Friends with Benefits - Nicole Blanchard Page 0,19

Chris had ever done something as simple as rinsing out his own glass. The only memories I could recall involved him asking me to cook for him or me rushing to take care of things for him. It had never been like that with Tripp, who always seemed to come to my rescue instead of the other way around.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. We’re friends. We can talk about stuff like that. I can keep your secrets,” he said with a grin that I felt all the way down to my toes.

I shoved his shoulder instead of responding. “Have a good practice.”

Tripp nodded to me, then bent down to kiss both girls on their foreheads. I watched as they smiled, eyes bright with happiness at his attention. He was so good to them that it made my chest ache. So good to me, too, as a matter of fact.

The invitation to dinner hovered on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to pay him back for being there for me, listening to me whine about Chris and rant about my parents, but I knew it was probably the wrong time. It would feel…too intimate after being so close to him all night. I’d wait and offer to cook for him later—when these feelings went away.

“I emailed my mom and dad about watching the girls when you have class or a shift. When I hear from them, I’ll give you a shout,” he said as he walked to the door. “See you later, monsters,” he said to the girls.

I had almost forgotten about his promise to talk to his mother. Yet another way I’d be in his debt.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, the girls turned to me in unison and smiled broadly.

“Oh, finish eating your cereal,” I ordered. But I couldn’t help it.

I was smiling, too.

Chapter Eight

Tripp

I tapped the faded, dirty paint on the wall next to the weight-room entrance. The 1,179 had once been a bright garnet with gold trim, I was sure. Now, it was faded, the paint was worn and ragged, and dirty fingerprints covered a near-perfect oval around it. It gave me a chill damn near every time I saw it. So many of my favorite players had been here and had stood in this very spot. Had touched these numbers.

Now, it was my turn.

The 1,179 signified the 1,179 miles to Omaha, where the College World Series takes place. Every morning when I was up at five thirty, before the rest of the school, those worn numbers reminded me that I do it for a reason. Each workout, each pitch, and each swing got us one step closer on those 1,179 miles to Omaha. One step closer to achieving my dream.

One step closer to pro ball.

I arrived ten minutes early for our five-thirty lift practice with most of the other pitchers. Half split off for bullpens—they’d lift with the rest of the team at the evening practice. The rest of us were in for an hour-long workout. Being late wasn’t an option. Coach Rick Taylor deemed anything less than five minutes early as “late.” I always aimed for ten, just in case. I didn’t want to be the reason the rest of the guys had to run suicides for the duration of practice. Coach Taylor believed the punishment wasn’t over until someone was puking.

My best friend Alex sidled up to the weight bench where I was lifting, a mile-wide smile on his face.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling about,” I said as I began with bicep curls. “One minute later, and your ass would have been grass.”

Even though we’d been best friends since he joined the team as a freshman the year after I did, we were complete opposites in every way. Where I was lanky and all about precision on the mound, Alex was as solid as a mountain, had at least fifty pounds on me, and was all power, all the time. I was in awe the first time I ever saw him. He grew up in Jersey with a big Italian family and a dozen immediate relatives, whereas it was just my parents and me. He was a diehard Yankee fan, while I lived and breathed the Braves.

Alex waved away the threat with one big paw. “I’m here, aren’t I? If anyone is going to get reamed, it’s you. You haven’t been answering any of my texts. What’s up with that?” His northern Jersey accent would have been indecipherable to