Game On(17)
“Hi Sophie,” Mandy said while glancing at my outfit with an approving smile. She gave me a subtle thumbs up.
“Hey, Hall,” Chris said, before turning a grin in Mandy’s direction. He was clearly just interested in talking to her. I wasn’t offended. “See you afterwards?”
“Yep.” She returned the grin. They both looked happy and goofy and excited. I couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. Mostly glad for them, but hey, I could admit that I was a little jealous as well. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t here for romance or attention, as much as I wished that wasn’t the case.
I climbed into the stands next to Mandy, gratefully taking the bottle of water she handed me. I reminded myself I needed to come more prepared for an afternoon of sitting in the sun.
“Thanks for the tip,” I told Mandy, nodding down at my outfit.
“It’s just a nudge.” She gave me a wink. “I don’t know if I can do much more.”
“You’ve done plenty.” I thought of Nathan’s joke. Maybe we were onto surer footing after all.
***
The stands were rowdier then yesterday, with people cheering as the players jogged by during their warm-up. Not that I blamed them; those uniforms made me want to cheer as well. The boys then stretched, a collective display that made my hormones surge. All of them together like that, they were more mouthwatering than an entire bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups when I’m on my dot. But for the most part, the practice wasn’t much different than it had been yesterday and after a while, I took out my notebook and started jotting down questions for my interview with Nathan, figuring it would behoove me to be prepared for whenever he allowed me to talk to him. When I had a list I was satisfied with I glanced up at the field, which I had been mostly ignoring, and was surprised to see it empty.
“Where did everyone go?” I asked Mandy, who was scrolling through the pictures she had taken that day.
Mandy looked at her phone. “Oh, it’s Wednesday.” She smiled. “Practice always lets out early on Wednesdays. Nathan has class.”
As if summoned, the guy in question emerged from the dugout. Like yesterday there was already a crowd waiting for him, and he took his time posing for pictures and signing baseballs. I made a note to include that in my article—Nathan Ryder: loves his fans and they love him back.
“Class?” I asked Mandy. Most soon-to-go-pro athletes weren’t big on actually going to class, nor did their schools usually encourage it. As far I knew it was standard practice to give star players easy-to-pass classes that they could skip at their leisure. But once again, it appeared that Nathan Ryder was hell-bent on surprising me.
“You should go with him,” Mandy suggested, giving me a little nudge. “I doubt anyone would mind if you sat in for one lecture.”
“What class is it?” I gathered up my things, eager to get a chance to see a different side of him. One that could potentially help my article.
She just grinned. “Just follow him and find out.”
I didn’t need any additional urging. I grabbed my stuff and practically tumbled out of the stands as Nathan walked by. If he noticed the awkwardness of my dismount, he didn’t say anything, though I was pleased to note that he actually slowed down so that I could catch up with him.
“Hey,” he said, not friendly, but not exactly unfriendly either. Neutral. Which, although it was better than yesterday’s general feel of annoyance, still wasn’t the version of Nathan I was interested in.
“Heard you’re heading to class.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Guess you’ll be joining me?”
“If you don’t mind.” I gave him my most winning grin. “Bet people would like to read about what you do outside of baseball.”
“I’m sure they would.” There was that skeptical tone again, but I chose to ignore it.
“What class are we going to?” I asked cheerily. He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite understand. “Huh? Pottery?”
“Poetry,” he clarified and his cheeks went pink. My heart unwillingly skipped a beat.
He was taking a poetry class? Oh man, I thought, people were going to eat this up. I was going to eat him up. No, down girl, I told myself. You were doing this for America, not for yourself. But damn. He couldn’t be more charming if he tried. I bit my lip, trying not to grin too obnoxiously at him. It didn’t work.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, ducking his head, face even more red. “Not what you expected from a big dumb jock, is it?”
“I never thought you were dumb,” I told him. Big, well, a girl could only hope, I thought and immediately chastised myself for my never-ending filthy thoughts. “You’re just full of surprises, it seems.”
“That’s me.” His tone was dry.
“What made you want to take a poetry class?” I asked, switching into journalist mode. I wanted to pull out my notepad or my phone to record the conversation, but I figured that would just spook him. I could get everything on record during our official interview—this was just prep work, getting him to open up.
But it didn’t work. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m just taking it for credit?”
“Nope,” I told him, trying not to be disappointed in how he was dodging my completely reasonable and very not personal line of questioning. It didn’t bode well for the actual interview I had planned. “Who’s your favorite poet?”