7. Why Can’t We Be Friends
SEVEN
WHY CAN’T WE BE FRIENDS
ISABELLA
I groan as I roll over, slapping my hand down on my alarm clock that is blaring like a WWII air siren.
Some people use songs as their alarms. Not me.
I use a good old fashioned digital alarm clock that screams bloody murder to wake you up.
Nothing else works well enough to pull me from the depths of sleep.
I pull my phone off its charger and squint, bleary eyed at the screen. 5:30 a.m. I groan again before flopping back on the bed. It should be illegal to be awake before the sun. And yet, here I am. Getting up at 5:30 a.m. for an afternoon game.
I let out a resigned sigh before dragging myself from the comfort of my bed and into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I make quick work in the shower, my hair tucked up in a shower cap so I can douse it in dry shampoo and avoid needing to blow-dry and style it from scratch.
Changed into my pantsuit for the game, I start my five-minute makeup routine: SPF, mascara, and a lip stain. I value my time for sleep over applying a full face of makeup to sweat it all off anyway.
I take a quick peek at my phone to check the time. 6:02 a.m. I’ve got eight minutes to collect myself and then race out the door to make it to the stadium for 6:30 a.m.
I head into the kitchen and check the cabinets for something I can eat on the go, only finding a single Rice Krispies Treat. Thanks, Jordan. You’re not truly an adult until you eat sweets for breakfast, right?
I head over to the hall table where we ditch our keys, snatching my purse from where I left it last night and slipping my feet into a pair of sneakers.
Heading to the door, I halt before my hand makes contact when I remember that my car is still at the stadium from last night.
“Cazzo.” I suppose I could wake Jordan for a ride but she’s worse than me about sleep.
I should’ve asked her last night so she could mentally prepare for the early wake-up call.
Letting out a resigned sigh, I pull my phone from my pocket and tap into the Uber app to order a car on my way downstairs.
I hope there are enough drivers out at this hour that I won’t have to wait forever.
I open the door and freeze at a person with their hand raised to knock.
“Um, hi?” Why is there a stranger at my door?
“Isabella?” the stranger asks.
“Uh, yes?” Why does the stranger know my name?
“Great! Here’s your order. Thanks for the tip!” he says, passing a very large coffee cup and pastry bag into my hands. I take them hesitantly. Why is this stranger handing me food?
“I didn’t order anything.”
He’s already halfway to the elevator. “Well then enjoy it because it’s for this address, with your name, and it’s already paid for!” He gives me a shrug before disappearing behind the closing elevator doors.
I look at the delivery in my hands, dumbfounded. I sniff the cup and nearly melt at the smell of rich chocolate and espresso. Oh wow. Whoever this is did an excellent job. I peek in the pastry bag and see a butter croissant. Also, a safe choice.
I shrug and make my way down to the street where I wait until my Uber pulls up to the curb.
The morning passes in a blur of activity.
I arrived at 6:30 a.m. on the dot, which is a pretty impressive feat considering my need to catch a rideshare.
Between making sure all the presenters are on-site, I’ve been running around the stadium double-checking the routes are still the same.
Spoiler alert: they rarely change, but all it takes is one locked door to cause a scramble.
Though the good news is I’ve finally figured out all the twisting hallways and can navigate my way through the clubhouse with my eyes closed.
Quite an improvement over my first few days last week.
It’s two hours until game time which means it’s nearly an hour and a half until we’re on air and I’m on my own, checking the last route—our field access through the clubhouse.
Waving goodbye to the Suns staff that are hanging around, I start to head back toward the compound where the production vans are parked and set up.
I take a large swig of my now-cold coffee, sending a silent prayer of thanks to whichever god decided to bless me with breakfast this morning.
“Firecracker!” a familiar voice shouts from behind me.
I pause and turn to see Fletcher jogging in my direction. He’s not in his full game day uniform, only the baseball pants he’s paired with one of those pullover hoodies with the big pocket in the front and the bright yellow LA Suns logo printed across the chest.
He comes to a stop a foot in front of me. “Hey, hi, good morning. How are you?”
I let out a quick breath that stifles the laugh from working its way out. “I’m good. How are you?”
“Oh, you know, same shit, different day,” he says with a shrug and a smile. It may be the same shit, but you can tell he loves it. His eyes drop to the cup in my hand. “Glad you got the coffee. I was really trying my luck that you’d be home and get it before you needed to be here.”
My jaw drops, eyes bouncing between the coffee cup and his face. “You did this?” I ask, not even trying to hide the awe in my voice.
Some pink starts to tinge his cheeks, and his hand goes up to rub at the back of his neck.
He flashes a nervous smile at me. “Well, yeah. You said you didn’t really eat yesterday, and I knew your car was here so you probably wouldn’t have had time to get coffee on the way in.
I totally guessed on the coffee order by the way.
You had a chocolate shake last night so I figured a chocolate coffee was probably a safe bet?
You like it right? Wait, maybe don’t tell me.
My feelings won’t be able to handle it if you hate mochas.
” His jaw snaps shut, halting the ramble.
I can’t do anything but stare at him, blinking.
“Oh! Wait, I have these for you too,” he says before digging around his sweatshirt pocket and pulling out not one, but two chocolate chip cookie dough flavored protein bars, holding them out in my direction.
“I-I don’t know what to say,” I stutter out, finally finding my voice.
His smile widens and when I don’t make a move to grab them, he slips the protein bars into the pocket of my blazer.
“You said last night that you’ve been meaning to pick up some granola bars.
These were all I had and, to be honest, they’re not the best flavor they make but it’s food and you need to eat. ”
I’m in shock. I cannot believe this man has not only remembered that I didn’t eat yesterday and brought me snacks to keep me fed through the game, but he also had coffee and breakfast delivered to my place this morning knowing I wouldn’t have time to stop on the way in. It’s so… thoughtful.
And I also hate it. We’re not allowed to fraternize. I can’t be his friend because that’s like waving the treat in front of the dog and telling them not to eat it. It’s dangerous. He’s temptation. He may as well be the apple in the Garden of Eden and I’m Eve.
I clear my throat. “Thank you. For everything. I, um, appreciate it. And the coffee was a great choice.” His smile widens to blinding levels of brightness. I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “I should really be getting back.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you later, firecracker.” He shoots me a wink before turning and heading off toward the home team locker rooms.
This might be a problem.
I was largely able to avoid Fletcher for all our pre-game filming.
He shot me a quick wink when he caught me staring as he ran out of the dugout to warm up, but thankfully didn’t approach me while I was working.
Now we’re tucked away in the studio upstairs watching the game.
Arizona’s at bat was quickly shut down by Anderson with three strikeouts.
It’s the Suns’ turn, with Fletcher up first, as seems to be the trend.
“Help me understand this.” I lean over to Jamie as the teams are getting into position for the switch over.
“Hit me.” Over the last week and half, Jamie has leaned into this role of teacher to help educate me on the sport and answer my endless supply of questions.
“Is there a set order to the batting list? I’ve noticed Fletcher always goes first.”
“Oh, my sweet summer child. You really are clueless.” He shakes his head with a chuckle.
“Yeah, there’s a strategy behind the batting lineup.
Fletch always goes first because he’s a strong enough hitter that it’s likely he’ll end up on base through either a hit of some sort, or the pitcher will walk him to avoid anything worse than a single base.
The guys after him are equally strong in getting on base or multiple bases with every at bat.
Essentially, the coach is trying to maximize his opportunities to get runs.
It’s not all about home runs, but those are great too. ”
I nod along, mostly understanding what he’s telling me. “So, basically Fletcher goes first because he’s good.”
Jamie lets out a boisterous laugh, drawing attention from some of the other crew members. “Yeah, in simplest terms, I guess you could say that.”
“Got it.” I sink back into my chair and watch as Fletcher ditches the clunky rings from around his bat and walks toward home plate.
But something’s off.
I can’t figure out what it is at first, but it makes everyone in the studio pause what they’re doing and watch with wide eyes.
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Jamie, who seems to be in just as much shock.
“He changed his walk-up,” he whispers back in disbelief.
Pausing to listen, I notice he’s right. Instead of Dre, he’s got…
“Is that Smash Mouth?” Annie asks.
“Sounds like it to me,” someone else offers from the back of the room.
I don’t weigh in, but it’s definitely Smash Mouth. A millennial would recognize them anywhere.
It’s their cover of “Why Can’t We Be Friends.”
That son of a bitch.