The Dugout(7)

“It is when it has to do with me. I’m not an idiot, even though I get that everyone knows who I am. My goddamn face is plastered all over streetlight flags throughout campus. What I don’t appreciate is being talked about behind my back.”

She tugs on her long shirt and looks to the side when she says, “Well then, you must be extremely g-grumpy because I’m not the only one talking about you behind your back. I bet sixty percent of this campus mentions you at least once a day, and it isn’t about how you verbally attack people in the panini l-line.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose, her long-winded response surprising given how her knees are knocking against each other.

Geared up, I let out a roar of a response. “I am not verbally attack—” I take a calming breath, realizing that yes, I am verbally attacking her. “I was trying to apologize, but you were rudely texting on your phone and didn’t give me a chance.”

“I was texting my friends, who think you’re a god on the field, that I was standing right behind you. Sorry for exciting them,” she says in the most passive-aggressive tone I’ve ever heard.

A smile pulls at my face. “Your friends, huh? Any of them blonde?”

“Yeah, one of them. Blond hair on HIS head and chest.”

My smile falters.

“He’s not into dudes, but I can still give him your number if you’re interested.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose again and even though the words coming out of her mouth sound snarky, I can tell she’s nervous from the shake of her hand and the way her eyes shift from side to side.

Cooling my jets a little, I say, “I’ll pass.”

We stand there awkwardly, staring at each other for a few seconds, nothing to be said. She nods her head behind me and the bravado in her voice drops when she says, “The line moved.”

I glance over my shoulder and see that I’m still behind two people. At least I can reach the panini order form to drop it off so I don’t have to wait forever.

Not sure if I should apologize at this point, I press my lips together and spin back around to grab a piece of paper and pencil. Staring blankly at the order form, the words all mix together, pastrami nowhere to be found in the meat section as my mind floats back to the girl behind me.

Hating that I’m letting this entire situation bother me—old Carson would have laughed it off—I turn back around and say, “I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

She glances up at me, her phone still clutched to her chest. “Yeah, okay.”

“How come it feels like you’re not accepting my apology?”

“Well, technically, you didn’t apologize, you j-just said you weren’t trying to be a dick.” She adjusts her glasses again and looks away.

“That was an apology.”

She pushes her hair behind her ear, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of her pierced ear. Tucked against her soft lobe is a baseball earring. I think she’s the only other person besides Mama G that I’ve actually seen wear baseball earrings. She must be a serious fan.

Which means she really, truly knows who I am.

“You know”—she bites on the side of her cheek—“apologies usually c-contain an ‘I’m sorry’ in them s-somewhere.”

“Not necessarily. They can also contain an ‘I apologize’ if we’re getting technical.”

“Either way, n-neither were involved in your said apology.”

“But there was remorse,” I counter.

She pushes her glasses up again, round and brown, almost too big for her face and frankly, too boring. “There was complacency.”

“What are you, a social behavioral major?”

“Kinesiology.” She looks away and must spot her friends, because she shyly waves and then turns back to her fixed gaze on the ground.

It’s looking like this is a lost cause.

Digging deep and sucking up my pride, I say, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry if I came across as a dick.”

“You didn’t until you turned around, but thanks for apologizing.” She eyes the order form in my hand. “Better put in y-your order or else I’m skipping you in line.”

“Brutal,” I say, trying to lighten the mood but instead of smiling, she looks off to the side avoiding eye contact with me.

Well, okay then. Looks like our interaction is over.

Back to the pastrami I’ve been craving all day.

Looking at the counter, I quickly scan the rest of the ingredients offered just in time to see one of the panini magicians put up a sign.

Out of pastrami.

Mother.

Fucker.

Isn’t that just the cherry on top of this shit cake of a day?





Chapter Three





MILLY





Before I can even set my tray down on the table, Shane and Jerry attack me with questions.

“What did he say to you?”

“Was he cool?”

“Did he offer to buy you dinner? I heard baseball players have huge dining card limits.”

“Did you give him any pointers about his swing?”

I drop my tray on the table, thankful for the simple roasted red pepper panini and bag of chips on my plate so nothing splatters.