chapter 38
“Really? Chase Stern?” Any chance the mystery girl wouldn’t be interested drowned in her giant stadium cup that I’d bet twenty bucks was spiked with liquor. She bounced up and down in excitement, letting out an unladylike squeal.
I tried to smile. “He’d like your number,” I repeated, this time a little slower, but she was too busy freaking out to listen.
“Your number.” Her friend poked her, stopping the mess of brown curls from bouncing any higher. “Give the girl your number.”
“Can I get a picture with him really quick?” the girl whined, holding out her phone as if I might inspect it. “Just right now, super fast?”
“They’re in the outfield,” I said dryly. “So, no.”
“I can wait. Just right down there, by the rail thingy.”
I smiled again and contemplated knocking the drink out of her hand.
“If you could just give me your number, you can take all the pictures you want with him after the game.” Chase was an idiot.
Meeting fans during the middle of a series.
He should spend tonight focused on the next game, not doing God-knows-what with this giant-breasted Barbie doll.
When I walked back down the steps, her phone number tight in my hand, I looked out to the field, my eyes finding Chase. He lifted a chin, I lifted her number, and our gaze held for a minute.
Then there was the crack of the bat, and our eye contact broke.
I jumped the dugout railing and contemplated throwing the number in the trash.
I didn’t. Instead, I was a good little ball girl, putting it in Chase’s helmet, right where he wouldn’t miss it, a location that eliminated any need for follow-up conversation.
Maybe I was getting too old for this job.
Maybe I should call Tobey.