The Dugout(46)

“It’s more like a song you perform the twist to with your grandma.”

“Yeah, a groovy grandma,” I say, adding a little shake to my shoulders.

“Oh my God, you did not just say groovy.”

Just to prolong that smile and laugh, I pull my phone from my pocket and open up Spotify to play “Centerfield.” Tuned clapping plays from my phone and then there’s the entrance of a guitar, and that’s when I hop off the bed and start twisting back and forth, arms and legs all moving as I shimmy my butt in her direction.

Her laugh is contagious as she pushes my side to get out of her face, but I don’t budge. Instead I pull her up by the elbow and make her dance with me.

She sidesteps but that’s about it. Hmm . . . disappointing.

“Is that all you’ve got, Milly? Am I going to have to teach you the fine moves of a mom in her forties wearing high-waisted, camel-toe jeans?”

“Please.” She chuckles. “Please teach me.”

I motion to my body and say, “Watch and learn, Mills. Before you know it, you’re going to have all the moves.”





Three songs later, and she’s just as terrible as she started. No rhythm in those stiff hips of hers, then again, she would not stop laughing, so it’s possible her concentration wasn’t fully there.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, eyeing me on her bed.

“Getting comfortable. What does it look like?”

“It’s eight o’clock,” she says, now changed into a pair of plaid shorts and a Storm tank top. She braided her hair when she was in the bathroom, and I’m assuming she brushed her teeth as well because she’s smelling minty.

“And your point?”

Her eyes shift back and forth. “Uh, aren’t you going to go back to your place?”

“Nah, it’s comfortable here. Thanks for the offer though.” I put my hands behind my head and her eyes narrow.

“Well, I want to lie on my bed.”

“What’s stopping you?” I ask nonchalantly.

“You. You are stopping me.”

I gesture to the full-size mattress. “There’s plenty of room. Hop up.”

“Do you really expect me to jump into my bed with you?”

“What?” I pretend to clutch imaginary pearls. “Heavens to Betsy, no. I’m not a harlot. Wash your mouth. I’m talking above the covers. Nice try though, lady. Nice fucking try.”

She gives me a dramatic eye-roll but doesn’t budge, causing me to let out a long sigh.

“Mills, stop being so stubborn and come sit down. I’m not going to bite.”

She gives me a brief once-over. I see the moment she capitulates, and she finally climbs into bed, leaving at least a foot between us. Wow, I’m not sure she could be more obvious if she was wearing a porcupine-shielded costume with sign saying don’t touch me.

Noted . . . no touching. I learned that from our experience in the dining hall.

This girl, seriously, she’s confusing as fuck, because I swear, there are times where I catch her looking at me, when I see interest in her eyes, and then there are days like today where she’s so damn skittish, I can barely get close to her.

Am I crazy for even attempting to get close to this girl? Maybe. I’m sure there are guys who wouldn’t even give her a second thought at this point, but I’m not one of those guys. Milly’s interesting, different, and possibly dangerous to my heart. I can feel it deep down. She was brought into my life for a reason and not just to help my swing, but something so much more than that. My dad showed me how to respect women. He could have dated when I was growing up, but I knew he still loved Mom so much. He’s a handsome and kind man, so he should have found someone easily, but he held on to my mom for so long. It taught me that when you find something you feel so connected to, you don’t let it go. He taught me perseverance.

So, here I am, trying to decipher our something else. I need to convince her what our something else is. Hands rested in her lap, her shoulders tense, and her gaze forward, she stares at the little TV in front of us where reruns of Friends play. It’s kismet; we both like Friends.

Then again, who doesn’t like Friends?

Wanting her to loosen up, I say, “So, big Cory Potter fan, huh?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen.

Ohhh-kay.

Sometimes I can’t get this girl to stop talking, and other times it’s like I need a tire jack to crank her mouth open to force her to speak to me. Huh, that’s not such a bad idea. Now where can I find a tire jack? *Mentally taps chin*

Maybe I’ll take a different approach, one that I’m sure will strike a chord.

“Did you catch the Storm game the other night? Potter couldn’t hit a high fastball if it was soft tossed to him.”

Her head whips to mine as if I insulted her, not Potter. “He was having an off night.” Her defense is kind of comical. Yup, a true superfan. I wonder if she has a crush on him. He is the heartthrob of the Storm . . . so I’ve heard.

“It’s like every three games he has an off night. He’s good and then he completely bombs. I have no idea how he got such a baller contract when his play isn’t steady. It’s so up and down. Don’t you think?” I ask, laying out the bait.