“I know. I remember you being so much better looking the last time I saw you. What the hell happened?”
“I knew you’re hot for me.” He histrionically licks his lips, prevailing in not laughing this time, unlike me still.
Grinning from my laughing fit, I tease, “I used to be. I’m over it now.” I giggle more, and Rod teasingly frowns at me.
As I catch my breath, he holds up his phone. “That was Mortgage. She’s not comin’.”
My laughter drops with my voice. “Why?”
He shrugs and stuffs his phone into his pocket. “She said she’s sick. I imagine she got a bad batch of blood or fell from her perch.”
“Shut up!” I abruptly laugh again, punching his arm. Now completely seeing what he’s wearing, I check out his uniform. “Why are you wearing those blue jeans?”
Rod raises an eyebrow and wickedly smirks. “Would you rather I wear nothing?”
I roll my eyes. “Can’t you wear sweats to play in?”
He instantly grimaces. “The only time I wear those fucking things is if I’m jogging in cold weather.”
“So sorry they’re beneath you, your majesty.” He rolls his eyes at me now, and I make another point about his choice in clothes. “Aren’t those an expensive pair, though?”
Stepping back from the truck, he looks down at his jeans and then up at me again. Shrugging, he ambivalently says, “So?”
My examination continues to the black and white sneakers on his feet. “And your shoes are definitely not cheap.” He owns more shoes than I do.
Appearing to be amused, he leans against his truck and asks, “Why do you care if I wear nice clothes to play in, Mom?”
My lips pull to the side from that remark. “You’re screwy.”
He cheekily grins. “Aw, yeah. My favorite pastime.”
“Screwy. Not screwing.”
Shrugging before reaching into the bed, he grabs his glove and loudly whispers to me, “I’m a master at both.” We both laugh and he says, “Shit, Hadders. At least I’m not boring.”
I snort. “That you aren’t.”
He swivels his head, searching for something around us. “Where’s your boyfriend? Is he ready to bash my face in?”
I look around, as well, but I don’t see him or Ricky. “I haven’t seen him. I went to his apartment, but he wasn’t there. I don’t know where he is.”
“Didn’t you call him?”
“No. My phone died.”
“It’s about fucking time. I’ll send you a sympathy card.”
“I thought he’d be at his apartment, so I didn’t bother to bring it.”
“Babe! Oh, no! You’re here! Didn’t you get my messages?” I look over my shoulder to see Val hurriedly coming up behind me. I turn and give her a regretful smile.
“No, I didn’t get them.”
Rod smacks the back of my shoulder. “There you go, Hadders, another reason to ditch that damn phone. It really hates you.”
She sadly says, “I thought… Oh, no. What did Finn say about you being gone?”
“He’s not happy with me.” Understatement of the decade.
Her face falls. “I’m so sorry. When I saw your note on my desk, I called you and left you a message, trying to tell you not to go or to at least not be down there long, but…” Val sighs and hesitantly says, “I’m sure Finn is disappointed.”
“A little.” A fit of rage falls into that category, doesn’t it?
She looks up at Rod. “How’s Eden?”
“She’s better. She might get to go home Monday. She’s happy about that and so is the entire hospital staff.” I elbow him and he shoves me back. I also note his twang has lessened considerably since being in Richmond, which would be strange for anyone else, but this is Rod and thus, the norm.
Some of our opponents trickle past us wearing green shirts with Surf and Turf on them. I point with my chin and ask, “What company is that?”
Val glances at them and smiling, she says, “Hewitt Plumbing and Danover Electrical. Adorable, huh?”
Rod shakes his head. “Effin’ fabulous, Val. Don’t be cutesy about them. They’re the enemy.”
I grouse, “We’re not at war, General LaFayette.”
Val laughs. “Gregory, you are something else!”
Rod walks around me and turns to bow at us. “That I am! I’m one in a billion!”
“Thank goodness,” Val replies, patting his cheek. He proudly grins and she adds, “I can only deal with one Greg Rodwell in my lifetime.” His smile plummets into a dejected pout and I snort.
Val starts walking to the rest of our gathering team, meeting up with Brandon along the way. Rod and I follow, and he whispers, “Your boss hates me.”
“She loves you, Gregory.”
He pompously sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. She does make me cookies for my birthday every September 19th.”
I giggle and whisper, “Too bad your birthday is February 11th.”
His snotty act disappears and worry takes over. “I can’t correct her now. It’s been almost three years!”
“I told you I can go into her calendar and change it.”
“But then she’ll figure out she was wrong. Then I’d feel bad for making her feel bad. It’s an awkward position all around, Hadders. At least I can look forward to no-bakes and peanut butter blossoms on September 19th every year.”
“It’s official.”
“What?”
“You’re the weirdest guy I know.”
“I’d better be.” Laughing, he swats me with his glove. I try to retaliate with mine, but he easily hops out of the way before I can make contact.
Returning to my side, Rod asks, “How’s your stomach?”
“It’s okay,” I fib a little. I don’t want him to feel bad about me now.
“Liar.”
I narrow my eyes in both doubt and from the sun. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you have a horrible poker face.”
“Thanks for calling me ugly.” I jut my bottom lip out in an attempt at a pout, but reel it back in, seeing his unimpressed expression.
“Hadley, I would never call you ugly.”
Reaching the field, I smile and say, “The pain is only in one spot now. It’s getting better.”
Betsy comes up to us with a somewhat panicked expression. “Where’s Ricky? Isn’t he supposed to be here?”
Perplexed by her reaction, I say, “Yeah. I don’t know where he is, but I’m sure he will be soon.”
“Cara isn’t here, either.” As soon as she says that, she looks away from me, and amends, “Oh, never mind. There she is.”
I follow her gaze and see Cara approaching us. She’s wearing our team shirt, hat, and her own bored scowl. I’m actually astonished by the team effort she has put forth; though, her tight, nylon, yoga pants are expected. She surreptitiously glances over at us, but doesn’t seem to want to engage herself, as usual.
When she gives us a lame shout for our attention, we all gather before her and she futilely looks around for her backup, but Finn or Ricky don’t come to her aid. Disappointed, she sighs and says, “Okay. According to the schedule, we’re the home team, so we get the field first. Each team will take the field and warm up for 10 minutes. I just talked to their coach, who said they’re just about done, so I guess we’re up soon.” She sounds so enthused.
When the other team vacates, I take my lovely spot in left field. Before pitching, Rod glances back at me, mischievously smiling. I know he’ll never take his turn at bat again with me in the outfield, which makes me feel ashamed for not paying attention that day.
Sylvie starts us off, sharply swinging to the side of the plate, before nearly hopping into a serious ass-kicking stance. I punch at my glove, waiting for her to pick me as her target. I’m ready.
Rod’s face turns serious as he takes a cursory look at his teammates and then focusing on Sylvie. He throws the ball, a near-perfect underhanded pitch, and she swings, propelling the ball into
centerfield, sending Gloria stumbling after it as it flies over her head. Shit.
Sylvie takes the leap onto second base and Gloria frowns, throwing the ball back to Rod. Brandon steps up to the plate and after a swing and a miss, he hits a fly in my direction. I run backwards, keeping my eye on the ball, and easily catch it. My team cheers and I shyly grin, again glancing to the sidelines to see if our coach is here, but he isn’t.
Being some kind of magnet, Shasta next hits one to me, which is an advantage for her this time since I’m further out and not at shortstop. I jump up to try and catch it even though I probably don’t have a prayer of doing so, but a sharp pain stabs me and I instinctively curl inward, grabbing my stomach.
“Hadders, you okay?” Rod asks, stepping off the pitcher’s mound.
Unfurling as everyone waits for my answer, I contritely nod and say, “Yeah. Just surprised me.”
“Hadley!” I look up and Ricky motions for me to come off the field. Fuck. When did he get here? I’m torn between being embarrassed and not wanting to leave. Having a feeling that I can’t beat a cop’s order, I reluctantly walk from the field, passing Rhonda who is sent out to take my spot. Great. I guess this will take a few minutes. She quickly smiles at me, but makes googly eyes at Greg Rodwell.
Ricky fixedly watches me as I walk over to him and crossing my arms. I’m so pissed at him for aiding and abetting my boyfriend. Stopping in front of him, I moodily ask, “What?”
Sighing, he nods to the bench behind him and tersely says, “Take a seat.”
I look back to the field and then to him in confusion. “Why?”
“You know why,” a well-known, deep voice replies from behind the home plate cage. I involuntarily turn my head to see Sparks walking into my sight. Even though he’s wearing sunglasses and there was evidence at his apartment of him currently having a hangover, he looks even sexier than the last time I saw him in my room before he left for his work trip. Right. His red T-shirt sets off his very tousled, glowing, blondish hair and his goatee blends in with the dark stubble growing in on his jaw.
“I’m fine,” I argue. Oops. He hates that word.
Without acknowledging I even said it, Finn points to the bench and dourly orders, “Sit.” He never wants to negotiate with me. I glare at him, but from here, I can’t see his eyes to assess his expression.
I stubbornly pull on the bill of my hat and gripe, “I want to play.” Finn ignores me as he drops the bag of helmets next to the bats before walking back around the fence. Moping, I slam my glove down on the bench and take a seat next to Crick. We fleetingly smile at each other, but that’s the extent of our conversation.
Someone taps me on my arm and I look up, scowling, most likely. Betsy says, “Your boyfriend won’t cut you a break?”
I cross my legs and sulk. “No.”
Walking around the bench, Betsy squeezes in between Crick and me, and he obligingly moves down to accommodate her. I smile apologetically at Crick as Betsy says, “You think he’d let you have anything you wanted. I mean, to keep you happy and all. He’s the one who has to live with you.”
I gloomily mutter, “You’d think.”
She runs her fingers through her short, blonde bob. “I’d be mad if I were you. He’s not even going to let you play.”
Even though I want to punch Sparks in the stomach and break his sunglasses in two, I automatically defend him. “I guess it’s because he’s worried about me.”
She scoffs, “I think it’s because he wants to show you who’s boss.”
I can’t help but snort. “Boss? Of me? Hardly.” Peering around, I see Ricky, Cara and Finn, along with the other team’s coaches, talking to the umpire.
“Well, it’s not like you can just get up and go out there on your own. He’d stop the game and yank you back out. Starting a fight with you.”
“Probably.” The ump goes behind home plate and Ricky calls everyone in for a quick pep talk, even though I’m far from being peppy. Finn starts the encouraging talk, imparting last-minute strategies and tips to the team, but I don’t join in since I’m obviously sitting out this game. I know it’s in poor taste or childish, but I can hear them anyway from my permanent seat.
As my team takes the field, Betsy and Crick both return to the bench since Rod is pitching—no surprise there—and Grant is playing first base to start.
Leaning his shoulder against the chain link in front of us, Finn casually flips through papers on his clipboard as if his very pissed off girlfriend isn’t sitting 20 feet away from him.
I irritably ask, “Are you not going to let me play at all?”
Without stealing his attention away from his precious notes, he answers, “No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Well, that’s not an answer.”
“It is.” He peers out at the team on the field, but won’t give me two seconds of his time.
Betsy nudges me and whispers, “Told you.”
I ask him, “Am I even a member of this team anymore?”
He responds to the ball field, “Yes.”
“So, I’m being punished for being there for my friend?” He doesn’t answer me and my blood rapidly stews. Having the odd feeling of being watched, I look around and see Cara studiously observing us instead of the game. I wish she would mind her own fucking business, more so than even Betsy, although I’m making it so easy for them not to. I also notice Ricky is watching us, but his apprehensive expression is very different from Cara’s intrusive one.
Unnerved by the audience, I watch as Finn writes on a paper attached to his clipboard. He’s actually going to ignore me? This is ridiculous. Without thinking, I snap, “Yeah, well you should be punished for lying to me.”
He doesn’t look up, but I know that statement affected him by the way he’s subtly crumpling the paper beneath his fingers. Stanchly biting his lip, he glances up to evaluate the game again, still refusing to look at me.
Betsy whispers, “I think you’re making him mad.”
I growl, “Good.” I don’t care if he hears me. “Did you have fun being a cricket while I was gone, Jiminy?” This time, Finn does acknowledge me, but his sunglasses can only partially veil his emotions as he testily licks his lips and clamps his teeth together. I guess he’s not good at poker, either. How did I not know he was lying to me?
Instead of responding with words, he returns his focus on the game, which enrages me. Now I’m hitting the truth and he won’t even admit to it. I bet he was jumping before he got here. His windblown hair certainly gives him away since he doesn’t have his baseball cap on. Of course, he’d be one to go without a helmet because that would be too safe.
Betsy asks, “Are you two having a fight outside of him not letting you play?”
“We’re fine,” I lie, saying his favorite word louder for him to hear. However, with Betsy listening, I know anything I say can and will be held against me in the Court of Public Opinion.
I get up from the bench and when I do, he completely turns his back to me so he’s full-on watching the game. He’s making it an art of ignoring me. Standing next to him, I cross my arms and huffily ask, “Are you going to talk to me?”
His jaw again twitches, but he doesn’t take his eyes from the game. “Later.”
“Maybe I want to talk now.” I nearly stomp my foot. I know I’m being immature, but I’m past caring.
“No.” I can practically hear his teeth crunching together.
“So, you’re only going to answer me with one or two words? I’m not worth a third?”
“Guess not.”
“Good one, Wilder. So, we’re not talking about this?”
He indifferently mumbles, “Not now.” I’m going to beat him with a softball bat.
“Hadley, leave him alone.” Ricky says, now next to me.
I whirl to face him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you Finn’s paid assassin now?” Ricky rolls his eyes and pushes up on his cap. I can imagine the mess beneath it from hurdling
through space. “I don’t want to hear a word from you, Ricky. You are just as much to blame for him keeping this from me.”
He tilts his head and indulgently replies, “He’s an adult.”
“So, I’m not acting like an adult because I don’t want him doing crazy shit that could get him killed?”
Ricky steps closer to me, lowering his voice. “We will all talk after the game. This isn’t the time to do it.” He widens his eyes at me to get the hint of Betsy and Cara hanging onto every word.
As I turn to Finn, who glances away from me and back to the game. Not as smooth as he thinks he is. Going up to him, I angle my head to see his face better, and I darkly ask, “Was it worth it?”
His body stiffens while his Adam’s apple frantically dips, but he doesn’t take his attention away from the field action. From behind me, Ricky claps and yells encouragement to Rod.
Though I want to watch my friend pitch a good game, I don’t deviate from my mission. “Answer me.” If Sparks can use it on me, I’m going to use it on him.
He quietly growls, “Sit down.”
“What? I won’t like your answer, if you ever give me a truthful one?” He doesn’t reply, but I can tell he’s holding his breath and his eyes want to close. He always closes his eyes when he doesn’t want to face something, like how they grow heavy when a bridal shop commercial comes on TV.
I guess I have my answer.
And just like at the kite festival when he wouldn’t introduce me to his boss, I’ve reached my limit of bullshit. I’ve had it.
When I take a step back, Finn’s shoulders slump in relief. Pivoting on my heel, I storm past the bench and grumble to Betsy and Crick, “I’m out of here.” I don’t even have a game plan, per se. Unfortunately, I take off in the opposite direction of my car. Smart move, but I can’t dwell on it or look back as I quickly move with an unknown purpose, except to get away from Finn Wilder. I’m sure he didn’t even notice I left.
I think I’ve made headway until I hear a booming, “Where are you going?”
Igniting the Wild Sparks Page 34
