19. Nikki

19

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My seat isopen as Omar and I walk onto the concourse.

"You chase her away?" my friend says, noticing just after I do.

I shrug, but really? Yeah, I sort of did.

Omar and I settle in and he pulls out his phone, I assume to text Brian. Lacrosse has an away game tomorrow, so they left on the bus early this morning.

"You two seem . . ."

"Serious?" His brow lifts as he types. He clicks send then shifts his gaze to me. He looks a little freaked out. I breathe out a soft laugh.

"Kind of fast, huh?" He flattens his phone on his chest, palm over it in an affectionate way. I think he's in love.

My shoulders hike up briefly.

"Who am I to judge. I'm just the opposite. Kinda slow," I joke.

He leans into me with a laugh, then reads the incoming text. I peer over and catch the heart Brian sent back but stop short of teasing my friend. It's sweet.

I sink my hands into the front of Alex's hoodie and tuck my chin so I can breathe in the remnants of his shampoo scent. I love this hoodie, and I hope to never ever give it back. But also, he's going to have to wear it periodically so I can get a refill.

The guys are stretching in the outfield, marching in a slow line, lifting one leg at a time then lunging in the other direction and twisting their bodies with their arms out.

"Can they really get a good stretch in like this? It feels more like dance or marching band, the way they're all in unison," Omar says. I cough out a laugh because he's right. It kind of does.

"You would know better than me. I took one biology class. And I barely got a B," I respond.

He elbows me.

"Yeah, because I did half of your assignments," he reminds me.

I give him a guilty look and hold out my palms, then turn my attention back to the field. Alex is walking toward me, though a couple hundred feet away on the field. It still feels like he's close. It feels that way every time he moves toward me, looking at me, smiling the way he is. He tips his hat and I hold up my hand.

"You two are adorable, and I mean that in the most sincere, non-grossed-out way," Omar says.

"Thanks," I say, biting my bottom lip.

Brayden is on the mound today, and it's hard not to watch him take his warmups. He makes a show of it, throwing for obscene distances from pole to pole in the outfield. He saw some MLB player do it once when he was young and it became his thing, though really it was the other guy's thing. His thing is copying, but I'll keep that knock to myself.

Glancing to my right, I spot Alex's dad sitting in the same seat as yesterday. He's not like other ballplayers when it comes to superstition. He likes routine, but the "voodoo shit," as he calls it, is all in the head. He's probably right, but I would still feel better if he moved one seat over just to change up the luck.

Alex texted me before the game and said that they had an extremely difficult talk. I didn't ask for details, but I'm sure he'll share them with me later. The parts he did share seem healthy, good. I hope it removes some of the weight from his mind so he can find himself again on the field. I guess today will be a good indicator. I look for signs as he jogs out to the left field grass to throw. It seems there's more zip in his step, but maybe I'm simply hoping.

My eyes follow him everywhere he goes through warmups. And while we stand for the national anthem, I micro-focus on his hands clutched behind his back. He's beautiful, every inch of him a work of discipline. But it's the flaws I'm attracted to most, and maybe because they all have their own stories. Histories I was there for. Origins that involve me.

For example, his right pinky is a little crooked thanks to a hammer I swung when we tried to build our own treehouse. I think that piece of wood is still precariously nailed to the trunk of the tree in his mom's backyard. That's as far as we got in our construction after I broke his finger.

Then there's the scar across his left knee, where he sliced his skin open on a sharp rock in the lake while we were swimming one summer. And his right eyebrow has the faintest gap. It almost looks intentional, like one of those trendy shaves guys do sometimes. I know better, though. That gap is there because of three stitches after Alex took a fist from a boy twice his size in fifth grade. That boy, Colton Wagner, tried to look up my skirt during school choir. Alex left a few marks of his own on Colton.

All of these slight imperfections build an amazing man, and I love him so much that sometimes my heart feels too full.

My phone buzzes as I sink down into my seat, ready for the first pitch. I read the short text, a confirmation for my CT scan in two days, and then the number to set up a consultation with a surgeon. Alex's talk with his dad was hard, and I promised I'd meet him—hard thing for hard thing. But this feels too hard. Every time I truly think about the possibilities and the potential outcomes, I get a little queasy.

I put my phone away before that happens now and prop my feet up on the seat in front of me, my right foot finding its favorite nook. I smirk, and Omar catches me.

"What's that look for?"

I wiggle my foot along the loose armrest.

"There are many reasons I love this seat. I'm just glad to have it back."

I pull Alex's hood up over my head and hold on to the strings to give myself something to fidget with, and Brayden slings the first pitch in for a strike.

"He is good," Omar comments.

"And he knows it," I add.

I filled my friend in on almost everything. He was most impressed that Alex chucked him through a screen door. I don't think Omar really understands construction and the concept of flimsy.

But he is right—Brayden is good at one thing. He strikes out the side in eleven pitches, and his team rushes off the field behind him, every player patting him on the back as they pass by. Except Alex, who makes a point to praise the catcher instead.

Alex is back at short today, which eases my anxious insides on his behalf. But he's batting eighth. It's not where he should be, but I know he'll get himself back to that lead-off spot or the two-hole. I just hope his streak starts today. I hope his time in the cage with his dad, while difficult, delivers the magic he always swore by growing up.

Tiff manages to score one run in the first, but Brayden gives up a solo shot to right in the second. We're playing Commonwealth, a smaller Division One school with a lot of money. They suck at football, but they've always had great baseball squads. I think these have been some of my favorite games to watch over the years.

The pitcher slinging for them today is easily hitting a hundred on his fastball. Alex is convinced that parents are juicing up their kids young to max out their muscles early so they can throw so fast. I'm shitty at science, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way. I can't imagine guys like this can keep that sort of thing up for years. It has to tear up their arms. The ball hits the catcher's mitt with a snap just as I have the thought.

Alex is up third this inning, and when the two hitters before him fly out to the centerfielder, I grow tense.

"Relax," Omar says, squeezing my denim-covered knee. I grit my teeth because he's trying to be a good friend, but I hate being told to relax. I don't think I could right now for a million dollar bill, if that's even a thing.

I tuck my hands under my thighs and lock in on my heart as Alex holds his bat up like a lightsaber and takes a deep breath as he stares at it. His shoulders fall on his exhale, and he steps into the box. I glance at Senior, who is sitting back, hands over his chest, sunglasses down. Everything is normal.

Okay. Come on, Alex.

The first pitch rips by him and he takes it, called for a strike.

"Boo! You're blind," Omar shouts, cupping his mouth.

It was a pretty solid pitch but I love how supportive he's being of Alex. My chest tightens and I shift my legs, driving my hands under my weight more.

Alex nods, his body loose. It's a different him from the one I've seen take strikes over the last several months. As he sets up in the box again, all those little nuances that have always added up to something spectacular click into place. His body lowers another tick, his thighs flexing and bat poised just over his shoulder. The tiny ticks in his wrist count down the milliseconds, and my heart syncs up with them.

The young punk on the mound gasses in another fastball, probably figuring that Alex can't keep up, but he is wrong. Alex puts a swing on the ball that launches it down the left field line, barely fair, and it lands in the corner where the wall juts out in an odd shape, which makes life miserable for anyone playing left field out there.

Alex slides into second easily and starts clapping hard before he even stands up.

"Wooo! Let's go, baby!" he shouts, his team on the dugout wall, rowdy as hell.

Somewhere along the way, I got to my feet. I don't even remember standing. I've pushed his hoodie back and my hands are on my head. His gaze shifts to me, and I lift my hands up and scream as loud as I fucking can. He holds his up, and basically, air high-fives me. Or maybe it's tens me. I don't know, but we celebrate this together. The seal is fucking broken. The lid is off. Alex Mendoza? He's back!

I hug Omar to my left, shaking him, and he laughs at my exuberance. We plop back into our seats and I inhale the deepest breath I've taken in weeks. Months.

"I haven't seen you this excited since you dragged me to see the Phantom Aunt show in that underground venue in November," Omar says.

I shake my head.

"That's because I haven't been!"

I glance to my right and lean forward a tick to get Senior's attention, but he hasn't moved from his spot. His arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes seem focused on his son, as if he's studying. He is, however, smiling. That is unmistakable. It's the one trait that marks them both like beams of light.

Alex makes it home by stealing third and getting knocked in off a single. The game stays tied all the way into the ninth until Brayden is pulled, and a sophomore reliever comes in and gives up a three-run homer that was barely fair.

The shot is deflating, but for the first time in a while, I feel the charge of optimism in my chest. I do the math as our first batter gets on. A walk follows, then Edwin sends a line drive over the third baseman that loads the bases. Yesterday, I would be praying for someone else to take the wheel right now, for anyone but Alex to do the work. But now? I want these next two fools to strike out so the love of my life can win the fucking game.

The first hitter cracks the first pitch right back to the pitcher for a quick out, and I clutch the front of Alex's hood in my fist and hold it against my heart. It's Cole, and I feel guilty rooting against him, so I send up a silent prayer that he's allowed to tie the game if need be. He just can't win it.

"Please, please, please," I mutter softly, over and over, as I rock where I stand. Omar slips his arm through mine and rocks with me.

Cole strikes out and there's an audible, crushing aww from the surprisingly decent crowd of a few hundred. I, however, smile. Because this is how I planned it. This was my instant play-by-play that I sent up to heaven seconds ago. I'm sure it was Senior's too.

As Alex steps up to the plate, everyone in the stadium gets to their feet. I glance to my right, and Senior is on his too, though his arms are still crossed over his chest and his shades are still snug on his face.

Alex digs in, and I find myself taking a deep breath. I see him exhale when his shoulders drop. The first pitch is low for a ball and the crowd roars.

"Okay, that's good. He can walk too. Walk scores a run," Omar chants.

I shake my head.

"Uh uh," I say. "He's got this."

The next pitch comes in for a strike, a fastball that Alex swings through and fouls into the dugout like a bullet.

"Or he can walk," Omar says, only half joking. For wanting to be a trauma nurse, he's not great at stress.

"Nope," I say, holding out for my wish to come through.

Alex nods, his eyes studying his hands as they stretch around the grip. He pushes the top of his helmet down snug, an anxious habit he used to do in high school, and my mouth curves into a grin.

"He's back," I say.

The Commonwealth pitcher slows down his approach, and he stares at the runner on third for an extra second or two before slinging the ball home, a slow curve that even I see coming. Alex's weight shifts, his body coiling and his front foot lifting for a high kick. It's the sound that clinches it. That perfect, crisp pop of the leather meeting its match. Alex doesn't run. He flips his bat back and strolls, nodding as he watches the ball sail over the scoreboard and into the maintenance lot.

"Yeah, baby!" I scream, my hands up as I jump up and down.

Alex makes the slow trot to first, his fist pumping as his team pours out of the dugout and rushes to home plate. Every run that comes in earns a "boom!" from the squad, but it's Alex's trip down the third base line that causes a frenzy throughout the stadium. By the time he stomps on home, he's swallowed up by his team, buried under bodies then quickly hoisted on shoulders and rushed to the middle of the infield.

I cup my mouth, my massive grin sticking out on either side of my hand.

"That was fucking amazing," Omar says, showing me his phone. I didn't even know he was recording.

"Send that to me!" I clutch at his arm.

"Nik, I'm sending that to everybody! This puppy is going viral."

I ditch my friend while he types on his phone to keep his word and rush down to the gate next to the Tiff dugout. My nervous hands flounder around the latch, and I'm about to climb my ass over the backstop to get to Alex when a woman I recognize as Cole's mom steps forward and helps me out.

"Thanks," I say through a toothy grin. She laughs and ushers me through, shouting, "Go celebrate!"

Alex is still engulfed by his teammates, a few of them drenching him in the team Gatorade while others pour on buckets of gum and seeds. He laughs through the rain of junk, then our eyes meet and he literally shoves his friends out of the way to rush toward me.

I leap at him, wrapping my legs around him and clutching his face as our mouths crash. I kiss him hard and boastfully as he holds me tight, one hand under my body and the other in my hair, holding my head to his. We smile through it but never let up as he turns us slowly, messing up the dirt on the mound while he claims my mouth as his trophy—me as his prize.

When he finally sets my feet back down on the dirt, I leave my arms locked around him, my fingers stretching to hook together under his opposite arm as I remain glued to his side while people assail him with shoulder smacks and compliments. I won't let go through the madness, just like I won't let go through the quiet. I'm here for him. Always.

"You see my dad?" Alex asks, his lips at my ear.

I nod and shift my gaze over to the area where he was sitting. His seat is now empty. The man is gone. But he was here. He was here through it all.

"He must have left after your home run," I say.

"He did," Alex says, but it isn't a disappointed response at all. "He saw the important part. And we've talked enough for today."

I nod, then pull up to kiss him again, my palm flattening on his cheek.

I wrap my hands around his bicep and wait with him while he talks to the local and student reporters now out on the field. I look out toward the parking lot where the familiar lifted pickup is pulling onto the main road, and I smile.

That fucker didn't uncross his arms a single time. Not superstitious my ass!

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