I’m so lost in my own nirvana, I almost forget why I came. And then I see him pull the mask from his face, propping it on top of his head. He’s standing next to another catcher, and Nate completely dwarfs him. I used to have a thing for the pitchers. That’s why I first had a crush on Josh. But seeing Nate stand there—his hair tussled in different directions, wet with sweat, and his face smudged with dirt from the field—has now become my favorite memory. And I’m finding it harder to hold on to that raging, jealous anger that got me here in the first place.

When his eyes snap to me, I jolt. Crap! I really didn’t want him to see me, but I kind of thought he would have an equal look of panic when he did. Instead, he’s all dimples and teeth. He’s saying something to one of his coaches, and I can see his head nod in my direction, which suddenly has me on my feet, scrambling my way down the bleachers. I think I might just make it, when he pops out of the back of the dugout, cutting off my path.

“Hey, how’s your head, Thirty-three?” Dimples. Accent. Damned irresistible charm. He’s looking at my eyes with concern still, worried about my head after last night’s faint.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m fine, I mean. I was just…tired last night?” I say it like a question, like I’m trying to sell myself on my excuse. I wasn’t tired at all. I took Ambien like I always do, and then I had messed-up dreams augmented by the drug that only left me feeling worse about everything this morning.

“You didn’t miss much. Your roommates did a bunch of shots and passed out,” he says, kicking his feet into the dirt on the ground and swinging his catcher’s mask at his side.

“Yeah, I saw them,” I say, gritting my teeth hard, forcing myself to smile and not delve into what else I saw. I don’t want to leap with my assumptions, because I still have hope that I’m wrong.

“You…stopped by my room?” His head is tilted when he asked, and I can tell he’s being guarded.

“Yep. Saw Paige made herself nice and comfortable in your bed.” My mouth! Maybe I need to revise the what-would-Betsy-do campaign, because snarky and biting just doesn’t sit well with me.

“Yeah,” he says, still looking down, his hand rubbing at his neck. “Made it kind of hard for me to sleep there. For the record, that couch in the lobby is miserable.”

My heart is thumping again, and I think it’s actually jumping up and down in my chest, it’s so excited by his answer. Which is bad, because it’s only going to make it harder for me to tame my heart into stopping at friends.

“Hey, Preeter! Ass back on the field, son!” one of the coaches yells. I don’t want him to get into trouble because of me, so I just nod him on.

“You’ll stick around? Yeah?” he asks, pushing his mask back over his head. I don’t believe in signs. If signs were real, then surely I would have gotten a few of them to stop my life from crumbling. But for whatever reason, my eyes center on the small scratched letters etched on the side of his metal mask—N.J.P. And Ty’s voice runs through my head.

“That depends,” I say, still looking at the letters on his mask.

“On what?” he asks, his feet starting to shuffle backward toward the field.

“What does N.J.P. stand for, and when’s your birthday?” I ask, my heart now in my stomach, begging and hoping for the right answer.

Nate’s lip pulls up on one side, and he tucks his lower lip under his teeth as he backs away, and inside I’m willing him—“Say it, just say it,” I’m thinking.

“My birthday’s in October, and the J is for Jackson. What can I say, beautiful girls turn me into a complete and utter fraud.”

I turn back to the bleachers without saying a word, and I can feel Nate’s eyes on me the entire way—watching me climb back up to my seat, lean back, and cross my legs, making myself comfortable.

This is still flirting, and it’s going to make being just friends damned near impossible. But right now, I don’t give a shit.

Chapter 8

Nate

She stayed for the entire practice. She even walked with me through campus, back to the workout room. It’s fall, so we only have a few tournaments to play—exhibitions. The real work starts in a month or two, but I still have a pretty full schedule. It makes it hard to squeeze in extra things…Rowe.

The weekend is free, though. The dorms are all full, because classes start on Monday, and everything about this place feels exactly like I thought college would feel.

“Hey, douchebag!” Ty yells when he comes through the door, throwing his rolled up dirty socks at me. “Think fast!”