Page 70
The problem isn’t the people—or that my brain feels like it’s half a second from bursting from baseball terminology—it’s that I’m too far away from Shane.
He’s like a tiny speck from here.
“I’m going to head down that way.” I thumb over my shoulder.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Delilah asks, even though Piper is firmly seated in her lap, braiding her mother’s hair.
My pint-size friend is sadly not as enamored with baseball as I am.
“No. I’ll be fine.”
As I pick my way toward the outfield, I keep hearing jeers like, “You picked the wrong player” or “I wouldn’t cheer for that guy.” It’s not until someone yells, “Seaver stinks!” that I understand it’s because of the jersey I have unbuttoned over my tank and shorts.
A sinking sensation drops low in my stomach. Shane mentioned that his agent wanted to rehab his image, but I had no idea he was getting this much heat from Waves fans.
Eventually, I find an open seat five rows back, in line with where Shane is standing. A middle-aged man—with what I can only describe as Three Musketeers facial hair—sits next to his wife, the unoccupied chair, and then two elderly couples.
“May I sit there?”
“Oh, sure. It’s our daughter’s, but she’s out with friends tonight.”
The man picks his baseball glove off the seat as I scoot past.
We watch the Waves pitcher strike out two players before the man leans over to me. “You’re a Seaver fan? There’s not many of those in the ballpark.”
“Why is that?”
His wife snorts, tossing her pretty Dutch braids over her shoulder. “That man would rather die than smile.”
A wash of protectiveness slides over my forearms. “Surely you can’t dislike him because he’s reserved. Doesn’t his skill as a player count?”
D’Artagnan’s doppelganger hums, rubbing his short beard. “He has been a good addition to the lineup. He just doesn’t…”
“He doesn’t have Waves spirit,” the elderly woman to my right says.
“That’s it!” D’Artagnan agrees, pointing.
“What’s Waves spirit?”
“Enjoying the game, not just playing it.”
When my forehead bunches, he tries again, “It’s like…you know how all the players have a fun handshake they do with the first-base coach when they make it on base? Like Chapman plays rock, paper, scissors, or Jackson does a little shuffle dance. Seaver never does anything but scowl once he’s on base.”
I pick at my nail polish. “Oh.”
“And he never throws his catches in the stands, just rolls them to the ball boy like we don’t exist.”
My gaze slides to Shane’s stoic face, half crouched in preparation for whatever will come his way. If only they could see the version of him who’s sweetly protective. How he can tease and joke and how his hard-won laughter can shift your perspective on the world.
I swallow over the knot in my throat. “He’s had a really hard year.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the elderly woman waves a hand. “Players get traded all the time. There’s no need to be so salty about it.”
Her husband scoffs. “Salty? More like he’s got a stick up his—”
“Franklin!” she interrupts. “There’s a young lady present.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears, thinking of ways I can help Shane win over the crowd. That’s supposed to be my half of this marriage of convenience, after all.
