Miranda: Take me out?

Me: Yeah like on a date or something.

Miranda: Or something? Ha ha.

Me: I’ll be cool, no worries.

Miranda: Well if you’re going to be cool, how could I say no?

Me: So you’re saying what exactly?

Miranda: Yes. I think that would be fun.

Horrifying words and grammar stick out at me: Super rando? I’ll be cool? Or something?

What.

The.

Fuck.

Who talks like that!

God I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Please God, just do it—I cannot talk to her again or look her in the eyes knowing she thinks I would say stupid shit like this.

Fucking embarrassing.

I hold up my phone and thrust it out toward the rest of the locker room, daring someone to take ownership of the texting conversation with Miranda. “Who the fuck went into my phone and…” I swallow, unable to finish the sentence.

Wallace raises his hand. “Yeah, that was me. I did it while you were in the shower.” His tone is bored.

“What the actual fuck!”

“It was just sitting here.” He’s tying his shoes, one leg up on the bench, casually ignoring the anger in my voice.

“This is password protected!”

“Yeah, well, find a new password—your old one sucks donkey balls.” He raises his arm and gives Espinoza a high five. “I guessed it on the first try. Boom goes the dynamite!”

He makes his fist explode.

Remember all those nice things I said earlier about him having my back? I retract all of it because this feels as if he’s just stuck a knife in and twisted it.

“How the hell did you know my password?”

“Are you being serious?” He sighs, exhausted by me. “You’re not supposed to use house numbers as a password, dipshit. Everyone knows that.”

You’re not?

They do?

Shit. “That’s not the point dude. You can’t just break into a person’s phone and…and…” I can’t even talk I’m so pissed.

“And what? Do you a favor?”

Yes!

“You asked out a girl for me—one I had no intention of asking out!”

“You’re welcome!” He glances over now, standing, brows raised.

“That was not me thanking you!”

The entire team looks amused, watching and smirking dressing while Wallace and I bicker like an old married couple.

“What did she say, Baseman?” someone asks from the other side of the room, but I can’t tell who because they immediately scurry away like a rat.

My lips clamp shut—I refuse to give them the satisfaction of knowing Buzz Wallace hit a home run with this one.

“What did she say, bro? Do not make us tackle you to the ground for that phone because God as my witness, we’ll fucking do it.”

Around the room, they mutter their agreement.

“This is for your own good, amigo,” Espinoza says, nodding. “What did the chica say?”

I need them both to stop talking so I can figure out what to fucking do.

I cannot tell her I was not the one who asked her on a date, not after I lied about Wallace being me and sending him to get that card and fuck what am I going to do?

“I hate you right now.”

He is unperturbed. “You say that at least once a week.”

“This time I mean it.”

“She said yes, didn’t she—don’t lie to us.”

I hate him even more now that the entire team is on his side.

“You have to start dating, bro. You need a good woman in your life.” This from our third baseman, because suddenly everyone is a goddamn expert on what I need.

“Thanks, but if I wanted to date someone, it wouldn’t be difficult to find someone.”

A few shakes of their heads. “If you’re talking about groupies, get your head out of your ass. He means someone you’d bring home to your mama.” Darren Dafke isn’t wrong, but I’m not admitting that, either.

“You can’t ignore her.” Wallace begins his walk past me. “You’re gonna have to text her back sooner or later.”

“I’m telling the guard gate you’re not allowed in anymore” is my only response.

“But not until after tomorrow morning—I’m coming for breakfast.”

“No you’re not!” I tell his back.

He laughs. “Get almond milk!”

10

Miranda

He hasn’t texted me back since I said yes.

Yes. I think that would be fun.

It’s been hours.

I check my phone millions of times (definitely not exaggerating the number) and message Claire and Emily a few hundred times each. Both of them tell me to chill out and relax: he asked me out—why would he change his mind?

Because. This is Noah we’re talking about. He is big and adorable, but painfully shy, as I’m slowly discovering. A man of few words and many thoughts who hides behind the cover of his phone, who was so afraid to meet me he sent his friend instead.

He hasn’t admitted that to me officially, but I suspect that’s the case.

I wear a path across the carpet from my spot on the couch to the place in the kitchen where I set my phone, determined to leave it alone, but failing on a colossal scale. Why am I bothering to even try?