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The closest ladder was only a few feet away, but it was right behind him, and this railcar was notorious for squeaking.

I guess I could go with the classic plan B: ignore him until he got bored enough to leave.

“Are you giving me the silent treatment hoping I’ll give up and go home?” he asked.

Damn.

“Crowley, I thought you were smarter than that.”

I was smarter than that. My SAT scores may have sucked, but I wasn’t stupid.

“So the question remains.” He tossed the ball up again, higher this time, and caught it while still looking at me. “Does the daughter of one of the best baseball coaches on the East Coast know one of the greatest baseball movies of all time? Survey says no.”

Ha. He couldn’t be more wrong.

I had memorized James Earl Jones’s baseball monologue from Field of Dreams years ago when I auditioned for the role of Fiona in Shrek Jr. for our middle school spring musical. I nailed the audition but had to drop out before the callback because I had gotten mono. At the time, I was devastated, but in the end it all worked out.

Lauryn got the lead—she slayed it—and I shadowed a college student who ran lighting and sound, thus beginning my love of the technical side of theater.

Reed threw the ball up again and caught it behind his back.

Show-off.

“Who am I kidding,” he continued. “You probably don’t know that movie any more than you do The Sandlot.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

There goes the silent treatment. But how could I stay silent? Anyone who claimed to be a fan of baseball but not of those movies could not be trusted any more than a theater “fan” who claimed CATS was Andrew Lloyd Webber’s greatest musical.

Reed grinned like he won whatever standoff we were having, and his annoying dimple made an appearance.

Could I hit it with my pencil?

The wind did feel just right for such a throw.

He stepped closer to the railcar. “Can I come up?”

“No.” I opened my script to where I’d left off.

“Why not?”

“Because some of us have work to do this summer.” I flicked my ponytail off my neck, which was damp with sweat.

“What if I promised to leave”—he stepped onto the first rung of the ladder and paused—“if you let me sit up there with you for…twenty minutes?”

Twenty minutes? Had he lost his mind?

Then again, I might if he stayed for longer.

“Crowley?”

“I’m thinking,” I snapped.

He did say the word “promise,” but could I really trust him to keep his word? I needed leverage. Something he’d hate to lose…

“I’ll give you ten,” I conceded, “but you’ll have to surrender your ball and glove.”

He took another step up, his head appearing over the edge of the railcar. “Seriously?”