The Distance from A to Z - Natalie Blitt Page 0,36

the modern era of baseball is Ricky Henderson. His guess of Vince Coleman isn’t a bad one, but it’s still wrong.

I allow the glee to slip into my voice.

And then begins a light volley of back-and-forth questions. I intentionally lose some to keep the score close, making it clear that my wins are mostly good guesses. Which they aren’t. They’re years of reading the almanac while trying to fall asleep.

“Who is the Curse of the Bambino referring to?”

I pause. At this point, I can’t understand why he doesn’t realize he’s being played, because I’m really not that strong an actress. But apparently the hubris of a jock talking to a sports-hating girl is powerful.

“Um, isn’t it the guy who that chocolate bar is named after?” My brothers would kill me for playing dumb like this. “Babe Ruth?”

“So, you know a little about baseball, despite all the hating.” Zeke smirks.

I shrug. “A little.”

He bites his lip. “Let’s make this interesting. How about a bet?”

“Ooooh!” The guys behind him clamor and high-five like they’re still in middle school.

“Like what?” I haven’t even taken out the big guns. He thinks he has me but he has no idea.

“C’mere.” He leans across the table and I do the same. The hooting behind both of us provides the necessary cover for his comments. “If I win, I get a kiss.”

That last word is so surprising, I teeter and almost smash into the table. But Zeke’s hand grabs my arm, steadying me.

“Um—” He wants to kiss me? He wants to—

“Scared of a little kiss?” he taunts quietly, the heat of his breath in my ear.

“Why do you want to kiss me?” For the first time since we walked out of the pizza place, I’m genuinely confused.

“That’s my business.” We’re standing so close to each other, I can’t read his eyes. What’s his game? Does he really want to kiss me? Is he trying to embarrass me?

“What if I win?” I swallow with difficulty.

“What do you want?”

Merde. Merde. Merde. Effing merde. The crowd is getting restless and any moment he’s going to call the whole thing off.

“I get to choose all the movies we watch for French.”

His eyebrows tighten. “That’s all you want? To choose the movies?”

“Maybe I like the idea of forcing you to watch French romantic comedies.”

“There’s not much of a chance you’re going to beat me.” Zeke laughs. “But let’s make it a little better for you. You get to choose the movies, and something else.”

“I get all your baseball shirts for the rest of the program.”

“What do you mean?”

I smirk. This I actually want. “No more baseball shirts or caps for you this summer, even when we aren’t together. You hand them all over to me and I’ll give them back to you at the end of the summer.”

“Come on! Let’s wrap up this game.”

He doesn’t know what he’s up against. But I’m this close to not having to deal with his extensive collection of baseball clothing. Game. On.

“Who is the only pitcher to lead both the National League and American League in shutouts, in the same season?” I ask, no longer pretending to be reading the card.

His eyes widen, but then he shakes it off. “CC Sabathia.”

I nod.

“What were the New York Yankees franchise originally known as?” he asks.

“They started as the Baltimore Orioles.” I smile. Baseball 101. But when he starts to correct me, I hold up a finger. “And two years later they moved to New York and became the Highlanders and then the Yankees.”

His eyebrows rise and this time his nod has some admiration built in.

“Who holds the record for the most triples?” I ask.

“Sam Crawford.”

“What’s the rarest event in a baseball game?” he asks.

Trick question. “Not a perfect game, but an unassisted triple play.”

“Who holds the record for home runs?” I ask.

“Barry Bonds. If you consider his record still valid despite the doping. Otherwise Hank Aaron.”

“How can seven batters come up to bat in a single inning without a run being scored?” I ask. I watch the shock settle over his face. Game, set, match.

His teammates are busy counting trying to figure it out. It’s not hard to get to six. It’s the seventh one that gets you.

In a move that almost makes me laugh, I watch Stephie counting on her fingers. No, Stephie, unless you know a ton about obscure sports rules, you won’t get it.

And then something odd happens. As Zeke bites down on the side of his lip, clearly trying to calculate how it could