We both open our protein bars. “Not so mad at Nate now, are you?” I ask.
“You really can’t help saying the dumbest thing that pops into your head, can you?”
I laugh and take a bite. Each chew sends a pulse of pain into my head, and I realize I’m getting a headache. “What’s the point of constantly censoring yourself?”
“Being polite.”
“Overrated.”
“You don’t actually think that, do you?”
I chew. The bar is decent—it’s a puffy, chewy bar that tastes a little too good to be that healthy. “I used to. I’ve had some experiences lately that have made me second guess my theory, though.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “I certainly hope so.”
“Do you still hate me?”
“I’m not positive yet. You still haven’t explained the Colt Spencer thing.”
I pull up the video and show it to her. “Jake sent this to me a couple weeks ago.”
She watches. And then winces. “He broke his hand?”
“And just had surgery. I sent the video to Doug. He may not even be healthy till the end of Spring Training, and then he could be rehabbing for a while in the minors. Doug doesn’t like the idea of spending that much money for a dude who may wash out after his injury. Also, he agreed that Colt is a giant blowhard.”
She turns toward me and tucks a leg under her, getting comfortable. “So let me guess: we’re going to call up your boy Betancourt and keep Jessup for one more season.”
“Not my call. But that’s on the table, asweagreed, if you remember.”
“I do remember,” she says. She pinches the bridge of her nose.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a headache,” she says.
“I kind of have one, too,” I say. “Nothing like getting trapped on the freeway in a blizzard to give you a tension headache.”
She sniffs. “Yeah, no kidding.”
“So … are we going to talk about the elephant in the room now?”
“What elephant?” she asks. I give her a level gaze. “What elephant?”
“The ‘I can’t believe I wanted to kiss you’ elephant.”
She pushes my shoulder. “You can’t be serious!”
“As a heart attack! You said you wanted to kiss me! Frankly, I’m impressed by my own restraint. I thought you were trying a little harder to play hard to get.”
“I wasn’t playing hard to get.”
“No, youwishyou were. You’re just like your brothers: you telegraph every move.”
“How are you like this?”
“Like what? A … classless, overpaid punk?”
She closes her eyes a bit hard, like she’s feeling woozy. “I didn’t mean it.”
