The Ninth Inning (The Boys of Baseball #1) - J. Sterling Page 0,22

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Graduating meant it was time to grow up, be an adult, and pay for your own way. As terrifying as the concept was, I also felt ready to tackle it. I knew a big part of that was because I knew what I wanted to do with my life and was taking the steps to get there. The majority of students who put off graduating for as long as possible did it because they had no idea what they wanted to be when they grew up. I totally understood that but was thankful I couldn’t relate.

Closing my notebook, I glanced at the clock. Hours had flown by, as they usually did whenever I was excited about the prospect of a potential client. Lauren used to tease me about how I wouldn’t even notice that the sun had risen and fallen while I was immersed in work. And it was true. I was too busy paying attention to all the details online to notice the ones off of it. She’d come home an hour or so ago, and she knew better than to distract me, so when I stretched my arms over my head and looked around, I was surprised to see her sitting on the living room couch, reading.

“Have you been there the whole time?” I asked, and she laughed, her head nodding as her feet tucked up underneath her.

“Pretty much. But I’ve been quiet, so you haven’t noticed me,” she said like she was a proud child waiting for a reward from a parent.

“We’d better start getting ready.” I stood up from the chair and stretched some more. My body was tight from staying in one position for so long.

Lauren slammed her book shut and breathed out, “Finally! But I’m hungry. And I was afraid to bang around in the kitchen while you were in it. You know how grumpy you get.”

I frowned. “I don’t get grumpy. I just hate getting distracted. It takes me out of my mindset and throws me all out of whack, and then I have to start over.”

“Yeah, yeah. Grumpy. Anyway, I need to eat something before we go because I am not eating at The Bar.”

“Why not? Their food’s decent?”

The Bar’s food was definitely edible but greasy. Maybe she wasn’t in the mood for anything fried.

“I don’t want to eat in front of the drummer,” she admitted, and I gave her a half-smile.

“Understandable,” I said because drinking in front of a crush was one thing but trying to eat greasy bar food in front of them was something else altogether.

Walking into the kitchen, I pulled open the fridge and frowned. We were pretty bad at keeping food stocked. Like most students, we ate out way more than we could afford to.

“There isn’t much here,” I said as she appeared behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“Please don’t make me eat another salad,” she whined, noting how much lettuce was in our vegetable drawer.

“I don’t make you eat anything,” I said with a laugh. “And you love salads.”

The girl ate more salads than anyone I’d ever met in my life.

“I know; I know.” She waved me off. “Don’t get me wrong. I just feel like they steal joy from my life every time I eat one for a meal. I know I’m supposed to eat it, and it’s good for me, but it’s not fun. I get tired of eating them all the time.”

I laughed, not only because she was an absolute crazy pants, but because I also totally agreed with her. I loved a good salad myself, but she was right; they weren’t necessarily fun to eat. They felt like something you were forced to put in your mouth, not something you wanted to. And it was such a female thing because how many guys did you see walking around, eating salads for meals? None. Unless they were vegetarians, but they didn’t count for the sake of this argument.

“Joy-stealers. That’s our new name for salads from here on out,” I said with a laugh.

Lauren cracked up. “Yes! I love it! Now, make me one of your famous grilled cheeses, please!” She reached for the bread on the counter and slid it toward me.

I grabbed the freshly sliced deli American white cheese and salted butter. “All right. But don’t blame me when you feel all bloated and full and gross.”

“I’ll feel delicious because your grilled cheese is the best. And I won’t even be sorry because it will bring me joy and make