Ryan
You should be!
Richard
You know, because Dick is a nickname for Richard
Isabella
Maybe in the 1970s when Nixon was president, yeah
Ryan
I’m sure he was alive then so you could ask him
Isabella
Richard isn’t that bad. He’s actually really nice and great at his job
Ryan
That’s good for him. But he’s not nearly as pretty to look at
My cheeks heat at the comment.
Isabella
*eye roll*
Don’t you have a game you should be focusing on?
Ryan
Yes! Which is why I’m disappointed you’ve left me with little Dicky tonight
What are your plans for the night off anyway?
That’s two in a row now, they’re spoiling you
Isabella
Oh, you know. Just watching a bunch of guys in tight pants hit balls and run around a field
I see the three dots of him replying appear and disappear a few times before they disappear for good. My shoulders drop in disappointment when he doesn’t reply. Maybe he got yelled at by his coach for being on his phone right before the game. I slip my phone back into my pocket and look out over the field as the ground staff prep it for game time. It’s as I’m letting my eyes drift back down that I see Ryan’s head pop into the dugout. He’s scanning the stands looking for someone.
Oh, who are you kidding. You. He’s looking for you.
His gaze skips over me, but it doesn’t make it far before it snaps back to me. Even from this distance, I can see the grin that overtakes his features. I give him a shy smile and small wave. His eyes take in my appearance and my skin heats along the path that his eyes travel. They round out for a quick moment before he ducks his head and looks down at something in his hands. His head snaps back up right as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I furrow my brows at him in confusion as I fish out my phone.
Ryan
Stand up.
Oh.Oh.
I look back up to him and smirk, acquiescing to his request. Or I suppose demand. I chew on my bottom lip as I watch him take in the jersey. His hand rubs across his jaw and he stares for a full minute. Eventually, he drags his eyes back up to mine. He lifts a hand and makes a circle with his index finger, asking me to turn around. Once again, I oblige.
I make a show of slowly turning until I have my back to him. I reach back and pull my ponytail over my shoulder and turn my head back to look at him. He’s got both hands braced on top of his head now, his knuckles white as he grips his hat. Almost as ifhe needs to grip something,anythingsince I’m not standing in front of him.
