5. Nikki

5

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I didn't sleepat all, basically. And since I turned in my accounting assignment on time, I feel that warrants me skipping today's lecture and taking it easy until Alex has batting practice. My professor posts his lectures in our group chat anyhow, so I can catch up later. Or maybe have Alex show me how to do whatever the project is. Of course, that's what led to me not sleeping in the first place, so I'm not so sure that's a sustainable plan.

I don't think I care, though. Because last night, there was something there between us that I haven't felt since we were forced to kiss our freshman year. There was this tug, and I know I didn't imagine it. I'm sure it's the reason Alex left so fast. Usually he sticks around and watches viral videos with me or plows through whatever leftovers I have stashed away in my fridge.

Damn, do I wish I wasn't a chickenshit and had the guts to go for it with him. To say it once out loud. To just ask him to kiss me, one more time, for real. Just to see.

I wonder what he would have done if I just went ahead and kissed him. We were close enough.

Of course, what would happen if he stopped me and told me I was making a mistake? That . . . that would destroy me. I'd lose hope, sure, but also . . . I'd lose Alex.

"Gah!" I groan, pushing my headphones from my ears and rolling to my back. I reach to the side and push my laptop shut. I've been working on this new mix since about three in the morning, and I'm not sure what's wrong with it. No matter how much I mess with the midrange, it still sounds off. Everything I try sounds the same, and it's stuck in this flat place where nothing stands out. I need this sound to more than stand out; I need it to bully its way into the ears of every sound manager I send it to so I can land an apprenticeship in the next six months.

The familiar slow knock on my door is a good excuse to put the headphones away. I begged Omar to come with me to watch Alex hit today. I think the only reason he agreed is because the lacrosse field is right next to the baseball stadium.

"Come in," I say, bending down with my head between my legs so I can scan the floor under my bed for my sneakers. There's a chill in the air today, despite the sun. It sucks that baseball season in the Midwest starts under the constant threat of snow, but the cold has never bothered Alex. He says he prefers to play in it, but I don't know—I see the pictures of spring ball in Arizona and Florida and it looks pretty nice.

"You trying a new stretch out or something?" Omar says just as I spot my right sneaker hidden behind a sweatshirt under my bed.

"Navigating my mess," I say, bringing my head up and flinging my hair back. The room swirls for a few seconds and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"You planning on navigating that mess?" Omar motions to my head and I pat my hands on either side to see if he's just teasing me. My fingers get snarled in tangles.

"Well, shit," I grumble, slipping my shoes on then moving to my vanity to force my hairbrush through some serious bedhead.

"I'm assuming that isn't sex hair?" he teases.

I give him a middle finger with my free hand while brushing with the other.

I work out most of the snarls and compromise with my favorite dark blue beanie. I snag the matching sweatshirt from the floor and shove my phone and keys into my pockets before holding my arms out for Omar to give me a quick once over.

"Hot," he says, and I'm not sure whether he's teasing or being sincere. I scowl at him as I pass, deciding he's likely ribbing me.

"Hey, I'm sure that look is hot to some people," he laughs out.

I keep walking, satisfied enough that if this look is hot to anyone, it would be Alex. I've caught him checking out my ass before in these jeans. And maybe he's been up all night thinking, too. I hold on to the positive thought that anything—meaning a world where Alex admits to always loving me as well—is possible. That bubble stays intact all the way to the stadium. Until I see Alicia sitting in the very spot I like to sit. Always. For every game.

I make a dead stop on the small concourse on the third base side, and Omar catches on a few steps ahead of me. He follows my gaze to my nemesis, who he is well versed in thanks to many late nights of box wine and cheesecake.

"Please don't get in a fight. I know I look strong, but I really don't want to get punched." His head swivels as he glances back to Alicia's profile then again to me.

"I don't think the five-two girl is picking a fight with the six-two mass of male muscle, but I'll keep it in check." My eyes flutter closed before I get a chance to roll them with my sarcasm.

"You did say he invited her," Omar reminds me.

"Yeah, to the game! Not practice. And I swore she wouldn't come. And here we are. Thanks for getting me caught up on the facts." I pinch the bridge of my nose and look down at my feet as I let out a heavy sigh and hold up my hand.

"I'm sorry. That was bitchy."

"It was. But I forgive you. Come on. Let's pick some new favorite seats." Omar loops his arm in mine and we travel to the opposite side, which means I'll be watching Alex hit from behind.

My base instincts never mind this vantage point, but the best friend part of my core prefers to be able to watch his mechanics. I'm sure he wants me to record his swings. My cloud storage basically houses his future documentary tape, given how much gameplay and other Alex practice video I have saved. He likes to look at his swing and break it down, find areas for improvement, or hints at what could be going wrong. To me, that part always feels like self-abuse, watching a failure over and over again. But it's what Alex's dad taught him, and despite the rift in their relationship, it's a practice he adheres to. I was filming batting practice in the tunnels for him last week.

Omar and I slip into a pair of seats about ten rows up behind the dugout. I take the aisle so I can run down and sit closer to video when Alex is up. Unfortunately, this spot also means I'm practically staring at Alicia while she taps away at her phone, her feet crossed on the armrest of the seat in front of hers. She shouldn't get credit for being here.

"Stop it," Omar says, nudging my knee with his.

"I can't."

"I know. But try."

He's right. I nod my head and retrain my focus to the field. Cole was hitting when we walked up which means Alex's group should be next. Brayden must have pitched to the first group because his arm is wrapped with ice. I'm sure they're playing it safe with him to keep his arm healthy for opening day. I catch his eye as he leans forward to spit out some seeds, and he awkwardly lifts his wrapped arm to say hi. I laugh softly and hold up an open palm in return.

"Are we flirting with the enemy?" Omar jests.

"God, no. Just being nice." I drop my hand to rest on my thigh and redirect my focus to the familiar shortstop taking practice swings behind home plate.

When Alex pauses, I scoot to the edge of my seat and sit up tall in an effort to get his attention. He squints against the harsh afternoon sun that reflects off of the puffy clouds. It's strange how it can be so sunny yet so freezing cold. He's scanning my usual section, and thankfully Alicia is still typing away on her phone and misses him spotting her. I'm not sure my mouth is strong enough to remain shut if she does that bunchy hand wave thing to him right now. Alex continues to scan the seats, which are mostly empty except for a few clusters of parents, a student reporter, and some diehard local fans. He nods when our eyes finally meet, and I hold up my phone. He gives me a thumbs up then holds up two fingers, I think letting me know he'll hit second in his group.

"I'm going to scoot down close to video. I'll be right back," I say to Omar, who waves me on. His attention has drifted to the lacrosse field, where practice seems to be wrapping up.

I plant myself right above the dugout, just out of the coach's view. Resting my elbows on the concrete surface, I frame my shot while the first batter takes his swings. The hitting turtle backstop limits my angle, but I manage to find the right spot to get a clear shot of Alex's footwork. Too bad he can't switch hit and take a few swings from the right for me. I've never understood how he could throw with one hand but hit from the opposite side only. It's another habit influenced by his father's coaching, and now it's set in stone.

I check my focus one last time, change around a few settings, and notice movement in the background. I keep that part blurry on camera, but when I look up, I manage to catch Brayden talking to another pitcher outside the other dugout. He seems to be showing him a grip technique. It's rare to see him give advice to anyone unless it's how to properly admire him. I snicker to myself at that thought.

When it's finally Alex's turn, I start recording early to make sure I get the focus right before he starts taking swings. I'm so focused on him that I don't realize they've switched pitchers too. But the second Alex takes his first hack, swinging for the fences on a slider that runs away from him, I become keenly interested in who could have thrown something by him.

It's the guy Brayden was giving tips to, and it seems he's got some good stuff. All well and good for him, I'm sure, as he's probably trying to work into a solid spot in the bullpen. But for a slugger who's trying to pull himself out of a slump, having a pitcher show off is not great timing.

"Come on, Alex. Dig deep," I mutter, not even caring that he'll hear it when he watches this back later.

I study him through my phone screen, opting to watch his swings through the filter of my phone rather than in real life right in front of me. I'm afraid I'll shift and not get him in frame because I tend to twist my torso along with him when he hits. Pitch after pitch, I find I'm twisting less as Alex takes one rough swing after another. He fouls about six pitches into the third base dugout, one whizzing by Brayden's head. He manages to work a full count, but ultimately, the hotshot on the mound dishes him the same pitch he started with, and Alex's legs crumple as he swings at a ball that trails at least four balls outside.

"Dammit," I utter after stopping the recording.

Alex's nostrils flare as he rounds the backstop. His gaze passes over me, our eyes locking for the briefest moment, just long enough for me to catch the glossiness. He's letting his frustration take over everything, and I haven't seen this happen to him since we were teenagers and he was fighting for an all-star bid in the playoffs.

I get up from my crouching position and slide back into the seat, glancing over my shoulder to Omar. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug and winces. Even he knows that wasn't Alex's typical stuff.

I hold up a finger and mouth one more round. Omar points with his thumb over his shoulder toward the lacrosse field, where the players are packing up. I wave him on, and his ridiculously wide grin as he practically jets from his seat and rushes up the stadium steps makes me so happy for him. As long as we've been friends, I've never known Omar to be smitten with someone. He's usually jaded about relationships, having had some pretty bad false starts.

Indulging in a quick glance to Alicia, I unfortunately make eye contact with her. She holds up a hand, but it's obvious in her stilted movement that it's more of an acknowledgement rather than an actual hello or good to see you. I mimic the move and hold my mouth in a tight-lipped smile, hoping to convey fuck off.

She leans forward and turns her attention to Alex as if she's been watching him the whole time. I'd love to snoop her social media posts to see what she was really doing for the last twenty minutes but I don't want to clear the video settings on my phone.

Alex is standing closer to me than before but I don't dare talk to him. He needs to stay focused, and Coach doesn't like distracted players. I scootch over a seat so I'm shielded more by the dugout and turn my focus to Edwin, the star freshman who is now taking swings against the same pitcher. He gets a first pitch fastball that he sends to the fence, and I wince and sit up tall to take a peek at Alex's reaction. He's stopped his practice swings and is simply watching. My heart aches because I know he's sick seeing this.

Edwin fouls off a few off-speed pitches then swings and misses on another fastball, but Coach tells him to take one more before he leaves the batter's box. The pitcher may as well have served it on a platter because Edwin digs in with a full leg kick and knocks the ball off the left field foul pole, the reverberation like someone rang a bell to alert the village. I'm sure Alex is thinking they're announcing the arrival of the new king. He's going to let this get into his psyche. I know it.

Alex is up next, and the hotshot pitcher hit his count for the day, so he gets to hit off of a pitcher he's more familiar with. I hope it helps him find some confidence, but I know how Alex thinks—he wants to prove himself against the other guy. Against Edwin.

After a few warm-up throws, Alex steps in and I set up to film. The first pitch comes in right down the pipe and Alex drills it down the first base line. He rolls his shoulders after the swing and digs his back foot in more. He's anxious, which is obvious in the way he leaps on the next two pitches and sends them foul, one crawling up the third-base wall and into the seats. One of the kids out here watching practice sprints to collect the souvenir.

Alex backs out for a second, holding up a hand to take time. Coach is leaning against the side of the dugout with his arms crossed, his sunglasses doing little to mask the fact he's staring right at his star player. Probably wondering if he can be fixed. Alex takes a deep breath and blows it out hard, dropping the tension from his shoulders before rolling them one last time. He sets up in the box and nods that he's ready.

"You got this," I hum.

The pitch sails in at what feels like mid-nineties, maybe a hundred. It's dead center. And Alex doesn't even flinch.

"Strike three!"

The pitching coach is calling balls and strikes, and he's a little pumped that one of his guys got the punch-out. Alex is less enthused, though, and tosses his bat toward the dugout as he pulls his helmet off and shouts, "Fuck!" on his way in. Coach's head swivels as he passes. He's clearly giving Alex the stare-down. There's a fine line between loving a player's passion and thinking they need an attitude adjustment.

Shit.

I move back to my original seat and tuck my phone into my back pocket. Alicia has gotten to her feet and pulled on the ridiculously furry coat she brought out with her. It's cold but it's not snowing, for Pete's sake. She's hovering in the aisle, and every time Alex paces from the water cooler back to the dugout she pops up on her toes and holds up a hand to get his attention. She's trying to leave but get credit. I know it in my gut, and I can't help but feel amused that she's so clueless about what Alex needs right now.

He finally seems to acknowledge her, giving her a nod, and she gathers up her massive purse and pulls her jacket tight as she heads through the main gates. I shouldn't feel so smug given that my friend is having a dream crisis in front of me, but I'm so glad she's gone.

The rest of the hitting groups finish up over the next thirty minutes, and Alex volunteers to shag balls, going extra hard to spoil what would be good hits if he weren't out there fielding them. Some of the guys call him out for it, but he doesn't stop, even diving a few times to make a stop at short. My chest hurts for him, because I know what he's doing. He's trying to show his worth, to Coach, and to himself. He may have sucked hitting today, but he wants the world to know he can still field better than any player on this roster. And I'm guessing it's because he can that Coach lets him work out his shit on the field without telling him to stop.

Practice ends and the players clear out, a few lingering behind to put the batting turtle away and rake the field. Brayden takes the long route around, and I know it's so he can stop by and talk to me. I tense up as he gets closer, catching Alex's gaze from across the field as he drags a rake around third base. He stops and leans his weight on it as Brayden steps through the gate, and I get a tightness in my chest, like I'm somehow betraying Alex by talking to him.

"You missed me. I threw first and I put on a show," Brayden says, stopping a row in front of me and popping a foot up on a seat so he can rest his crossed forearms over his thigh. I smirk a little because having dated him freshman year I recognize the various ways he likes to peacock. This pose flexes his leg muscles and shows off his forearms. I'm not so jaded that I can't admit they're mighty nice to see.

"Yeah? You pitch to the other pitchers?" I joke, knowing pitchers don't hit and implying that he struck out the worst bats on the team.

His head rears back and he coughs out what sounds like a genuine laugh.

"No, but I've had bad days when even those guys could rake off of me." His blue eyes crinkle at the sides with his smile. He's a pretty man. Always has been. He just knows it.

"You coming to the house party Saturday night?" he asks.

I glance to Alex, who is still watching the two of us from out on the field. Brayden follows my gaze and nods.

"Ah, gotta ask your boy. You two . . . finally . . ." He swirls his finger in the air as his gaze shifts back to me.

"No, we're . . . I don't know," I stammer, suddenly more confused than ever.

My pulse races with panic, and fight or flight takes over. I stand and shove my hands in my back pockets, the ends of my hair not tucked in my hat whipping across my face as the wind picks up.

"Well, I'm inviting you," he says, pulling his hat from his head and running his forearm across his brow. There's no sweat there. He did that for effect. God, I know all of his moves.

"Thanks. Yeah, I'll . . . try to make it," I say, shuffling my way down the row and away from him.

I glance at Alex again, and he starts to move the rake around. Brayden chuckles.

"Alright, then. I hope you do. I'd love to catch up, see how the music is going," he says, and the fact he drops that little line hooks my chest and tugs. I don't let it show in my steps or my expression, instead smiling and waving bye, but the fact he made the effort to note something that is mine means something. In the months we dated he never took an interest, not once. Alex flirts with me a few times and suddenly Brayden wants to be present. I really don't want him to be, but it's also kind of nice.

I squeeze my eyes shut when I get to the side gate and flop my back against the wall outside the door to the clubhouse. I push my fists in my eyes and groan quietly. How did I get into this situation? And what was that little alpha display Alex put on with the death stare?

I nod to a few of the guys as they walk out after changing, keep my head down, and pretend to be reading my phone when the coaching staff passes. Alex has a key since he's a senior leader, so I'm sure he'll be locking up. After about ten minutes, everyone else is gone, and Alex ambles through the gate, stopping the minute his cleats hit the concrete. The weight of the world—his world—is pulling down his shoulders, his eyes, his mouth, his very being. He drops his gear bag at his feet and shrugs.

Now isn't the time for me to sort through my mess. My friend needs me. I give him a soft smile and step into him, letting him wrap his arms around me and sink his face into the side of my neck. His arms are heavy on my shoulders and his chest shakes. I rub my palms in circles around his back, then clutch him against me tightly as he lets it out, my neck damp with his tears.

"I'm fucking blowing it," he mumbles against my skin.

"You're not, Alex. I promise you. You're not." Even though I'm not sure that's true, it's what he needs to hear. And it's the only way he can pull himself out of this. He needs me, his best friend. And that's what I'll be.

*********