Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
He grabs an Xbox controller off the coffee table. “Rocket League is also a valid coping mechanism. There’s also really good food delivery.”
“See, I knew I could count on you.”
We play for a while. Some of the tension winding up my bones since Josh and I parted ways on the sidewalk, starts to unspool. And as it slinks away, the options become clearer. Maybe more necessary too. Since, yeah, playing Xbox with Jamie when I’m not on the field is a good way to pass the time. But I want more than just entertainment.
And I want it with the guy on the other side of the state.
So, I should take a step toward Josh.
“I could call him,” I say, more nonchalant than I feel. “Friends call each other?”
Jamie doesn’t stop playing the game. “Sure, you called me, after all.”
The fucker. He’s baiting me. Jamie knows it’s not the same with him. Obviously.
On-screen, my little cartoon car pushes an oversized soccer ball around. “We could probably make plans or something. For when I’m back in the city. Just as friends.”
Lies I tell myself. But hey, if it gets me in the same room as Josh, I’ll keep fibbing.
Another noise of agreement.
“Dinner even. But we both work kind of late. So it’d have to be a late dinner,” I say, liking that idea.
“Of course.”
“And I should definitely call ahead. Last time we went out for drinks, there were fans. And it’s easier if we don’t have to deal with that. If we can just . . .”
Be alone together.
“That’s only reasonable.”
“Maybe there’s a backroom at this restaurant,” I add, as I score a goal and the ball explodes into a puff of graphical dust. That sounds brilliant too. A backroom, without any interfering press, or fans, or excuses.
“This all sounds like good planning.”
I put the controller down, abandoning the game, then level him with a stare. “You’re really not going to say anything? Chris, that sure as shit sounds like a date to me.”
Because a date is exactly what I just planned.
Correction: Another date.
A third date. A fourth. Until we stop counting dates and start counting months.
Jamie laughs. “I’ve never known you to be anything other than direct. I’m told that if you want something, you should go after it. So, unless he’s throwing up stop signs, why not?”
That’s a valid question, so I run through the answers to it.
“He might say ‘no.’”
“He might.”
“It’d suck if he did.”
“It probably would.”
“But,” I begin, and even though I don’t like either of those two scenarios at all, the risk is worth it. I can’t get Josh out of my head. No, I don’t want to get him out of my head. “I won’t know until I try.”
“That is true. You won’t know until you know,” he says.
I picture Josh, his deep brown eyes, his intensity, his dry humor. Then, the moments of vulnerability and need—moments that drew me closer to him. When he asked on the couch if he could kiss me, when he asked me out for a drink, when he smiled at me at the bar and asked me to play pool before a bunch of fans came crashing in.
If only we found more time.
I guess that’s what we have now, and for the next six weeks. That’s the thing about time: It’s always limited when you don’t want it to be and infinite when you just want it to hurry the hell up.
“I should probably call him.” I dig in my pocket for my phone.
Jamie, taking the hint, gets up from the couch.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to evict you from your own living room.”
“It’s Mack’s living room. And I’m good. I should go review game footage anyway.”
“It’s spring training.”
“Never too early to be prepared. Take your time.”
After Jamie leaves, I sit and study my phone, trying to formulate how to say, date me, date me, date me without actually saying that. Or at least using better words. Finally, I open up FaceTime, finger hovering over the icon to hit Call, when my phone starts buzzing.
* * *
Josh: *FaceTime Request*
* * *
I don’t drop the phone answering it, mostly because I’m an All-Star third baseman with the reflexes of a professional athlete. Also, the couch cushions catch it. I look startled when I answer, and probably sound out of breath when I say, “What’s up?”
But none of that matters when I see Josh.
“Hey,” he says. He looks soft at the edges. His hair is in slight disarray. Something about it makes me wish I could climb through my phone screen and kiss him.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
“I managed to tweak my hammie during our first practice.”
“Shit.”
“It’s not serious. I’m day-to-day.” He does air quotes around day-to-day. “They might have given me a muscle relaxer.”
That would explain the slightly blissful smile he aims at me.