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She lets go of the ball, forcing him to catch it before it falls and her hand flies up to his hat, slapping it down and into his eyes.
His laugh is loud, and I feel it in my stomach.
He might be those things.
He might be mine.
Tobias spins his hat, so it now sits on his head backward, and then that perfectly crooked grin is pointed at me.
I’m not sure what my face looks like, but suddenly his grin loosens, his body turning so it’s parallel to mine, and he keeps moving forward.
His steps are slow and as he grows closer, he gently lowers Bailey onto the blanket we left sitting on the grass before I moved us up here to feed her.
He hops over the railing with ease, staying one row in front of the one I chose, and when he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, every nerve ending in my body fires off.
His bicep flexes as he reaches forward, gliding my hair from my eyes with his pinky.
“Come to my game.”
I swallow and he lifts his left knee, placing it on the plastic seat in front of me.
“That’s not a good idea.”
His body leans over, his hands coming down to grip the bleacher chair at my sides, and after a brief glance back at Bailey, he brings his face within inches of mine.
“I wanna look up from my place on the mound and see you sitting there, watching me ... rooting for me.” His focus falls to my lips and his tongue comes out to lick his own. His blue eyes flick up to mine. “Come to my game, Tutor Girl.”
My stomach hollows, my grip tightening on the armrest. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
He tries not to show it, but creases form along his brow and he gives a curt nod. “Yeah,” he pushes up, bending to grab my bag and Bailey’s car seat, “just thought if you had extra time or something. It’s all good. You can’t get paid during a game, right?”
My brows crash. “That’s not it.”
“It’s all good, Tutor Girl.” He cuts me a quick grin, but it’s fake and his eyes are empty. “Let’s get you to the school, huh?”
Left with nothing else to do, I nod, pick up Bailey and strap her into her seat while he shoves the blanket on the floorboard.
We’re back at the school in minutes, and he’s gone just as fast.
Tobias doesn’t call me that night.
The next evening rolls around, and I’m leaving a late session at the library when I find myself passing a group of girls who must have just come from the game ... the game he asked me to go to. They’re decked out from head to toe in Avix baseball attire, numbers painted on their cheeks, and ribbons curled into their hair. They’re smiling and laughing, having enjoyed their Friday night under the stadium lights.
I keep past them, but slow when one of the girls asks, “think Tobias will be there tonight?”
“He’ll go if Vivian tells him to,” another teases.
The tall, long-legged blonde laughs. “That ship has sailed, honey.”
“Please, all you have to do is call him.”
“Yeah, do it for the greater good,” another girl jokes.
“You guys, we’ve never been about date nights,” Vivian jokes.
Her friends laugh and suddenly the air feels thick, so I quicken my steps home.
Bianca has a date tonight, so she’s kissing my cheek and running out the door only minutes after I walk through it.
Bailey is asleep and Bianca said she woke to eat no more than an hour ago, so she won’t be up again until three or four in the morning, depending.
I have no schoolwork to do since I stayed up most of the night jamming through it, and I’ve already arranged my schedule for next week. Quickly glancing at the clock, I decide to try my brother since I missed his call, not only this morning, but last night too, unfortunately, once again we play phone tag, and his voice mail is all I get.
A long sigh pushes past my lips and I drag myself to my feet. Baby monitor and blanket in hand, I step out onto the back patio, fall into the chair, and peek up at the darkening sky.
Friday nights look a lot different than they used to, not that I was ever much for partying, but I would go out on occasion, and sometimes it was fun.
I wonder if that Vivian girl did what her friends wanted and called Tobias.
I wonder if they did, too.
There’s nothing that says he didn’t go out on his own.
I flip my phone over in my hand, wiping at the smear on the screen.
My fingers are itching to text him, an annoying need to know what he’s up to making my skin itch. I could always text him a quick congratulation on yet another win, see what he says ...
