With that in mind, I twist back around to find Alex still smiling to herself. "What now?" I whine.
"Oh, nothing," Alex says coyly. "But I think I'll make that bathroom trip now." She taps Cooper on the shoulder, and the two of them and Ruthie rise from their seats. "We'll be back," she sings, exiting the row.
I watch them leave, confusion etched on my brow as they head toward the concourse.
What the hell was that?
The stadium music fades as the players jog off the field. The announcer runs through the Bobcats' lineup, and I spot Liam in the middle of the pack. His jaw's set, his eyes locked on the dugout straight ahead as he clenches his fists tightly at his sides.
Someone's in the zone.
When the last Bobcat is called, our lineup video flashes onto the Jumbotron. I keep my eyes glued to the screen, replaying the end of mine and Alex's conversation while simultaneously waiting for Liam to pop up larger than life.
I stare at the screen, my heart rate kicking up as Jace Holloway's name rings out around me. He holds his hands out toward the camera, his blue sleeves covering his arms. He opens and closes them like an actual gator, winking at the spectators undoubtedly drawn to him.
Jace is hot right now—in the baseball sense. But… he's definitely not bad looking either. He's young and talented, and his name is written across half of the backs in this stadium—including mine. He's just not the guy I'm excited to see again.
As I wait impatiently for another excuse to stare at my boss, who I've only recently heard turned on, a wad of heavy cotton seems to fall from the sky and rips my attention away from the lineup video. I glance around to find the source of the balled-up sweatshirt now in my lap, but everyone around me seems just as clueless as I am. I spin behind me to find the only one looking at me is the same baby from before.
Twisting back, I lean over the rail in front of me to check the last place I haven't looked—the field. And to my surprise, just as the next snippet of the lineup is about to show on the Jumbotron, the video clip of Liam that I know is coming is replaced with the stone-cold face of the real one—locked on me.
"Put the sweatshirt on, Tessa," Liam calls up to the stands, his low voice hitting me in the chest even over the buzz of the stadium.
I whip my head side-to-side, then peer down at the sweatshirt in my hands. "Wha—uh…"
He arches a brow, nodding toward the hoodie.
I lift it, the smell of him hitting me like an almost pleasant slap in the face. Unfortunately, the scent only adds to my confusion. "No, I'm—I'm fine. I'm not—it isn't cold."
Liam adjusts his stance impatiently, dropping his hands onto his hips. "I didn't ask."
The stern, rough edge of those three words draws the attention of a few people around me. I flash them a weak grin, freeing one hand to wave at an older woman craning her neck to see what number twenty-three is doing.
The lineup video fades out, and the Gators jog from the dugout toward the third baseline for the anthem, but Liam doesn't budge. He stands there frozen, ignoring the catcher who taps him on the shoulder.
"What are you doing?" I grind out, too quiet for him to actually hear.
The fans rise for the anthem, and I do too, the hoodie still draped over my arm. Liam points at it, his eyes narrowed, as two other players try—and fail—to grab his attention from the baseline.
It's clear he's not moving until I cooperate, and spectators around me start whispering about the shortstop facing the wrong direction. I hold out my hands, questioning him once more, but his only response is crossing his arms across his chest.
Is he challenging me?
With a huff, I flip the sweatshirt, slide my arms into the sleeves and tug it over my head. I'm swallowed instantly by warmth—hiswarmth—and try to ignore the fact that I feel unnecessarily safe drowning in his clothes. I pull my braid out from under the collar, attempting to not look as confused as I am to those around me.
But I am—confused.
Liam says put on the sweatshirt, and on it goes. But why?
Why does he want this? Why am I listening?
And why do I still have no ideawhat's happening?
"Maybe he didn't like the flannel," Alex whispers as we stand to leave.
I dodged her smirks and subtle head shakes for nine innings, but she never outright asked about the hoodie. I definitely didn't offer any information considering I don't actually have any. Instead, I prayed that at least Ruthie wouldn't notice.
"It's a great flannel," I argue, my lips tight.
