Page 5 of The Sweet Spot

“Like what?”

“This.” I gesture at his whole situation. The smile. The posture. The energy of a golden retriever who just brought a ball back to his owner.

He actually takes a second to consider it. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

Someone from the dugout shouts—”JB!”—two sharp syllables, and his head turns.

“It was nice to meet you, Whit. Looking forward to seeing the matchups for the Pro-Am game this weekend.”

Ah, just the reminder I needed. When I leave here today, it won't be the last time I see these players. I am going to have to spend the next two days with them, replaying my embarrassment over and over again.

Can't fucking wait.

He hands me the ball. “Your dad's going to love this.”

Then he jogs back toward home plate without looking back while the rest of the team watches from the dugout.

The batboy leads me back to the stands where Jess and the other LPGA players have already taken a seat at the side. She's got her feet up, a beer in hand, and sunglasses on as she apparently sunbathes. She's the only person on the LPGA tour who can close a bar the night before a tournament round and still shoot four under. She'll also tell you about it in an immense amount of detail you didn't ask for.

She tilts her sunglasses down and raises a brow.

“On a scale of one to ten,” she starts.

I raise my hand and collapse on the seat next to her. “Please. I've suffered enough. I don't think I'm ever going to be able to look at my dad again.”

“As your best friend, colleague, and a woman who genuinely loves you, I have to—”

“Jessica—”

“Four.”

I whip my head in her direction. “A FOUR?”

“The bounce was costly, but you smiled the whole time, and that's at least two points. Three if we factor in whatever just happened with the catcher.”

“Nothing happened with the catcher.”

“He liked you.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Please. He was blushing so much, Joe texted me to ask if there was something going on between you two.”

“I’m sorry. I seriously doubt your boyfriend was that bored that he watched that.”

She nods before flashing me her phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from Joe asking about me.

“Don’t worry. It was kind of adorable and at least the flirting took everyone’s mind off your sub-par throw.”

“He wasn’t flirting. He was trying to make me feel better about the pitch,” I say, unconvinced because if I’m being honest, I have no idea what was going on.

“Take this.” She pushes a half-full cup toward me. “You'll need it if you're going to survive the next seven innings.”

I stare down at the liquid and swish it in the cup. It looks warm and off-color, but I need it. “Seven innings? Can't we just leave now?”

I down what’s left of the beer, wincing at the warmth, but I need something after that.

“Nope. We are picking our teammates out of a fishbowl for the crowd during the stretch.”