The Dugout(51)

“Hmm, it’s not the hair. What . . .” Jerry pauses and then leans in closer. “Are you wearing mascara?”

“Gasp,” Shane says, leaning in closer. “No, are you?”

They’re both about five inches away from my head, studying my eyelashes through my glasses. Anyone on the outside watching our little spectacle would assume we were in the midst of some soon-to-be-rough-and-wild threesome.

“Take your glasses off,” Jerry demands.

“Yeah, take them off,” Shane repeats, coming even closer.

“Will you two get out—”

“Hey Milly.”

Our heads snap up as a large shadow passes over our triangle of weirdos. Standing tall, hands gripping the straps of his backpack, is Carson, looking confused and amused simultaneously.

“Oh, hey . . . Carson.” I awkwardly give him a short wave. “Hey there. Hi. Hello.”

“Go ahead, say hi one more time,” Jerry says out of the corner of his mouth. I push his head to the side hoping Carson didn’t hear him.

“Jerry and Shane, right?” They both nod in awe. “Good to see you.” He tilts his head at me. “What’s up, Coach?”

Trying not to look like a fool in front of my friends, I say, “Just getting in some studying.”

“Cool, yeah. I’m headed to the library right now. I have study hall with the boys. Walk with me for a second?”

“Oooooo,” Shane says under his breath, making me want to die on the spot.

I quickly stand, needing to get away from these two meddling morons and kick Shane in the shin in the process. While I gather my things, he buckles over and whispers, “Satan’s mistress.”

Smiling to myself, I stand next to Carson and say, “I was headed to the library too.”

“I’m sure you were,” Jerry says this time, and I flash him my I’ll kill you eyes. He visibly shivers. “Text us.”

Yeah, I’ll be texting them all right.

When we get a few feet away from Shane and Jerry, I say, “Sorry about—”

“No need to apologize. Are they coming to the game tomorrow?”

“Yeah, they always do. It’s tradition for us.”

“Cool.” For some reason, Carson almost seems nervous. It’s . . . weird.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“What? Oh yeah. Feeling good.” He shrugs his shoulders and then swallows hard. “Hey, uh”—he clears his throat—“we’re having a party at the loft after Sunday’s game. You’re invited if you want to go.”

“Oh, thanks,” I say awkwardly, not completely sure what to do with that. A baseball party? Shane and Jerry will die, as they’ve always wanted to go. But parties have never appealed to me. If they’re anything like a frat party—which I’m sure they are—I’m not interested. A bunch of drunk people making fools of themselves . . . I’m good. I’m a senior in college and I know a lot of students my age are getting in their last party moments before the end of the year, but I’m more interested in my proposal for my brothers and figuring out what I can do after college.

“It’s casual, drinks are provided, but yeah, bring the boys. It will be fun.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

He pauses. “Think about it? As in, it’s not a definite yes?” His nerves float away and his joking personality returns. “It’s going to be the party of the century.”

“That’s a big statement.”

He turns and walks backward, facing me now. “Magical things happen at the loft.”

I roll my eyes. “Please, you already have the locker room as the most magical place on campus, you can’t claim the loft as well.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard the rumors about the locker room?”

“It’s hard not to hear the rumors, especially at the baseball games. It’s why we moved out of the student section after freshman year. We couldn’t stand listening to it anymore, so we moved behind the dugout . . . thanks to Cory.”

“He’s a good man, because those are sick seats.” Reaching the library, he opens the door for me and says, “Where you headed?”

“Private room.” I glance over to where a few baseball players are congregating. “You’re at the tables?”

He nods. “Yeah, we have to stay out in the open so we’re forced to be quiet. If we were in a private room, we’d be obnoxious and get nothing done.”

“I could see that.” Giving him a small smile, I say, “Okay, well, have a nice study session.”

“Hey.” He grabs me by the shoulder. “No hug goodbye?” Before I can answer, he pulls me into his chest and my arms instinctively wrap around him. “That’s better,” he says, snuggling in closer.

Well, this is new.

Overwhelmed with his fresh soap smell surrounding me and his warmth, I lose track of how long we hold each other until he finally steps away and stuffs his hands in his pockets, a bright smile tipping up the corners of his mouth.

“Do you always hug your coaches goodbye?” I ask, trying to rein back my combusting emotions.

Stepping forward, he tips my chin up and says, “Only the pretty ones. I’ll catch you later, Mills.” With a wink, he takes off toward his teammates, who he high-fives in greeting, leaving me absolutely and totally stunned.