21. Alex

21

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july, after graduation

My house isa buzz of activity with family and friends claiming every seat and square foot of standing room with a view of the television. Nikki pushes herself into the non-existent free space on our family couch, her right leg slung over my left just to fit. She knows better than to try to move my mom from my right side, and my dad has the back of the sofa on lockdown. I don't think his hands have left the cushion in twenty minutes as he leans over, hands braced about five feet apart and gripping like he's trying to push a Cadillac up a hill. His back is going to suffer for this, the way he's leaning, lunging.

"You can see the same thing if you don't hover," my mom says.

"I know," he grumbles.

I chuckle as I make eyes at Nikki. We've noticed that for a man who claims baseball superstitions are "a bunch of hooey," he sure does have a lot of interesting habits he refuses to break when something is going well.

Having my entire family together for the draft was only a dream a few months ago. My immediate family seemed so broken, and my odds of being drafted at all felt pretty fucking slim.

But we have come a long way, my mom maybe the most, though she would argue that my all-star nod and slugging awards to end my season probably takes the cake. It's nothing compared to her personal growth, though.

I didn't know at the time, but while she was finalizing the divorce, she was also going back to school for her master's degree online. It's one of those things she left hanging and unfinished, and when my dad let her down, she decided to quit letting herself down, too.

It will take her about a year to complete, but then she wants to look into getting a job at Tiff. Of course, that probably means that Nikki's parents will be selling their place and moving west a couple hours as well. Marie and Julianne haven't been more than a mile apart since they were born in separate hospitals on different days—barely different days. Kinda like me and Nik.

As for my dad, he'll never leave Odell. The high school team had a rough year, probably because he kept cutting practices short and leaving his assistants in charge so he could drive to Tiff and watch me. From the same seat every time.

I was glad he was there. I never invited him officially. And he never asked. It's something we both sort of let happen, and eventually, before the season was up, he stuck around to shake my hand after a game.

We silently built a new off-day routine too. It would start with a text from me asking if he was around. And usually about ten minutes later he'd send an ETA. We'd meet at the cages at the stadium, slipping in and out without fanfare, without anyone but Coach, who caught us once, knowing what we were up to.

It was working. I was soaring. And my dad, he was making amends about the only way he knows how.

Our relationship is still stunted, and maybe it will always be like this. But I'd like to have faith in myself that sometime down the road, I'll forgive him. My mom has, though she still doesn't like him hovering over her behind the couch.

"?Sientante!" she finally snaps, pointing to the open chair next to the TV.

Senior grumbles and I can feel the tension grow between them. Okay, so things aren't quite perfect.

"Beat you with my chancla," my mom mutters under her breath. She's always threatening to smack us with her flip-flop. She'd be so proud of the way Nikki threw her shoes at me a while back.

"Let him stand there. He's superstitious," I say to my mom. Nikki snorts a laugh then cups her mouth, blushing and guilty.

"I am not," my dad grumbles. He sure as shit doesn't move, though, and that amuses all of us.

"You so are, Alex," my mom says, looking up from her spot, staring at his chin while he holds his head still, eyes on the TV, never once acknowledging her words. In a way, his silence is acquiescing that she's right. Or maybe that's how I take it. I think it's how she does as she turns back around and purses her lips into a smug little triumph that only I seem to notice.

"Okay, you should get a call in about five," my uncle Joe says. He's been helping with all of the craziness leading up to the draft. My mom's brother is a contract lawyer, and since I can't have an official agent, he's the next best thing to make sure I do all of this by the book.

"You ready?" Nikki says, laying an open palm on my thigh. I cover her hand with mine and thread our fingers together, bringing her hand to my mouth.

"Not at all," I laugh out.

The house is beginning to fill with the rich flavors my abuela and Nikki's mom have been cooking in the kitchen. Two families' worth of hungry people are crammed into this tiny-ass house. Once I get this announcement done, there's going to be a herd headed into that kitchen. I hope they're prepared.

"Hey! Look who made it," Nikki's dad, Andrew, announces.

"Papa!" Nikki flies to entry, leaving me in the dust so she can wrap her arms around her father. I'm a little jealous that she can do that, but not so much that I would ever want to diminish it for her. Plus, I'd really like to call him Dad someday.

"Alex," he says, meeting my gaze as his daughter skips back to her seat, half on me, which feels odd under his stare.

"Thank you for making it in time, Andy." I've always called him that, though now that I'm sleeping with his daughter, I feel like maybe I should start using Sir. I think that would stand out more, though, and then we'd likely both be thinking about why I'm saying it. And then he would think about me and what I'm doing to his little girl. And then . . . well, then I'd be dead, so that's the end of that.

"I brought you a little something," he says, reaching over my girl cousins who have not put their phones down since they plopped their asses on the coffee table in front of me and Mom.

I lean forward to take an envelope from him and slip out the small card inside.

"Holy crap, how did you?" It's a baseball card. My baseball card, though not authentic. My image, clearly Photoshopped into the right uniform, is standing in the middle of Wrigley Field.

"You better not have jinxed this, Andy," my dad grumbles.

I drop my head in laughter, my dad oblivious to the fact he just proved our point from earlier. Superstitious as fuck!

Nikki takes the card from me, running her finger fondly over my image.

"That's pretty cool," I say, then glance to her dad. "Thanks for that."

He nods.

And then my phone buzzes in my lap.

"Shit!" I wave my hands and everyone hushes. My dad leans over enough to practically take the call with me, and I let him.

"Hello?" I'm too tongue-tied to say anything else, and it's not like this is a spam call. I know the number.

"Hey, Alex. This is John Westhover with the Chicago Cubs. I'm calling to officially offer you a spot in our system in the third round of this year's draft. What do you say?"

My heart wants to explode in my chest. My arm flies around Nikki, and I hold her close to me, squeezing her so hard I'm sure she can barely breathe.

"Yes, sir. Yes, I'd be honored," I say, my uncle pulling out the hat he's been waiting to reveal. He plops it on my head and I push it down, my body shaking with happiness while the man on the other line walks me through all of the terms I was expecting. There will be a formal signing soon, and my uncle will be there for that, too. But for now, I end the call with about seven thank yous, then toss my phone in the air, not caring who it hits.

My dad grabs my shoulders, squeezing them once, and I turn to face him and give him a hug. I feel his body quake under my embrace, and the moment is just as hard for me. But it's also amazing. And I needed it. I needed him. Even when I didn't want to.

I kiss Nikki next, then turn to hold my mom, who is not usually a crier but is one today.

"You're going to have to start coming to games," I tease her. She playfully shoves at my chest, then presses her hands to my cheeks as she stares into my eyes, nodding.

I shake about a million hands, and relatives I haven't seen since the last family wedding pile on me, knocking my new hat off and messing up my hair. I basically look like I've been run over by the time Nikki's mom shouts, "Food is ready!"

Nikki and I hang back, letting everyone rush into the tight space. It gives us a short moment alone. The end of the year was so chaotic with the season getting hot and then playoffs; quiet time has been hard to come by for the two of us. And when we're alone together at night, it's rather impossible to keep our fucking hands to ourselves. Whoever said athletes shouldn't fuck before gameday is a moron. There's no science to the theory that having sex diminishes performance in the sport, at least not for me. And Nikki and I have tested that theory thoroughly, perhaps once in the clubhouse several hours before a game.

Okay. Twice.

Nik got her formal diagnosis a few weeks after her scan. And she's met with three different surgeons about options. I went with her to the first two. Annabeth joined her for the third. And while it took some time for her to navigate her worst fears, I think arming herself with information and forming a close friendship with Annabeth has helped her feel secure in her decision. She's going to monitor the tumor, and if her hearing gets any worse, she'll consider surgery or radiation.

Her audio mixing hasn't seemed to suffer at all, at least as far as I can tell. Annabeth seems to think she's a wizard, too, having paid her a pretty hefty sum as a freelance sound artist to help her put together her first album. They're finishing it up this summer. Nikki thinks it's going to be huge. I kind of think so too.

Of course, I also think Nikki is going to be huge in the industry. Annabeth might be a newbie on the scene, but she's garnered some hype. And last week, a pretty big name down in Houston called and invited Nikki out to chat and help with a recording as a test. She swore me to secrecy; apparently there's an NDA. But let's just say the guy likes tattoos on his face.

Someone knocks over one of my abuela's bowls in the kitchen, and a round of oooooohs emanates from the crowded space while the tiny woman in her late sixties threatens to swat someone with her spoon.

They're all going to crowd back in here soon, so I take this time and kiss my girl without an audience.

"This is weird, huh?" she says, nuzzling her nose against mine after our lips part.

I let my head fall back with a short laugh, but right it quickly, then look her in the eyes while we stand amid the mess my family and hers left in the living room. I cup her face with my hands, my thumbs sweeping her hair from her eyes while she holds onto my elbows.

I shake my head, then let it fall against hers as I close my eyes, my cheeks aching from the smile I don't think I will ever be able to shake.

"No, Nik. It isn't weird at all. It's perfect."