against mine as if the section behind the backstop where we were sitting was crowded and he had no other choice.
But the truth is that other than Savannah, we were the only ones sitting in the cluster of seatbacks underneath the press box.
Either I’m stupid or he’s flirted with me the entire time. And I’m surely lacking some brain cells, because I flirted right back, stealing his nachos and even pretending I was scared of a hard-hit foul ball by hiding my face in his shoulder.
It was all harmless, and I have no reason to read too far into it. We simply get along and have a common interest. Of course we’re going to be easy around one another. So what?
So, less than one day into our friendship, and I’m not sure if I have the willpower to keep a guy like Tripp at arm’s length.That’swhat.
Not with that stupid smirk and chiseled jaw of his that make me want to jump in the deep end of a swimming pool just so I can scream under water. Not with the way every non-physical attribute of his intrigues me just as much, either.
Before I can continue overthinking the last three hours and wondering if being friends with this guy is even going to be plausible, my attention shifts to the loud ping of a bat crushing a fastball. I watch the batter slowly jog to first and point to his erupting teammates like he knows exactly what he just did. When the outfielder in left halts the momentum of his body and drops his glove, I know for sure that ball is getting out of here.
The modest crowd, mainly consisting of players’ family members in the rickety, old bleachers by the dugout, rises to their feet in a chorus of cheers. We were already up by two, but insurance runs are always good to have.
I clap along with them, but squint when the flying baseball crosses the fence and begins to drop. My gaze lands on Tripp standing in the middle of a group of boys who are wearing scuffed sneakers and oversized matching t-shirts. They scramble around him, grins wide and gloves in the air. Tripp lifts his arms at the last minute to catch the home run. Barehanded.
The boys react like we just clinched a trip to the World Series. They hoot and holler, tossing their gloves in the air and dramatically holding their hands on the tops of their heads. Tripp, in the thick of the chaos, stumbles back and forth from their celebratory shoves while wearing a grin that damn near sparkles, even from a distance.
He’s been gone for at least three innings. Has he been playing catch with them out there this whole time?
When their enthusiasm dies down, he high-fives each of the boys, then hands the ball to one of them. Despite the inning continuing, I remain focused on the grassy berm beyond left field.
The breeze picks up and pushes the sides of Tripp’s unbuttoned jersey, fluttering it behind him. His white t-shirt underneath clings to his body—almost to the point that I can see the muscly contours that I know decorate his abdomen. Eventually, he waves to the group of boys and turns to walk back in this direction.
Savannah leans toward me with a hushed whisper. “How long are you going to stare at him like you’d lick the sweat out of his ass crack?”
Blythe snorts while pushing up the bottom of my chin to close my mouth that I didn’t even realize was hanging open.
