Chapter 27
Tenny
Irace up the upper-level seating in the Waves stadium, taking the stairs two at a time.
Hopefully it’ll give the anxiety coursing through my bloodstream somewhere to go.
Alex gave me a break for the last three games, but today, we’re supposed to address singing “Born to Run” while lacing my spikes.
I’m particularly fond of this superstition because it was my first. I’d sung this exact song before a breakout game that resulted in me being pulled from the Waves’ minor league feeder team to The Show.
Since then, I’ve sung it while putting on my shoes every single game.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been a complete headcase since helping Alex take her first stroll near the ocean in half a decade.
Afterward, I had to tell myself, You do not need to text the group chat to ask if holding hands means something.
You are a first baseman for one of the best—no, THE best—MLB team.
You do not need to ask your friends if Alex letting you hold her chilly hand during a pleasant walk on the beach is significant.
I know it’s significant, even if Alex isn’t ready to admit it.
The thing is…I can’t stop thinking about her.
All I want is more.
Alex telling me my Too much tendencies weren’t a problem swiftly followed by her being an absolute goon to save me from an unwanted fan interaction made my week.
Maybe my lifetime?
I want to hug Alex, to express the gratitude swelling in my veins. I don’t think I’ve ever felt it was okay to fully be myself with anyone else. I’ve let my personality out in fits and spurts, but I’d only felt comfortable being my true self with my family.
This week, I challenged the voice in my head that told me I was Too much.
If I wanted to be goofy with baserunners the last few games, I cracked jokes.
If I wanted to hoot and slap my chest after a home run, I did.
I hugged my teammates and cheered at the railing, and I didn’t give a whip what anyone said, because Alex was beaming at me with a microphone poised beneath her chin after each game.
I know.
I’m in deep.
It might be a problem.
Alex might give me the cold shoulder again. This time, I’m willing to deal with the fallout. The way I feel when I’m around her is too incredible not to risk it.
That’s why I showed up unannounced yesterday morning with a bird protection system for Alex’s balcony.
I hummed at her gentle ribbing as I put up a net, reflectors, and bought Leaf a friend in the way of a potted outdoor hydrangea.
Alex playfully rolled her eyes at me when I suggested that she bring Leaf out occasionally for a botanical bonding.
After that, I insisted on assembling her new furniture until it was time to report to the stadium.
But now, I’m sock-footed, a little sweaty, and overwhelmed.
My mind feels like three dozen cats are chasing balls of yarn.
I tried the mental strategies that Dr. Porter—or Darius, as he insists I call him—suggested already.
My sports psychologist gave me tips on breathing and visualization, but counting while inhaling and seeing myself having a great game hasn’t decreased the jittery energy sprinting through me.
I hang my head, letting the ocean breeze cool the back of my neck.
“I need to add stairs to my workout routine,” Alex says with a forceful exhale as she climbs the bleachers.
When I glance up, it’s like a shove to the chest. Alex is wearing a fitted, professional black dress with gray sparkle Vans today. She looks like a newcasting goddess, but I still prefer the makeup-free and delightfully surprised expression when I knocked on her door yesterday.
“I want to buy you those in every color, but especially Waves blue.”
The honest sentence is probably the wrong thing to say, but Alex glances at her feet, that pink settling over her cheeks.
Holy crap. Did I just make Alex blush?
“The only shoes we should be talking about are yours, Mister,” she tells me with a mocking tone as she takes the stadium seat beside mine. Alex could have easily sat in any of the four chairs I left between me and the aisle, so my blood hums at her proximity.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, staring at the press badge looped around her neck.
Again, it’s too honest.
Apparently, I don’t have a filter today.
“Sure you can.” Alex’s upbeat voice draws my gaze.
Her eyes are practically sparkling, like the glittering ocean waves that are visible only from this high up in the stadium.
It’s the one ballpark where the cheap seats behind third base are actually sought after.
Unlike in Oracle Park, where the home runs fire right into the San Francisco Bay, an extensive netting system keeps any of our home runs from hitting beachgoers on the sand.
“Because I have the perfect substitution song.”
I scrub my beard scruff with my palm, almost afraid to ask. “What is it?”
Alex makes me wait, the anticipation nearly killing me.
“Come on. I’m obviously a wreck. Put me out of my misery.”
Her smile is entirely too wicked. “You’re going to sing ‘Thong Song’ by Sisqó.”
I rear back, mouth twisting like I’ve eaten a putrid pickle. “What?”
“It’s the perfect replaceme—”
“No.” I hold out a hand, almost knocking her in the knee. “I’m not going to sing about…” I lower my voice, even though we’re the only ones in this part of the stadium—in any of the stands, really. “...underwear while lacing up my spikes.”
“Are you sure?” Her evil grin is way too gleeful. “You’d be sufficiently distracted by the song while breaking this superstition.”
I shake my head like a little kid being asked if he wants a second helping of broccoli. “Nope. Uh-uh. No way.”
“Fine.” Alex gives me a dramatic sigh. “Sing ‘Baby Got Back’ instead.”
“Excuse me?”
She places her index finger along the side of her chin. “If you don’t like Sir Mix-a-Lot, there’s always ‘Rump Shaker,’ ‘Ms. New Booty,’ or ‘Bootylicious.’”
When I simply stare, mouth agape, Alex lifts her palms. “What? I thought for sure you’d be a Destiny’s Child fan. Didn’t you bring a karaoke machine to one of Trevor’s house parties and declare it ‘early 2000s’ night?”
I sit up straight. “My flawless rendition of Britney Spear’s ‘Toxic’ remains unchallenged.”
“Okay, then. Use that theatrical energy to break this superstition today,” she says, her smile twitching at the corners like she’s trying to keep it subdued.
I want to tell her to stop. I want Alex to smile fully, even if it makes my ribs ache.
“What game are you playing?” I ask, leaning too close for my own good.
Alex huddles forward like she’s seconds from sharing state secrets. “One I’ll win.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I already have.” Alex winking at me does irreparable things to my insides.
“What are you—” My sentence cuts off in a shocked gasp as my hand flies to my chest, my fingertips hitting my tennis necklace.
This time, Alex’s full smile stretches her lips. “Look who’s not nervous anymore.”
I don’t really think when I go to tickle Alex. It just sort of happens, like how you pump the brakes when a car stops short, even when you’re in the passenger seat. Alex lets out a joyful screech while trying to bat my hand away.
Unfortunately for her, I’m undeterred. The tickle assault Alex receives is worthy of the record books. I’m ruthless. The second Alex says stop, I’ll comply, but she’s yet to ask me for a ceasefire. Instead, she wriggles in her seat, squealing while trying to fend me off.
“You brought this upon yourself,” I remind her.
“Tenny, stop.” She grips both of my hands tight, breathless from laughter.
I press forward until my lips almost brush her earlobe. “Emotional manipulation is generally frowned upon, Ms. Stevens.”
“But it worked!” Her words are a happy shriek that has me sitting back so I can catch her grin.
I match her smile, my gaze darting from her cheekbones, to the slight crinkle of her eyes, to the single freckle by her right temple. A heavy thud pulses behind my breastbone, but I catch the words just before they flee my lips.
I can’t stop thinking about your smile. It pops into my head first thing when I wake up, and it’s what I see on the backs of my eyelids when I lie down every night. The only thing that edges it out is your laugh. I freaking love your laugh. I want to hear it all the time.
Flipping my wrists, I easily break free of Alex’s hold. She’s here to help me because it’s a condition of our ‘intentionally transactional professional relationship,’ and I need to remember that.
“I think I’m ready.”
Alex nods, relaxing back in her seat while keeping her gaze on me. I take one long breath, and then, with steady hands, I lace my spikes.
“There’s only one thing to do now,” I tell Alex when I’m done.
“Win a baseball game?”
The spring sunshine seems to make Alex’s golden hair glow. My hand flexes as she leans toward me. One of Alex’s perfectly polished camera-ready waves falls over the front of her shoulder, tempting me to wrap it around my finger.
“That’s a given.” I let the corner of my mouth slide up. “I’m talking about our plans for tomorrow morning.”
The slight wrinkle between her brows is impossibly sweet.
“We don’t have plans for—”
“Sure we do,” I interrupt.
Alex’s eyes narrow, but before she can argue with me, I say, “We get to break in my new wetsuit.”