Behind the Plate (The Boys of Baseball #2) - J. Sterling Page 0,32
I dropped my catcher’s helmet to the ground.
My dad stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare disappoint your mom like that. Would you?”
I gave him a look before huffing out, “No.”
“I’m just kidding about your mom and sister.”
I punched his arm. “Why would you do that to me?”
He laughed. “ ’Cause you should have seen the look on your face. I couldn’t resist.”
“Don’t make this a thing.”
“Is it a thing?”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“Minor detail.” My dad grinned, and I shook my head.
“Dad.”
“What?” He shrugged before taking his ball cap off and putting it on backward. “Is her boyfriend on the team?”
I quickly spat out, “No,” like the idea of poaching a teammate’s girlfriend made me physically ill or something. “I’m not Logan,” I said, referencing my ex-teammate who had tried to take another teammate’s girl last season. It was a complete shitshow and could have torn us all apart. Thank God it hadn’t.
“Like I said then”—he paused, and I had no idea if he was joking or not—“minor detail.”
“That’s not cool.” I shook my head.
“I’m just messing around, Chance. It’s the first time a girl’s gotten under your skin.”
“She’s not under my …” I started to argue, but he gave me a look that told me he knew better, and I shut up instead.
My dad turned to walk off the field when I realized that my entire body was locked up tight with tension.
“Dad, wait.”
He stopped and turned to face me.
“No one else will be there, right? Mom’s not having the whole family there or anything?” I asked because if my Uncle Dean, Aunt Melissa, Gran, and Gramps were there, it would be way too much. Danika would tell me to turn around and take her right back home the second we walked through the front door.
“No. It’s just us, kid.”
“Okay. See you Sunday.”
I’d continued spending my time staring at Danika’s number in my cell phone, looking for an excuse to text her. I knew that once I opened that door, there would be no closing it, and I wanted to be better than that, so I held out. No matter how badly I’d wanted to shoot her a message, I had waited and sent my first text when I was heading over to pick her up.
She responded right away.
DANIKA: Who is this? I don’t have this number in my phone.
CHANCE: Very funny.
DANIKA: I thought so.
CHANCE: Be there in 10.
DANIKA: I’ll be out front.
CHANCE: In all black, I bet.
DANIKA: I do own other colors, you know.
CHANCE: Actually, I don’t know.
DANIKA: Well, now, you do.
I’d learned two things in that brief exchange. One: Danika owned something other than black, although I still doubted it. And two: she didn’t want me to come inside her apartment. It was probably for the best, but it still somehow felt like a slap in the face. Even though I tried not to take it personally, when I navigated my dad’s old Bronco into the parking lot and saw her waiting for me on the sidewalk—in all black, mind you—I felt a pang of disappointment rip through me.
This isn’t a date, I reminded myself.
It was supposed to help, but it only seemed to make it worse. In this moment, I realized that I wanted this to be a date.
Pulling myself together, I slowed to a stop next to her. “Nice outfit,” I said, looking at her off-the-shoulder black top, which revealed black bra straps underneath. Her black ripped jeans and dirty black combat boots finished off the ensemble.
This girl could never put on another color in her life, and I wouldn’t give a shit.
“It’s a New York thing, okay?” She shrugged as she hopped into my truck and tossed her bag to the floor.
“I’ve seen plenty of people in New York wear colors other than black,” I argued, but honestly, I couldn’t remember. I’d never paid attention to what people were wearing when I was there. I was too busy being caught up in the cool buildings and hanging out at the baseball stadium, meeting the players. New Yorkers’ attire had been the last thing on my mind.
“They might. I don’t.” She was unapologetic. And she had nothing to be sorry for.
“Hey.” I nudged her arm with my shoulder. “For the record, I always think you look beautiful.”
“Don’t say that,” she said, her normally olive skin tone turning crimson. She liked the compliment, but it also made her uncomfortable.
“I mean it though. You really do,” I pushed, and she squirmed as she buckled her seat belt. “Thanks