The Dugout(6)

This is the one time I wish I could use my “celebrity status” at school. Maybe I should offer up the idea for a line and panini press set aside just for the baseball team? That wouldn’t be asking too much, would it? I don’t think so.

Groaning, I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling, reminding myself that the secret sauce and melt-in-your mouth pastrami is worth it.

“Are you in line?”

To my side, a girl wearing glasses in a T-shirt three sizes too big stands next to me, freckles dancing across her face, and a crease between her brows.

“Yeah, I am, so get behind me,” I answer with a harsh tone. Yeah, I know, rude, right? Well listen, I’ve been waiting in this line for five minutes already and it doesn’t feel like it’s moved at all, so I’m slightly agitated.

“Okay. S-sorry.” She ducks her head, clearly reading my tone, and takes direction well by standing behind me.

So she stuttered, that’s totally fine. She might have hiccupped or something. It wasn’t from my tone of voice.

Definitely not.

Nope . . .

Crap.

I might be a curmudgeon, but I don’t like coming off as a dick, especially when some of the students at Brentwood absolutely despise student athletes and think they’re a pond of assholes tossing around balls and weight equipment—that’s a straight quote from an article in the school paper.

Do I turn around? Hmm . . . It would be the nice thing to do. Then again, I’m in a lousy mood and I might make it worse.

Yeah, I’m going to pass. I’m not in the mood to start a conversation with some random student. Last time that happened, some nitwit tried to give me batting advice. Let’s just say the conversation didn’t end well.

So, I’m not going to turn around.

Nope.

I’m going to accept my dickish tone and move on.

I’m going to forget about her little stutter and the way she cowered when I opened my mouth.

Forgetting it. Yup, deleted from my brain.

Think about paninis and pastrami and mustard and . . . fuck.

Is she telling her friends what an ass I am?

Is she crying?

No, I wasn’t that much of a dick. There is no way she’s—did I just hear a sniffle?

Now I’m imaging things. All I said was “yeah, I am, so get behind me.” That’s not terrible, right? It’s practically a friendly handshake.

But then again, if I wasn’t rude, why did her face fall flat when she looked at me? Why was her voice so monotone? Is she one of those sensitive Sally’s who’s offended by everything?

Doesn’t matter. It’s over and done with. No need to harp on it.

But the longer I stand here, the more awkward I feel with her right behind me, most likely burning holes in my back through her glasses with her pissed-off laser eyes.

I already suck at baseball. I don’t need laser marks in my back as well.

Succumbing to guilt and my wandering mind, I turn around to find the girl standing directly behind me with her head buried in her phone and her brown, unkept hair falling over her fair skin.

“Uh, hey, I just wanted to—”

She holds a finger up and then laughs to herself, returning both hands to her phone where she feverously types out a response.

Ohh-kay.

Look who’s being rude now.

Maybe I should turn myself right back around and skip out on the apology. Clearly, she doesn’t need one. She’s not crying—but because I’m a nosey bastard, I lean slightly forward and glance at her screen where I spot my name before the text messages move up.

Is she texting about me?

Well, yeah, because my name was clear as day in her phone.

Peeved, I grip the straps of my backpack and say, “Hey, I’m trying—”

“I said hold on.” She spats to her side, as if I’m standing to her right rather than in front of her.

Hold on? HOLD ON?

Excuse me, but she better hold the fuck on.

She did not just give me attitude. She has no idea the kind of button she just pushed. I’m already steamed up from being suspended from practice, having to deal with Badcock stealing my position right from under me, and my horrific batting average, now this little tartlet in the frumpy shirt thinks she can give me attitude?

Ohhhh nooooo.

Not today.

Not fucking today.

“You know what they say about millennials. They’re so caught up in their phones they suffer when it comes to human interaction.”

Her brow creases and slowly, so fucking slowly, she looks up at me, then to the side, and then back to me, almost as if she’s confused that I’m looking at her. “Are you talking about me?”

“Are you ignoring me to text your friends about me?”

A stain of red covers her cheeks as she slides her phone down to her side. “I . . . I wasn’t—”

“Cut the crap. I saw my name in your texts.”

Despite her short height, she tries to act stern but just comes out a horrible nervous mess. “How d-d-dare you read my texts. That’s pr-private.”

“I’m not even sorry about it, not when you’re talking about me.” I nod to her phone at her side. “Let me see what you said.”

She clutches her phone to her chest. “No. That’s n-none of your concern.”