America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(34)

He’s blushing harder now.

Beck Ryder.

Blushing.

Over flowers.

A warmth creeps into my belly, and my pulse amps up again. But for once, it’s not a terrified race in my veins.

Nope.

It’s something entirely different that I refuse to think about.

Because this relationship is fake. And temporary.

And only for the good of the giraffes.

And that’s what I’m going to keep reminding myself.





Sixteen





Beck



We make it to Duggan Field a few minutes before the first pitch, and with the help of the staff, we sneak in through the players’ entrance and reach our private box. Only a few people call me an asshole or ask Sarah what I’m paying her or why she doesn’t have better taste or more self-respect.

The two serious personal security dudes on either side of us help.

So does Sarah plastering on a brilliant smile instead of answering a single question, despite the tightening grip she has on my hand.

We’re both in sunglasses and ballcaps, and she’s so tense I swear her hair and earlobes are extra stiff too by the time we get to the private box that was stupidly easy to reserve tonight.

Fan support’s waning for the home team.

The Fireballs are in danger.

“Where’s Mackenzie’s favorite seats?” I ask as we settle into the aging cushions at the narrow table overlooking the field, where Colorado is finishing batting practice.

She points to deep left field along the third base line. “She’s basically in love with Darren Greene.”

So, two season tickets for Mackenzie on the left field line. First time Sarah hits the bathroom, I’m ordering them up.

“What about you?” I ask her.

She frowns and takes a slow study of the stands. We’re between home plate and third base, with a clear view of the sun lingering over the hazy blue mountains to the west behind the bleachers, and an even better view of the infield and the Fireballs dugout.

“I never followed baseball until I met Mackenzie,” she tells me. “So I’ve never given it much thought.”

I drape my arm over the back of her seat and point out to the bleachers. “Ever sat there?”

“Once. The guys around us kept buying her beers, and we were both very happy by the time the game was over. Mackenzie caught a home run ball.”

“She get it signed?”

“No, we lost fourteen-nothing that game. She threw it back. After dunking it in a beer.”

“Ah. Bad luck seats then.”

“Definitely,” she agrees with a smile. “They have a four-and-twelve record when she gets seats near left field. Everywhere else is like one-and-six. But nowhere near as bad as the bleacher game.”

“But did you have fun?”

Her smile goes wistful. “I did. I think I needed baseball in my life. It’s normal, you know?”

“You never went to see the Dodgers or Angels play when you were growing up?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Once. The Dodgers. I was eight. All three of us went, and that was when Dad was doing the Stone McFlint series, and Mom had had two back-to-back blockbusters and more Emmy and Oscar nominations than she could keep track of, and we barely got into the stadium with all the paparazzi wanting pictures and shouting questions, and that was with a six-deep security detail. They both threw out a first pitch, then got invited into the announcer booth, and then into the owner’s box, and then to a box where there were some basketball players hanging out, and every time we switched boxes, they got caught up in people wanting autographs and pictures. Plus, they got a picture of me that looked like I was picking my nose, and when I went back to school a few weeks later, everyone made a big fuss of me being Booger-Eater Darling.”

“Not a great family outing, huh?”

She lifts her shoulder. “That’s the life of a Hollywood kid.”

I point out to center field. I don’t like that people can be shitheads, and I don’t want to dwell on it, or let her dwell on it either. “My favorite seats. Right there. As soon as we were old enough to hop the buses and the light-rail, before Bro Code, me and the guys from my neighborhood would get the cheap seats and hang out with all the bleacher bums a few afternoons every summer. Levi won fifty bucks off one of them once, betting Andre Luzeman would hit a grand slam. And Wyatt would always come up with different things we could spell on our chests. Got sunburned once, except the giant B.” I traced the letter over my chest and stomach. “We were Balls that day.”

“Of course you were,” she says with a laugh.

“Tried to do it again after we were all twenty-one. Got all painted up, reserved an entire row, dragged Cash’s brothers into it with us, Wyatt too, of course, and we all wore hats and sunglasses and these fake beards. Got the rattiest clothes we could find. Slouched. You know. The whole deal to go incognito.”

“Did it work?”

“Nah. First off, we got in the wrong order, so we were the Birefalls, and then, because we looked like really bad ZZ Top impersonators, the cameras zoomed right in on us. We’d hit the jackpot big time with the band the year before. Davis had just gotten his first tattoo, which was all over the tabloids, so between that and Cash’s nose, we didn’t even make it through the first inning before security was hauling our asses out of there to get us away from the fans who were getting a little rabid.”