Space Crush: Houston, Ignitions Are a Go (Space)

1. Ball Bearings

ONE

BALL BEARINGS

Evan

I’m drowning in balls.

Not the way I wanted to show off to the group of elementary students at the NASA Youth at Work Festival, but then again, that’s what I get for trying to show off to a group of elementary students.

I’d been overconfident.

Seeing as I believe my job as the EVA and Human Surface Mobility Program’s lead systems engineer to be the coolest job ever, I naturally thought the kids would too.

To be fair, I hadn’t known the EHSMP booth was going to be set up next to the two-thousand-square-foot bouncy house/ball pit that NASA rented for the outdoor festival.

Or that there would be cotton candy, face painting, and astronauts riding around on a legit lunar terrain vehicle— aka moon rover.

NASA doesn’t do anything by halves. That’s been proven over the years.

So when they decided to open up the normally closed-off Johnson Space Center campus to put on a family-friendly event with the goal of teaching youth about the various jobs in space exploration in the hopes of inspiring and recruiting said youth in the future—I should’ve known they’d go all out.

No wonder that, not even halfway through explaining what a systems engineer does, I started losing them.

I had to bribe the kids with the freeze-dried ice cream bars I arranged as a thanks-for-listening gift to get them to refocus. That got me five minutes. Just long enough to ask them if they wanted to see what an astronaut looks like walking on the moon.

Cut to me strapping a Simplified Aid for EVA Rescue (aka SAFER, aka jet pack) on my back and hefting myself inside the bouncy house.

I mean, this inflatable jungle gym is called a moon bounce.

And, honestly, my impromptu re-enactment—aka weeble-wobbling—was going great, if the kids’ oohs and aahs were any indication.

That is, it was going great—until I was thrown off balance by a cannonballing ten-year-old.

And now thanks to the legit eighty-five-pound pack I strapped on my back instead of the lighter demo model (thanks to my moment of I’m-a-man stupidity) I’m now more of a turtle on its back than an astronaut in space.

A turtle three feet under a rainbow of plastic spheres, who’s contemplating its intelligence.

Or lack thereof.

But it could be worse.

At least I don’t have to worry about my own personal set of balls being crushed thanks to a little girl who was smart enough to tell all the other kids to stay out of the ball pit because an astronaut had an accident.

Did she make it sound like I peed myself? Yes.

But did she call me an astronaut? Also, yes.

Meaning there’s a chance the real astronauts will get credited for getting stuck in a children’s ball pit rather than the engineers.

Not very mature of me, but considering I’m balls-deep in a pit that smells like dust, sweat, and socks, I’m gonna go ahead and cut myself some slack as I facilitate an exit strategy.

But before my brain can strategize any such plan, the floor beneath me undulates, signaling that someone else has entered the ball pit.

“Where are you?” The clipped, feminine voice sounds familiar, but it’s hard to think between my stomach lurching with each footstep she takes and the loud hum of the air compressor.

Resigned to playing an astronaut in distress, I stick my arm straight up and out of the balls like a flag marking my location.

A second later, a small but strong hand grips mine, yanking me upright and topside. “Up you go.”

Blinking into the afternoon sunlight filtering through the ball pit’s side netting, my eyes first focus on the NASA patch stitched on to the polo shirt of my rescuer before drifting up into a very familiar, very attractive, and very indifferent face.

Kaley Parker.

My stomach sinks lower than my ass in the ball pit.

Looking as unimpressed as I probably deserve, Kaley, the woman who effectively ghosted me after what I considered to be the hottest goodnight kiss following the best date I ever went on in my thirty-eight years, folds her arms over her chest. “Are you hurt?”

Recalibrating, I muster up a smile I’ve been told is charming. “Only my pride.”

My charm fails, as with unfaltering seriousness, Kaley assesses my position in the ball pit. “Can you stand?”

“Ah…” I shift to my side and grimace when the weight of the SAFER threatens to pull me down again.

She opens her mouth, but I cut her off, not wanting to look completely helpless in front of her or the kids. “Maybe if you could help me lean sideways, the angle would be enough for me to swing my feet under me without toppling over.”

Her frown deepens as a breeze from the moon bounce’s air compressor plays with the wisps of hair around her forehead, damp with sweat. Sweat no doubt from wearing utilitarian cargo pants in the Texas autumn heat while wading through a sea of dense plastic balls.

“That way,” I rush to explain, “I’d be able to propel myself forward until I was on all fours so I could crawl to the edge of the ball pit and leverage myself up and over the ridge.”

I admit it isn’t the coolest exit strategy, and while I wasn’t expecting her to applaud—the eye roll stings.

“ Or …” She bends over, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder, the ends tickling my temple.

Side note—Kaley Parker smells like lemons.

My brain, too busy enjoying the clean, fresh scent that seems to somehow fit perfectly with her no-nonsense attitude, doesn’t catch on to what she’s doing.

And when my brain’s synapses do finally start firing, it deduces that the citrus-scented safety expert is going to try and fireman carry me out of the bounce house.

“Oh, don’t pick me up, I’ll?—”

Snick . Snick.

The two buckles she unfastened at my chest cause the straps of the heavy SAFER jet pack to slide off my shoulders and fall onto the cushion of plastic balls behind me.

My mouth drops in a silent O.

Kaley’s nostrils flare, which I’m pretty sure is from trying to hold back laughter.

The kids watching, uncaring of my ego, laugh outright.

Once more, Kaley stretches out her hand, a challenge in her sparkling eyes. As if she’s expecting me to be annoyed or ungrateful for her help, embarrassing as it might have been.

But honestly, I’m not the slightest bit upset.

I’m impressed. And maybe slightly turned on.

Two things that are normal occurrences when it comes to Kaley Parker. When she isn’t infuriating me with her lack of text response and call-backs.

On a deep exhale that’s half-laugh, half-exasperation, I take hold of her hand, this time allowing my much-lighter self to be pulled to my feet.

There’s a rush of lemon-scented air before I’m inches away from her strait-laced expression, the seriousness marred by the barest hint of a smile.

Her freckles remind me of the constellations I used to track as a kid.

“You good?” There’s a flicker of concern in her eyes as we bob up and down, our muscles bracing to keep balance, and I wonder if I look like a lovesick cartoon character.

Summoning up the dregs of my earlier confidence, I squeeze the hand still holding mine. “I?—”

“ Superman !” The youthful exclamation is followed by a burst of pain as a kid, who probably felt like the ball pit restriction was over now that the toppled astronaut is standing, tackles me from behind.

In seconds, I’m once again covered in balls.

But this time I’m not alone.