7. Blake

CHAPTER SEVEN

Blake

Something in my shoulders relaxes when we see the first sign for Waffle House. You can take the boy out of Georgia, but I've been craving an all-day breakfast ever since we hit the Mason-Dixon line.

We've already been driving for a few hours. Now that it's not snowing, Shira let me behind the wheel. She was right: driving Lilac does need a certain touch, one I'm just now learning as I navigate us through traffic on Route 95 just south of DC.

Even as the car behind us has been riding our bumper for the last mile.

I flip on the turn signal—an apparent rarity in this area where people have been weaving across three lanes of traffic seemingly without a glance at the vehicles around them—and press my foot on the gas pedal, compelling Lilac forward. She'll only go so fast. No offense to her, but when we get back to Boston, I'm getting Shira another car, one whose steering doesn't resist lane changes.

Still, I manage to shift us into the right middle lane, letting the Audi behind us speed past. I tap Lilac's dashboard in thanks. "She's doing pretty good."

Next to me, Shira laughs. She's been switching her attention between studying—her dark hair bent over a textbook—and making occasional conversation.

"Everything okay?" she calls to Paquette in the backseat.

I listen for his grunt of confirmation. Not a long silence followed by an almost strangled, "All good."

When I glance over to Shira to see if she knows what's up, she's biting her lip and studying her textbook intensely.

So something is going on. Something that's making them have very stilted conversation.

She looks up from the textbook page, a bright smudge of highlighter on her cheek. "Lilac being a good girl for you?"

She has the same rasp in her voice as when I woke up last night. Just had a bad dream, she said. Said with strands of hair stuck to her forehead, a certain flush to her cheeks in the half darkness of the room.

I wanted to pull her close to me, to offer comfort— distraction . But that kind of distraction can feel a lot like pressure. The thing about having a lot of money—and at this point in my career, I have a lot of money—is people tend to say yes to you enough that it can be hard to tell when they mean it.

So I give Lilac another pat. "Would music keep you from studying?" I ask.

Shira shakes her head.

"Any requests?"

She thinks for a second. "Whatever you like." As if she does have an opinion and doesn't want to impose it on me. Maybe I'll try to sneak a glance at her Spotify later to see what she likes.

I crane my head back. "Any requests, Paquette?"

"It's Pah-quette , not packet . Or Felix if that's easier."

Felix . What a friend might call him. Someone he tells about stargazing and the farm he clearly loves. About his sister and her wife, said with a challenging look as if I might object. For the barest second, I considered feigning confusion, if only to see what he'd do: curse me out, grip me by the front of my shirt, draw me closer to him…if only to rear back a fist. Instead, I looked up at the universe and made a wish that I knew wasn't going to come true.

If he wants me to call him by his first name, I can do that. "Any requests for music, Felix ?"

"I don't love country," he offers.

That surprises me. "Aren't you a farmer?"

"Yeah, when they start writing songs about L.L. Bean boots and syrup-tapping season, I'll start listening." In the rearview, he shifts until his knees are behind the driver and passenger seats. "Sorry if that's offensive to your culture or whatever."

"I'm from Marietta." It comes out as May-retta , the way people say it at home. "It's a city. Or at least not the country."

"Where?" Paquette answers.

Fine, if we're being like that. "Mar-i-etta," I say, careful to emphasize each syllable.

When I glance back at him again, he's grinning. There's a fine line between making fun of someone and teasing them. Yesterday, I thought I knew which side of the line Paquette— Felix —was on. Today, I'm not so sure.

He's also dressed like he was yesterday, like an out-of-place lumberjack, in jeans and boots and a T-shirt as a concession to the increasingly warm weather that displays the breadth of his arms. And that beard.

The one I offered to shave off him to spare Shira from having to do so. Which will mean standing close, my hand against the stubble of his neck. Him watching me with the same appraising look he threw at me yesterday as I struggled to keep my towel up in the hallway. A look I could almost feel, like a hand tracing up my chest.

No, I can't think about that. Not about a teammate. Not while I'm supposed to be concentrating on the flow of traffic. Not with Shira here. I really like her. She's beautiful and funny and smart and sexy and a thousand other things. That should be enough for anyone.

So I flip the radio dial, hoping whatever song plays pushes Felix from my mind.

South of Richmond and we reach the stage of traveling where it's nothing but miles and miles of highway. Shira yawns over the notebook where she's been jotting things for the past hour.

"That interesting, huh?" I tease.

"Yeah." She says it like she's trying to convince herself of that fact.

"You need a break?"

"We don't need to stop."

So, yes, she could use a break. "When was the last time you were at a Waffle House?"

Her eyebrows scrunch adorably. "I had waffles maybe a month ago?"

"But at Waffle House?"

More scrunch. The upside of me driving instead of her is that I don't fear for my life or Lilac's steering. The downside is it makes it harder to kiss her when I want. "It was at my friend's house?" she says.

"Is Waffle House not in Massachusetts?" I swallow against that possibility. Something I didn't even think to check before I signed my contract. "What do you do for breakfast?"

"We have Dunks," Shira says.

"Right, well, if we're here, let's go." Fortunately, we're relatively near an exit. I turn off and navigate my way toward the big yellow sign, pull into the parking lot, and open the driver's side door. Instantly, the air smells like grease, cigarettes, and slightly burnt syrup. Perfect, in other words.

Shira and Felix are looking at each other in silent conversation. Stop that . Even if I am objectively acting a little weird.

"The food's good," I prompt.

"Sure, babe." Shira says it as if she doesn't believe me. But she slides out of her seat.

After a second, Felix crawls out of the back, then unfurls himself to his full height, squinting at the midday sun and taking in the ambiance of the parking lot. "Smells like it could be all right."

They're both indulging me, I realize. I understand why Shira might do that. Felix…less so. "C'mon," I say, "I'm buying."

Inside, it only takes a minute for us to get seated in a red pleather booth, Shira and me on one side and Felix on the other. A patina of syrup covers everything. The bench seats are sticky; the table is sticky; the menus are sticky.

Felix plucks the syrup bottle from its place of honor on the table, unclips the metal tab covering the bottle's dispenser, and gives its contents a sniff. "This isn't maple." His tone is aggrieved enough that Shira actually giggles.

He's looking at the bottle, face drawn in an exaggerated pout. It's…cute. Which is the wrong word for someone who's as big as he is and who has a flannel aura. But it's cute.

"It's my revenge," I say.

Felix's eyes snap up to meet mine as if I'm being serious. As if this is some kind of power play between us and not just me mildly ribbing him about being a syrup snob from New England.

"For all that stuff about mac and cheese last night," I clarify.

"Right." He puts the syrup bottle back where he got it from. "What's good here?"

"The waffles."

"That probably figures."

A waitress comes over. I brace myself to be recognized—the closer we get to Atlanta, the more likely it is to happen.

"Morning," she says. "What're y'all eating today?"

I wave to Shira, since politeness says to let her order first. She waves right back at me.

"Really, you go ahead," I say.

"I'm following your lead." And she turns to me intently as if seeking guidance. After a second, Felix does the same thing, watching with a slight smile playing at his lips.

The server taps her pen against her pad, then narrows her eyes. "Aren't you…" she begins, and I draw myself up, ready to be Blake Forsyth —to pull a marker from my pocket, to apologize for leaving Atlanta even if I'm not that sorry—when she continues, "…gonna order?"

Felix and Shira both laugh, Shira giggling behind the curtain of her hand, Felix's laugh filling the half-empty dining room.

Maybe I should be embarrassed: my face heats involuntarily, but it's matched by an equal warmth in my belly that comes from being gently made fun of by people who like you. Or in Felix's case, might not hate me. So I laugh along with them and say "Yes, ma'am" to the server. "I'll take an All-Star."

"Of course," Felix mutters.

"That's what it's called."

The server is watching our volley of conversation with a certain waitress-y impatience: interest in whatever small drama is happening mixed with a desire to go back to whatever she'd rather be doing.

I smile at her, the smile I use for fans and press that says, Please don't ask what this is about . Then I rattle off the specifics of my order: two eggs sunny side up, grits, wheat toast, bacon. A side of hash browns smothered in cheese. A coffee and water and orange juice.

She turns to Felix. "I'll take what he's having," he says gruffly. "Minus the OJ, plus a glass of milk."

"Are you manifesting being an All-Star?" Shira asks.

"Sure, why not? It worked for Forsyth."

So we're still on a last-name basis. Huh. Maybe he's just sore I was apparently mispronouncing his last name, even if I couldn't hear much of a difference between how I was saying it and how he preferred it be said. Or maybe he's just waiting for the same kind of permission he gave me. Blake, I practice saying in my head, you can call me Blake . And I don't trust that I can say that here, with the server watching, without using a tone that might give something else away.

While I'm contemplating that, Shira folds her menu and offers it to the waitress. "I'll take the pecan waffle." And she pronounces it peh-khan .

"She wants the pee-can waffle," I clarify.

"Y'all are cute." The waitress flips her order pad shut. "I'll be back in just a minute."

"Pee-can?" Shira repeats, when the waitress walks off.

"There's a lot you don't know about the South." Or about me .

"So," Felix says, looking between us, "how'd you two meet?"

"In a coffeeshop," I say, just as Shira says, "At a Dunks."

Shira howls a laugh. "Babe, do you think of Dunkin' Donuts as a coffeeshop ?"

"It's a shop that serves coffee. What else would it be?"

Shira swipes her hand below each eye like she's blotting her mascara. "He was standing ahead of me in line and asked my advice on what donut to get. I don't think he was expecting me to give a top ten."

"Or her to get in an argument with another customer when he disagreed with her rankings."

Shira turns to me, eyes wide. "That wasn't an argument."

"Even when you told him to, uh, fuck off?"

"I was joking!" Shira's eyes widen even further. "And I didn't think you heard that."

"Shira, I'm pretty sure everyone in the store heard that."

"Then why did you ask me out if…" Shira bites her lip.

I brush a strand of hair back from her face. "I thought, this girl's a firecracker. I gotta get to know her better."

Shira still looks like she doesn't quite believe me. That won't do. I reach for her, my hands at her waist, and bring her into my lap.

"Hi," she says a little breathlessly.

"Hi." I kiss her. She tastes like those Listerine strips she sometimes uses. My hands drift lower, down the curve of her waist to her hips.

She leans closer, mouth at my ear. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Probably because I'm basically pawing her in public. "Sorry—" I begin.

Until she adds, "In sweatpants?"

Right. I'm in gray joggers. My interest in her is only growing more evident. We shouldn't do this in public even if no one is paying us much attention.

Except for Felix.

I expected his glare. Not the slow blink of his eyelashes that makes heat crawl up my skin. Shira makes a little pleased murmur when my cock stirs—more than stirs—in my sweats. It's funny how traveling always makes you a little wilder, like I left my normal self in Boston, or possibly in Atlanta several months ago. How the me who's here doesn't mind the attention.

From either of them.

A realization that makes my heart tick against my ribs.

I slide Shira off my lap and kiss her cheek in apology. She glances at my lap, then pushes her lower lip out, pouting.

"You don't have to stop on my account," Felix says. If I didn't know better, I'd think he sounded disappointed.

"Food'll be here soon," I say. "Can't wait to see how this ranks on the Shira breakfast-food leaderboard."

Shira laughs. "Probably not higher than Boston Kreme donuts, sorry."

"You really love that city," I say.

"You don't?"

"I wasn't too sure about Boston until I met you." A joke, except neither of them laughs. Don't let 'em know that you spent a month worried that signing there was a mistake. "I mean, you do have coffeeshops every ten feet though, so that's nice."

"For what it's worth, I agree with Shira. Dunks is kinda—" Felix says a phrase I don't quite catch.

"Is suey generous like a New England term for coffeeshop?" I ask.

That gets Felix's laugh, sudden enough that his T-shirt pulls against the span of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest. I look, then look away. "It's sui generis ," he says, "and it's Latin. It means its own thing." It's charming in the way he says it—not like he thinks I should know it but that he's embarrassed to have used that term out loud.

" Sui generis, " I repeat, navigating my way through its syllables. "Wasn't really expecting this to be a Latin kind of morning."

"You mean you weren't expecting a farm boy to be able to read?" Felix asks.

And I'm saved from saying something like, There's a lot about you I didn't expect , by the waitress arriving with our orders. We spend a minute arranging them on the table. I need to clear my head. Coffee should work. I take a sip. It's hot enough to burn my tongue. That'll do it.

We set about the serious work of eating and passing various condiments and Felix grousing about fake-ass syrup as Shira covers her waffle with it. After a few minutes, Felix picks up a spoonful of grits, examines it suspiciously, then tentatively tries some. His eyes widen in pleased surprise. He takes another mouthful.

"You have some—" Shira touches her face to indicate the blob of grits caught in Felix's beard.

"Shit." Felix dabs at his face with a napkin, which only serves to press the grits in more. "You didn't tell me these things were glue."

"Delicious glue," I correct.

"Very delicious glue." He combs a finger across his beard. "But I gotta get rid of this thing before we get to Florida. You still up for a little barbering when we pull in for the night?"

I shouldn't, if only because I've been thinking about it far more than I should. It's just helping a teammate—a friend —out. Nothing more than that.

"Sure." I swallow around the lump in the throat that has nothing to do with grits. "I'd be happy to."

We make good time toward Fayetteville that afternoon. Felix takes a turn driving Lilac—a short turn when he barely fits under her steering column. We pull over at rest stop to swap drivers. When he gets out, Felix stretches, arms above his head, T-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin at his waistband. Unremarkable, except how I can't stop watching him. When we get to Florida, we'll be in the same clubhouse. I'm used to seeing guys naked in professional contexts—bodies just sort of happen. It's different from the sunlight picking out the red glints in Felix's hair, from how I hope for another glimpse of skin.

"Oh, good idea." Shira proceeds to fold herself in half, stretching her hamstrings. From this angle, it's also impossible not to watch her—the lean strength in her legs, the generous curves of her hips. The wrap of her manicured nails around her ankles—and the wink she throws me as if she knows exactly what I'm looking at.

It's not even that warm out—warm for New England, cold for Atlanta—but sweat starts to bead its away down the back of my neck. What am I gonna do with you both? A question I can't answer. One I shouldn't even be asking.

Finally, finally, I drag my eyes back to Lilac's paint…

For all of a second, until Shira sighs and deepens her forward fold. Her leggings go even tighter against her ass. I'm not the only one looking—Felix has come out of his own stretch and he's studying her with faint amusement. I should object, but objecting will mean noticing that I'm watching him with just as much attention as I'm watching her.

"This is so much easier than calculus," Shira says as she rises out of her stretch.

"Is that what you're taking?" I ask.

"Yeah."

I give a low whistle.

"Well, it's not impressive if I don't pass." Her face twists. "I remember being good at this."

It must be from one of the parts of her life she doesn't talk about, which is most of them. Parts I want to know more about, to help her move past if that's what she wants.

"I took calculus in college," Felix says. "I probably remember some stuff."

That puts a wrinkle between Shira's eyebrows. "Huh, I didn't know that."

Why would you? Maybe that's her way of getting him to talk about it. What struck me about her the first time we met: how I felt like I could tell her almost anything. Almost.

"Where'd you go to school?" I ask.

He doesn't answer immediately. Most guys who play go to junior college for a year or two. Maybe he's sensitive that he went somewhere like that, though my back stiffens at the idea of him being ashamed of something Shira obviously worked for.

"Um," Felix says, "I did a couple years at Dartmouth."

Shira practically gags. "If you got into Dartmouth , why were you…" She clicks her mouth shut, like she's afraid of sticking her metaphorical foot in it. Because Felix is a decent first baseman, but I'm a better one. Why spend years in the underpaid minor leagues if you have options? Especially if he's likely to end up right back there this season.

"Dartmouth," she says again in slight disbelief. "What'd you study?"

"History."

"Huh."

"I don't seem like I studied history at a lesser Ivy?" Felix says. No, not says, teases.

I should mind him flirting with her. I should mind…but I don't, not when she lights up with a grin. And I definitely shouldn't get in on it. "You seem like you were born in work boots."

Felix laughs. "Did I just get called country by a guy who walks out to Sam Hunt ?"

"So you've been watching my at-bats?"

"Maybe." Said in a way where he means yes .

My stomach goes warm—the good weather, the familiar food. The two of them. When we get to Florida, I'm taking Felix's job, which should piss him off. Standing here, it's hard to remember that twenty-four hours ago he was glaring holes at me. Now, in this strange space, we could be friends.

"Blake," I say.

Felix blinks at me like he doesn't know why I just said my own first name.

"You called me Forsyth earlier. Blake's fine too."

"Sure." Felix smiles slowly, and that warmth in my belly spreads outward. "I could call you that."

Shira clears her throat—not like she's annoyed but like she's amused, though I'm not sure by what. "So, Mr. Dartmouth," she says, "are you going to teach me what the fuck a derivative is? Because at this point the professor has been talking about them for a week and I'm afraid to ask."

Felix's eyes dart toward me as if I'm going to object. Part of me is a little sad I can't help her myself—that I didn't get to go to school for real. College was never a serious possibility: scouts started coming to my games in tenth grade, right about the same time my parents started taking "informational meetings" to get around rules prohibiting me from having an agent until I turned eighteen. If Felix can help her, and I can't, I shouldn't let my ego stand in her way.

"Y'all have fun with that," I say, "and let the dumb jock drive the car."

"You are a very good driver," Shira says, reassuringly.

"Thanks?"

Something about the way I say it makes both her and Felix crack up. Shira mimes writing something. "I'll add that to the list."

"Uh," I ask, "what list?"

"The Blake Forsyth is good at everything list. We started it this morning. So far we have baseball, cooking, hair cutting, and ordering breakfast. Now driving."

"Hey, I can be bad at stuff!" I protest.

Felix snorts. "Like what?"

I bite back my real answer: Being a good brother, the kind of son my parents wanted. The kind of partner Shira deserves. All stuff too serious to say out here in the sunshine.

"No one's perfect." And then I climb back into the car.

For the next hour, they both sit in the back—Shira behind me and Felix behind the passenger seat that we shifted up as far as it would go—as Felix explains calculus.

At first, I listen intently, telling myself it's just in case Felix says something inappropriate. In reality, I mostly listen to the rise and fall of their voices.

"What're you having trouble with?" Felix asks.

Shira snorts. "Everything."

"Define everything."

Shira's sigh is followed by the sound of Lilac's springs, like she's slumping in her seat. "Everything I learned in high school is just missing ."

"You took calculus in high school?" Felix asks.

"Sure." She says it like it's not a big deal, like it's not the kind of thing you take when you're guaranteed to go to college. What happened? I don't ask.

Their conversation goes on, enough math that I tune it out, concentrating on the roll of the highway and the flow of traffic and the weather that gets warmer with each mile south. Home , or at least closer to it than Massachusetts.

I'm drifting mentally enough that I almost don't hear Felix say, "Do you remember that time when…" followed by Shira frantically shushing him.

Huh, weird, but maybe they're talking about some New England thing. "How's math?" I call to the backseat.

"Good," Felix answers, just as Shira says, "Excruciating."

"Try another practice problem," Felix suggests.

"Try another practice problem." Shira mutters it under her breath. "This won't work for me. I'm a visual learner."

"Here"—Felix taps something on her paper—"solve it this way."

Shira sighs. "You sure you want to do this? I'm pretty hopeless."

And I'm about to intercede when Felix says, "Hey, don't talk about my friend like that."

I glance in the rearview. Felix meets my eyes—he's smiling conspiratorially. It's a good look on him. Not smug, exactly, but like we're in on a secret together. Maybe it's because he's flirting with her right in front of me…or maybe because he clearly believes in her the way I do. I can't bring myself to resent that—that he can help her when I can't. Besides, what's the harm in them being friends?

He catches me looking. "Eyes on the road, Blake ."

So I turn my attention back to traffic, regretting, just for a second, that this trip will be over tomorrow.