4. WYATT

4

WYATT

I'm not sleeping. My game is off. Something ain't right with me.

For once it's not the thing with Charlie eating at me either. Maybe because Wren is finally helping. It's eased some of the turmoil I was feeling. Despite Sunday night being a complete disaster and a waste of time.

Instead of flirting it up with Charlie and making progress, I was stuck sparring with Wren.

And those cherry red lips. Bad Wyatt for looking twice at them .

I shouldn't be thinking about those lips because those lips are attached to Wren. And she makes me certifiable.

It must be my family that has me on edge.

My mama hasn't called in a few days. That's unusual for her and slightly concerning. Typically she's dialing my number so often, I'm dodging her calls. There are times she's resorted to calling me from random numbers to see if I'll pick up.

For the most part, my family leaves me be while I'm at school. They may not know the real reason but they know how important it is for me to get drafted. My focus needs to be baseball. Not the farm.

My family would never say nothing, but we all know the money would change our lives. I am banking on my pro salary to save our home and all our land from foreclosure. They sacrificed all of it to get me here. I'm one of the reasons we're in financial dire straits to begin with. Now, it's my turn to pay them back.

The fact that Mama hasn't called to check-in with me means something is going on and they don't want me to know about it. They think it will distract me. What they don't realize is the not knowing is just as hard.

I send my oldest brother Ford a quick message while I wait outside The Round Table—the campus sandwich shop—for Wren and Charlie to show up. It took a few days, but Wren came through.

Today's lunch will be our first date. Even though we're going dutch and Wren will be here, it still counts in my book. We're out in public and eating together. I've never been on a date before, but it sounds like one to me.

Unfortunately, I need Wren here as my wingwoman to help break the ice and get Charlie to be more receptive to my charm. I've kind of gotten used to having her around. In fact, the only thing that's going right for me this week is beating Wren in her silly word of the day game we've started.

Messing with her perfect routines brings me more joy than it should. The last few days I've been texting her non-stop, following her around on her weekly shopping trips, and overall being a pest to her. It has become my new favorite hobby.

My mama would not be happy with me always teasing Wren, but she can take it. She gives as good as she gets.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

FORD

Nothing to worry about. A few broken fence posts on the north pasture.

ME

If you need me to drive out there, I will.

Don't keep me in the dark on this kind of stuff.

I should be there.

FORD

You are exactly where you're supposed to be.

ME

Fine.

Tell Lenny her favorite uncle loves her and will come see her soon.

FORD

You aren't her favorite but I'll tell her you said hi.

ME

Ouch.

This is why I need to come home.

Remind her why I should be the favorite.

"Harassing someone else for a change?" The sound of Wren's voice has me grinding my molars and grinning simultaneously.

"Jealous?" I pocket my phone. I will deal with Ford later. I trust him to call me if he needs me. He's ten years older and took over managing the farm the best he could when my dad couldn't anymore.

"Yes. Am I that obvious?" she asks with a roll of her eyes.

"You look good by the way. It's nice to see you in a color that doesn't wash you out completely." I grin back at her.

"That's what I told her. The blue brings out her eyes," Charlie adds, complimenting her friend.

Wearing something in a color other than beige was the first thing I asked Wren to do in order to have fun and live a little. It's still her usual getup—a blouse and dress pants—but Charlie's right. Wren's eyes seem to shine brighter today behind her glasses.

"You look good, too, Charlie." I take a moment to toss her a full dimpled grin and a wink. I might as well start laying the groundwork for this date if I want it to lead anywhere.

"Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself. Don't you think, Wren?" The glare Wren gives Charlie could slice her in half.

"Sure." She can barely get the word out, her mouth is clamped so tight.

"Thank you. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. See, Wren, when someone compliments you, you say thank you. I'm surprised that's not one of those etiquette rules you like to throw in my face."

Charlie snickers, knowing I'm right. She's been living with Wren for years. How has she survived? They couldn't be more different—prime example of night and day, complete polar opposites.

Charlie is sunshine on a cloudy day. Wren is…well, she is the cloud.

"I do say thank you when the person is sincere. I know you aren't serious. I don't think you have it in you to voluntarily give me a compliment."

Is that really what she thinks? I've never lied to her.

"I'm not joking around, Wren. If I say it, I mean it." She doesn't look at me. Her eyes stay glued to the concrete. "Look at me."

Reluctantly she lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her full attention stuns me momentarily. She might be a cloud but her eyes are as blue as the sky on a bright summer day. The kind of sky that makes you lose track of time because you stare at it so long nothing else in life exists.

"I wasn't lying yesterday when I told you your taste in music is terrible and I'm not lying when I say you look nice today. Okay?"

"You are the one with terrible music taste," she snaps back at me. There's my girl. No. Not my girl. My friend. There's my friend.

Friend? Can I even call her that? After today, there won't be any need to communicate with each other. She will be going her way and I'll be going mine.

"Should we go eat? I'm starving and the line isn't getting any shorter," Charlie says, breaking me from my thoughts.

I nod and lead the girls inside. Wren continues to grumble about how my taste in Southern rock music is reprehensible in between ordering and waiting for our food. That unfortunately earns her another point for the day.

"You can't trash on Lynyrd. We live in Alabama for Pete's sake, Wren."

"Wren is a Georgia girl. She won't be living here forever." Charlie's words build a knot in my chest. Georgia is Wren's home. Not Alabama. She'll be leaving soon. I knew this.

I should be happy about this.

"It's not just Lynyrd Skynyrd," Wren grumbles.

"I swear to God, Wren, if you trash on Reba I will hurt you," I say as I take my seat in a booth by the front windows.

They sit across from me. This is good. I can give Charlie my full attention. No distractions. Focus on winning her over and then I can get rid of the song that has been plaguing me.

"I would never," Wren says. Thank fuck. Friendship over if she did .

Which would be fine because we're barely even friends. More like acquaintances that text and hang out occasionally. By hangout I mean, I find her on campus when she is at the library studying or walking from her classes.

I don't fully comprehend why I do this. My mama always said I was compulsive. Once I got an idea in my head I would act on it immediately. I can get so fixated on something, I can't let it go. This hyper focus helps me with my pitching. That is until the little songbird got in my head.

Maybe I follow her around because I'm hoping if I annoy her enough she will speed up the process of getting me closer to Charlie. And if that's the case, my plan worked because here we are. Or maybe you enjoy her company. Nah. I mean, maybe, but nah.

Our table goes silent as we settle into eating. I take the lettuce off my club sandwich and set it on the side of my plate. Wren lifts the top layer of her sandwich and carefully examines it. Her lip curls in disgust as she gingerly picks off a giant slice of tomato and discards it on her plate.

I don't hesitate to reach across the table and snatch it. I love tomatoes. Especially big slices like this one. Nothing beats the tomatoes we grow on our farm, though.

"Hey!" Wren exclaims as I put my sandwich back together and take a bite.

"What? Were you going to eat it?" I ask with a mouth full of food.

She purses her lips and eyes the lettuce discarded on my plate. I edge it towards her. Of course she would want more of the tasteless vegetable on her sandwich.

"You don't snatch food off someone's plate. Were you raised in a barn?" Wren continues to heckle me. Not a good look in front of Charlie.

Her question makes me wonder what type of guy Charlie typically goes for. A clean cut, polo-wearing guy? She won't find that here. I wasn't raised in a barn, but I slept in one more nights than I can count.

"Is that rule number three hundred and forty-seven? Or four hundred and ninety-one? I've lost track." I scowl back at her. Wren's eyes stare back like laser beams cutting straight to the core of me.

"Whew, your foreplay is intense," Charlie says, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of us. She picks at her salad and pops a tomato in her mouth.

"Foreplay? Really, Charlie? This," Wren waves a hand between us, "is not foreplay. It's Wyatt being…" her voice trails off as she tries to come up with the right word. Glancing up at me she must see my distress. I'm begging her not to say what she really thinks of me. I know it isn't good. "Wyatt."

"If you say so," Charlie singsongs. I don't like what she is insinuating.

"I do," we say at the same time. Charlie smirks knowingly. We are doing a shitty job at proving her wrong.

Wren kicks my shin under the table so hard I almost choke on a French fry. What the hell?

Say something, she mouths with raised eyebrows and wide eyes.

Like what, I ask back. Wren grunts in frustration.

I'm grateful Charlie is looking at her phone and not paying attention to us at the moment.

Wren's shoulders drop in resignation. My knee starts bouncing wildly waiting for Wren to start up a conversation.

"Charlie, did you know that Wyatt already has thirty-two strikeouts this year?"

Charlie puts her phone down and looks at Wren. Then at me. "I didn't. Is that a lot?"

"It's…decent." I stumble over my response. I don't want to come across as conceited, but it's a good number.

"Don't be so humble, Wyatt." Wren grins. It's more like a creepy grimace. "The other starter only has fifteen. Wyatt is number two in the division." Wren takes a dainty bite of her sandwich.

"That's incredible, Wyatt." Charlie beams at me. "Tell me more about your stats."

I take a sip of my drink to give myself time to think of something impressive. Nothing really comes to mind. I don't obsess over stats and rankings like some players do. I play baseball. As long as I'm pitching well and winning games, I don't care. Obsessing over numbers and rankings takes time away from practicing and honing my skills.

"He has the best earned run average and one of the highest batting averages for a pitcher," Wren speaks for me. I'm shocked she even knows this information.

Why does she know? Did she study and prepare? I laugh to myself. Of course she did. Wren doesn't do anything in half measures. I bet she has all my stats written down on one of her cute little notepads.

"What can I say? I'm good with my bat." I wink at Charlie.

"Is that so?" Charlie asks, leaning towards me. I lean in too, bringing our faces closer together.

"Statistically, yes," Wren interjects. "Some sources have reported you could be better," she says, without missing a beat. What is she doing? She's supposed to be helping me.

I flash Wren with the best ‘what in the actual fuck' look I can. She peers back at me innocently with her big doe eyes, but she knows exactly what she's doing.

"Maybe I need to see for myself. We should go to a game," Charlie says to Wren.

"It's outside," Wren says.

"You won't melt," Charlie counters.

"I don't know. Isn't that how the wicked witch finally gets taken out? I'm melting. I'm melting," I add, mimicking the line from the movie and sliding down in the booth for emphasis.

Wren kicks me again under the table. A low growl rumbles in my throat. She needs to quit that shit.

"You know what. I think it sounds like…oh what's the word I'm looking for? Fun," she says, glaring at me.

"Great," I grind out. "I'll get you tickets near Lauren and Sydney's seats."

"Yay!" Charlie squeals. "I know just what to wear too," she adds, as she collects her trash from her lunch.

I can picture her now wearing my jersey. My name and number on her back cheering for me in the stands. Her long, brown hair up in a high ponytail. After the game, I'll go back to her place and make a mess of her cherry red lips. Wait, brown hair? Red hair. Charlie has—

Wren's pointed-toe shoe hits me hard in the shin, waking me from my daydream. "What the fuck, Wren? That's going to bruise."

"Charlie left while you were daydreaming," she says, with an air of annoyance. Damn it. "I need to go too. I—"

"Have class. I know. Today went well."

"Uh-huh," Wren says, delicately folding her napkin and placing it on her empty plate.

"It was our first date. There are bound to be some hiccups."

"Uh-huh."

"Will you stop saying that?" I take her trash from her and clear the rest of the table.

"In what universe do you think this lunch counts as a first date with Charlie? You didn't ask her to come. You had me do it." Wren continues to point out all the ways I'm messing this up before I even get started.

I usher her outside, my hand gliding against the smooth silk of her blouse on her back. For once she doesn't shrink away from my touch.

"It's close enough. You're talking semantics. It doesn't matter."

"It matters to Charlie. Therefore it needs to matter to you." She pokes me in the chest with her finger. I grab her hand and squeeze it briefly before releasing my grip.

"What's with all the poking and kicking? I'm fragile." I frown.

"Sure you are. I need to go. But good luck with…everything." Wren starts walking away toward her next class.

"Why are you acting like I'm not going to see you again?" I tag along behind her.

"Our deal was to get her to lunch. I did that. You failed. Not me."

"Wait a minute." I jog ahead and block her path. "You're going to the game. We need to talk about that."

"I don't think so. You get the tickets. We'll show up. That's the plan." She huffs in frustration when she can't get past me.

"Maybe we need to do something else first. The game won't give me an opportunity to make my move."

"That sounds like a you problem." She attempts to push past me again.

"It might be my problem but you are going to help me solve it. I'll text you later," I say, then salute her and walk away. I'm not giving her time for rebuttal. The last word is mine.

She isn't done with me until I say she is.