Page 6 of Fair Ball

“Of course. We’re best friends.”

“We’re not best friends.”

“We are.”

“Not.”

Yadi huffs. “You can stop…” He pinches his face and crosses his arms, puffing out his chest, and widening his legs. In what I assume is an impression of me, he says, “Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck you.”

Ignoring him, I allow my gaze to return to the redhead. Back to gnawing on her finger.

“If you have fun, maybe you will not be so….” After a moment of thinking, Yadi bursts out, “Grumpy! You are grumpy, and if you talk to her, you can’t go over like this.”

“I’m not going over there.”

“Why not? If you like her, go talk, be nice, ask her out, and have fun.” He proceeds to dance in place, beatboxing and singing a song in Spanish. He does that a lot. Break out in song and dance.

When I don’t move, he rattles off a few lines of Spanish too fast for my Duolingo to interpret then saunters away in the direction of the stands. Since the clinic is about wrapped up and the kids are busy getting merchandise signed and pictures taken, no one pays attention to how Yadi bends over to shake the woman’s hand.

Except me.

I watch him easily speak to her, make her laugh, even have her stand up to show him the terrible little dance moves she did with Flash.

The feeling in my chest climbs to my throat, almost clogging it, and this isn’t the usual tension. It’s different, less claustrophobic and like I’m about to die. More…addictive. Like stepping onto a freshly mowed field, a sore arm after a no-hitter, a reassuring smile, or a dimple in a cheek.

I’m stalking their way before I’ve even thought to, and Yadi grins when he spies me. “Manin! This is my friend Millie.” He gestures between us. “I think you want to say something to her.”

She waits expectantly, her face turned up toward me with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her skin is like porcelain, eyes the color of honey, hair that reminds me of a new penny, and she’s wearing my jersey.

After everything that’s happened, it feels…like I’ve won.

Someone finally picked me.

“You’re wearing my number,” I say like a total asshole, and she tugs on the jersey as if only now realizing she’s wearing it.

“Oh yeah.”

“Do you follow the team?”

She rocks back on her heels. “Not really.”

Since I’ve become an obsessed jackass, I ask, “Why did you pick my jersey?”

“Oh, um…” She plucks at the hem of the shirt. “I like the alliteration of your name. Austin Ashwood… It scratches my brain just right.”

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but the blush creeping into her cheeks almost makes me smile. Though, she is notably not smiling.

Between our height difference and her hesitant answer, I’m probably intimidating her, and I try to tone it down. Whatever it is.

I attempt a gentler tone. “Did you have fun today?”

“Yeah. It was really generous of the team to put this together. The kids loved it.”

“But did you have fun?”

She stares at me for a moment, brown eyes drifting between mine as if working to translate my words. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I saw you crying earlier.”