7. Nikki

7

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I may skip class sometimes.Okay, I may skip accounting constantly. But, I've never sat out an entire day from anything in my life. Usually, I skip the thing I'm supposed to do because there's something I'd rather do.

But yesterday? I did nothing. Literally. Nothing.

I couldn't. I woke up with this strange urge to vomit, sat up, felt my world spin, then instantly laid back down. Omar had to cover my floor meeting with my residents, which, well, that was a win. The floor meetings are mandatory and nobody wants to be there. This month is a door decorating contest for a ten-dollar food hall gift card. I can all but guarantee the only girl who has a white board on her door on which she sarcastically writes THIS IS MY (FILL IN THE MONTH) DECORATION ENTRY will be the winner. She's the only one who participates.

The weird thing is, I couldn't stand the thought of music in my ears yesterday. I tried, both with my headphones and without. But the sound only made my head feel worse—throbbing and swirling, with nothing good to show for it.

Alex kept offering to come over and take care of me, which I wanted desperately, especially after our night at Patty's. I'm even more confused about my situation than I was before. But also, I'm kind of freaked out about my head. And the last thing I want to do is freak Alex out. He has enough on his plate without worrying about me having a dizzy spell or two. Besides, I woke up normal today. So I'm sure it was a bug.

But the fact the mix I made last week now sounds completely fucked up has me concerned. I haven't changed a thing, and looking at the settings proves it visually. Why it doesn't sound right is a mystery.

I drop my headphones to my neck and close my laptop at the feel of my phone vibrating. I pull it out of my pocket to see my mom calling, and my stomach tightens because as close as me and her are, she doesn't call much. This could only mean one thing.

"Hey, Mom."

"Did you know about Senior and Marie?" Senior is Alex's dad. That's how Mom and I keep them straight. She's known them both since high school, so I'm sure this news has her in a tizzy.

I sigh.

"?Mija!How come you didn't tell me?"

I knew she would fly right to this.

"Because I was being there for Alex, and he said Marie was working through things and would tell you on her own time." I fail to mention that Alex only told me a few days ago. Last thing I need is my mom exploring why Alex would keep it a secret too.

"Okay, well. It's good he has you. He must be really upset. This is such a surprise. They were—" She stops there and simply sighs out a sob.

This is my mom. And I am positive this is why Marie waited to until she was absolutely ready for Julianne Thomas's emotional sympathy. It's why my mom can't watch Hallmark movies. She takes everything to heart—deeply to heart.

"He's doing all right, but he's pretty upset with Senior." I plop my phone on my bed and turn it to speaker so I can change for Alex's game while my mom continues to share her emotional journey.

"Talk about upset! Marie is letting him off easy, in my opinion. And I told her we are putting her up on all the dating sites. Right now. Forget this trial separation business. There's no three strikes for this. It's one strike. Right? Isn't that how it goes?"

I sigh quietly to myself, not wanting her to hear me.

"Yes, Mama." I know when it's time to use my sweet voice. And when to tell her she's right. I'll let her go on for a while. Maybe getting it out of her system with me will save Marie from having to deal with it.

"I agree," I add in, setting off a new rant. She's picking up steam and shifting to the angry side. This version of her will be more beneficial to Marie.

I wiggle out of the oversized T-shirt I've lived in for the past two days and tip over my basket of clean laundry, cursing myself for never putting stuff away. Most of my shirts are wrinkled, but the jersey Alex gave me from his freshman year isn't too bad. I slip on my snug black hoodie and then toss the jersey over it. The wind is very much present today, so I'm going to want to have that hood up. Plus, since I'm going to the game alone, this means I won't have to talk to anyone. The hoodie is a sure-fire way of securing introvert status.

I slip on my jeans and sneakers, then feel around my crumpled blankets for my Tiff baseball cap. I pull my hair through the back then pull the hoodie up over the top.

"Mama? Hey, I . . ." She doesn't seem to hear me, so I pop my earbuds in and let her continue to vent as I gather up my keys and wallet, then head out for Alex's game.

My mom manages to slip through three complete stages of friendship sympathy during my walk to the stadium—grief, anger, and now party planning.

"I'm not sure Julianne is ready for a girls' night just yet, but you probably know best," I say, showing my student ID to the security officer. He waves me through, and I drop my cell phone in the bin as I pass through the metal detector. I pick it up on the other side, my mom none the wiser.

"Hey, Mom?" I manage to catch her between breaths.

"Yes, baby."

"I have to get to Alex's game. So I need to go. But can you send me our insurance info? I need to make an appointment?—"

"Nikki Thomas, are you pregnant?" she shouts into my ear. I'm glad I don't feel the way I did yesterday. That shrill question would have busted my ear drum.

"Jesus, Ma! No, I'm not. I have an earache. I just need to go to student health. It's fine." I scan the seats, which are half-filled because it's opening day. The only time this place is full is for concerts and playoffs.

"Okay, but you better not get pregnant!"

I laugh because this is how the sex talk with my mom started when I was twelve. There was no easing me into birds and bees, which, face it, I had already picked up the details from classmates on the playground. My mom went right to the scare tactics—teenage pregnancy risks, how it affects college attendance, graduation rates, future employment. I dared to bring up Aunt Mara, who had my cousin Sonia at sixteen. That's when I learned about how hard Mara worked to get where she is—owning her own boutique in Iowa City. I'll admit it gave me good perspective, but also—maybe would have been nice to get the speech about two people being in love and waiting. That's the version Alex got. We compared notes.

"I'll text you a picture of the card. Tell me how it goes at the appointment. You know I worry," she says.

"Oh, I know."

I hear her grumble but she relents and says she loves me before ending the call.

I pull my earbuds out and tuck them in my case and then my pocket, and scan the stadium for Alicia. As I feared, she's in the same seat as last time—my seat. I could run and hide as I did before or suck it up and play nice. Since this is where I've sat for every home game over the last three years, I decide Alex knowing where to find me is more important than my ego, so I push my phone in my back pocket and take a deep breath.

"Hey, got room for one more?" I ask, noting that she's brought two friends with her. They're all taking selfies right now.

"Yeah, down there," Alicia says, nodding to the seat that puts two people between us.

"Thanks," I say, begrudgingly. She's in my seat, but I promised I'd be nice. And Alex is stressed today. He'll find me three feet in another direction.

I keep my hoodie up until it's time to stand for the national anthem. I slip it off and pull my hat from my head and stare at my favorite player on the field. His hands fidget with his hat behind his back, and I can tell he's nervous. This isn't my normal Alex.

While my seatmates giggle through the ceremonial first pitch and group together to take more selfies with the field in the background, I tuck my hair through my hat again and leave the hoodie down for now so Alex can spot me. He's stretching just outside the dugout, pulling his legs up to get loose. Once he's still, punching his fist into the pocket of his mitt, the brim of his hat tips up and I can tell he's found me. I nod, and he nods back. I sink into my seat and prop one foot on the cupholder to my right as I seriously consider moving down an extra seat or two.

Be nice, he said.

Our guys take the field, which means, for now, I can relax. Fielding has never been a worry, as he proves by making a diving stop and managing to throw the runner out from his knees.

"Wow!" one of Alicia's friends says, clapping. I smirk, part of me proud of her for noticing and acknowledging it.

"I told you he was good," Alicia adds.

I pop my mouth open but stop short of speaking actual words.

Be nice.

I sit back instead, comfortable enough in my own knowledge that Alicia has never actually seen him play.

The inning ends with a line drive to Alex that he catches with ease then tosses to our second baseman as they jog off the field. I hold my breath for the next test. I noticed Alex is slotted to bat sixth, which isn't the usual lead-off he's used to. I'm sure it's to take pressure off of him, but also, I know Alex. This move does nothing but add to his pressure, his feeling of failure.

"Come on, Alex," I mutter quietly.

"You come to a lot of games?" the girl next to me asks.

I meet her gaze, skepticism in my eyes. She's being friendly, I remind myself.

"Quite a few," I say. All of them.

"This is my first one. I'm so excited. Alicia used to date him, number five?" She points to Alex who is taking warm-up swings just outside the dugout.

"Is that right? Wow, lucky girl," I say, doing my best to mask my natural sarcasm.

"I think they still like each other," she says, leaning over and whispering to me.

I nod and hold my mouth in the ah position while the jealousy soup boils in my gut. Thankfully, our first batter is announced, so I turn my focus back to the field and finger the strings of my hoodie while I mentally debate putting up my fleece forcefield.

Edwin is DHing, which Alex expected. He's also in the four-hole, which I guess he's earned. The guy can hit. But seeing his name loom large has got to be getting into Alex's head.

Our lead-off hitter walks, and our number two, Cole, gets hit by a pitch.

"Oww!" my seatmate says, cupping her mouth. I'll give her this, at least she's really watching. Alicia and her friend right next to her are scrolling through socials.

"They get hit a lot. They can take it," I say, feeling like educating her a little.

"Really? They don't have pads?"

I chuckle.

"No, they aren't like hockey or football players."

She nods, her face serious. Oh boy.

Our third batter gets on with a single, loading the bases for Edwin. When the announcer introduces him, the stadium roars with anticipation, partly because the bases are juiced and part due to the hype that Edwin comes with. He was pretty flashy in high school. Let's see if that translates to college pitching.

The first pitch comes in at ninety-nine (thank you, speed gun guy). Edwin swings through it like he's wielding a sword and merely tops the ball, sending it foul. The guys in the dugout grow rowdy, Alex joining them as they chirp and try to get into the pitcher's head. It's effective, as the next pitch is in the dirt.

My thumbnail finds its way between my teeth, and I'm not sure whether I'm rooting for Edwin to fail or succeed right now. It becomes abundantly clear, though, as the next pitch comes in, and he sends it screaming over the left field scoreboard. Everyone—Alicia included—gets to their feet, cheering. But I'm glued in place, my focus on Alex as he does his best to rally for his team, to congratulate the guy he sees as a threat. And now he has to clear his head and wait his turn.

"That was amazing!" the girl next to me says.

"Mmm, it was," I say, forcing a smile.

"Do you know him?" She nods to the field where everyone is patting Edwin on the helmet.

"Not really," I say. "I'm friends with Alex."

She shifts in her seat, twisting and dropping her sunglasses down her nose as if she didn't see me fully before.

"You," she says, waggling her finger at me. "You must be Nikki."

"I am, indeed," I say with a tight-lipped smile.

I linger on her gaze for a few seconds, waiting for her to introduce herself, but she never does. And her attention shifts to the girl sitting to her left. I'm pretty sure this baseball education session is done.

Our catcher bats fifth and pops out to first base. The fact that Alex is up with nobody on and no risk of being the third out gives me some comfort. And at least Alicia is paying enough attention to realize he's up. She gets to her feet and cups her mouth, screaming his name. I know he can't hear her, but I promised I'd be nice, so I'll let her keep at it. Maybe somehow he will feel everyone behind him. Most of the fans here don't know he had a rough fall.

He steps in, digging his back foot in as he always does and engaging his hips with a few quick jolts like a wind-up getting ready to be cut loose. I sit forward and ball my hands together, picking at the corner of my thumbnail.

Come on, Alex.

I keep my support internal, willing it to him through our bond. As his shoulders relax and the bat bobs on his shoulder, I grow confident. He looks ready. It's a carbon copy of every at bat he's had over the last three years. Nothing is off, at least not that I can tell.

I swallow as the pitch comes, and it zips in for a questionable first strike.

"That seemed outside," I mumble. I don't bother glancing to my left. I don't care if they can hear me. Or aren't listening to me.

Alex digs in again and takes a deep breath, his shoulders dropping as he readies his stance. I'm betting on a curveball. It seems so is Alex as he sits back and swings through one, topping the ball and spinning it foul into his dugout.

I dig my nails into my palm.

"You got this," I say, my voice growing louder.

There's a shift in his stance now, and when he lets out his breath to relax, his shoulders remain tense. He's in the box, but there's no digging. He's off-balance. Not ready. And when he swings through the third strike, not even close to fouling off the slider, I feel sick.

"Shit," I say, nice and loud this time.

"He'll get it next time," Alicia says, still on her feet and clapping.

I smile at her, though she never looks. At least I can appreciate that she's in his corner—in her own way.

The game drags on, and by the seventh inning and nearing three hours, Alicia and her friends have bailed. I move back to my favorite seat, propping my feet on the back of the seat in front of me, and cup my knees with my sweaty palms. It's pretty chilly out, the sun dropping in the afternoon and the breeze picking up. But somehow, my hands are sweating. Alex has struck out twice and flied out once. He has one more at bat coming up, and he needs this. It doesn't matter that we're up five to one. He won't focus on the win, and not because he's being a selfish player. He'll focus on his failures because this is his dream.

I sit forward after we get the last outs of the seventh and head into the eighth, my eyes scanning the dugout for Alex. He should be getting his helmet on, slipping on his batting gloves, but I don't spot him.

Oh no. No, no, no!

The announcer begins to say it a second after the reality hits me.

"Batting for Alex Mendoza is number eighteen, Patrick Burnes."

No!

I get to my feet, check my pockets to make sure nothing's dropped, and head down to the clubhouse where I camp outside the door. I don't care how the game plays out, and I hear enough from this spot to know that Patrick does well, hitting a single and managing to steal second. I close my eyes through the rest of the game, hoping my friend can feel me somehow. I want to hug him. I want to charge through these doors and march into that dugout and grab his coach by the collar and tell him he's not helping! But that wouldn't be helping either.

So I sit. And the game finishes. And after every other player has left, mine comes shuffling through the door, his eye black smeared from tears. The only thing I have to offer is my arms, my heart, my love. So I give it to him. I let him ruin the jersey he gave me by bawling into my shoulder and smearing eye black on the white fabric. I grasp the back of his dirty, sweaty neck and try not to think about the dried blood on his elbow from the amazing stops he made today.

None of the good will matter to him right now because all he can focus on is the bad.

"You want to stay over tonight?" I ask, knowing he's definitely not up for hanging with the guys. He didn't even bother to shower in the clubhouse.

He sniffles and nods.

"Yeah. Just let me . . . shower. Mind coming with me and waiting?"

I shake my head, my gaze locked on his glossy eyes.

"Never," I say, threading my hand with his and making the slow, melancholy march to the parking lot.

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