Chapter Eight
Teague
Mateo is too much for me, and then some. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to this, because whenever I’m around him, all my “friend” brain cells are under attack by some foreign, flirty, “let’s get naked right now” brain cells, and they’re messing with my conduct.
That I’ve even thought “let’s get naked right now” is disturbing.
That he’s holding my hand to lead me to our field-level seats and the innocent gesture makes me feel giddy is unsettling.
This friendship is doomed to ruin one of us.
Who am I kidding? It’s doomed to ruin me. Mateo has nothing to lose by being with me. I’m honestly not even sure what he thinks is going to happen between us. There’s no doubt a ton of other girls would kill to be with him tonight—and put out tonight—so why choose me? There’s no way I make his heart race like he does mine.
Plus I’m no match for someone as experienced as him. My ex said I was terrible in bed. Hearing that stung. My sisters say it’s a lie to hurt me. Harper says it’s a lie to make him feel better about his own shortcomings. I’m not sure what to believe. But Mateo probably has a bedpost full of notches and will find my minimal sexual history a turnoff.
We reach our aisle, and he gestures for me to take the second seat. I sit and I’m suddenly—and gratefully—hit with this incredible feeling. Everything seems so big—the stadium, the number of people, the sound of a bat striking a ball, the blue sky above us, the hot guy sitting to my right. I do a quick count. We’re five rows behind home plate. The safety net is right there. I can smell the grass. And—I turn my head to the left—garlic fries.
“Wow,” I say. “This is awesome.” I make a mental note to remember how everything looks, feels, tastes, and smells so I can write about it later.
“I’m glad you think so.” He looks at me a little more closely. “Hang on, is this your first major league game?”
“It is,” I admit. It’s part of the reason I so easily let him talk me into coming tonight. “I’ve been to lots of minor league games with my dad and brother, and watched games on TV, but they don’t compare to this.”
He grins. “Knox,” he says with enthusiasm, “I’m honored to be the guy to take your major league baseball virginity.”
I’m happy he’s the guy to get it, but I’ll never tell him that. I haven’t known Mateo long, but I can tell underneath his cocky charm and bad-boy personality he’s a nice person. Which is why I feel safe with him and am willing to be friends despite how hard that may be for me. I just have to ignore any romantic notions I have. My heart’s still not quite recovered from my last heartbreak, and I have no desire for a repeat anytime soon.
“You should be,” I tell him, then more quietly say, “but could you keep that down a little? I’m trying to look like I belong over here.” I’m also trying not to notice how his dark hair is overdue for a haircut and curls a little at the back of his neck, and how I’m gobsmacked by his green eyes every time they’re focused on me.
“Oh, you totally belong.” His eyes dip down to my V-neck royal-blue traditional Dodgers T-shirt that Harper insisted I buy for tonight. She also demanded I buy an extra small instead of my usual small so that it stretched tighter across my breasts. The look of appreciation on Mateo’s face makes me glad I let Harp talk me into it.
I turn my attention to the field. Batting practice is finished, and lots of official-looking people are milling about the third base line and behind home plate. Announcements flash on the giant TV screen hanging over left field. High above the edge of the outfield, the American flag waves in the light breeze. With seats this good comes food service, so a waiter stops to see if we want anything. “Garlic fries, hot dog, and a beer, please,” I say.
Mateo grins again. His dimples are single-handedly capable of rendering a girl tongue-tied. I say this from experience. “Make that two,” he says.
“So are the Dodgers your favorite team?” I ask once my voice returns.
“Yeah. My dad got these seats as soon as he and my mom found out they were pregnant. Before I could even walk, he was bringing me to games. He’s a huge fan and was a great player. Played college ball all four years.”
“Did you play growing up?”
“I played for two seasons when I was really young. My dad had hopes I’d love the game as much as he did, but it was soccer that got me really excited, so I stuck with that.”
“Were you any good?” I ask casually, because if I give Mateo an inch, he’ll take a mile.
He slouches in his seat, leans sideways into my space so our arms touch. “Baby, there is nothing I’m not good at.”
See? I think that might equal two miles.
“What about Ping-Pong?”
“Is that a challenge I hear in your voice?”
“Maybe.” I’m weirdly excellent at Ping-Pong. Like, my family hates that I can beat all of them. Growing up, on rainy days I’d often go out into the garage and put one side of the table up so I could practice by myself.
“Oh, it’s on,” he says. “You have a table?”
“We do.”
“We?”
I go on to tell him I live with Harper and that we rent a guesthouse from her aunt and uncle. He starts to talk wagers as an older woman stops at our aisle.
“Mateo, it’s about time you showed your handsome face around here. We’re almost a month in already,” the woman says.
Mateo jumps to his feet in order to let the woman into our row. “Hi, Betty. I missed you, too.”
“Sure you did,” she says fondly. “And who is this?” she asks as she scoots by me to take the empty seat on my left.
“This is Teague. Teague, I’d like you to meet Betty. She’s Dodgers royalty around here.”
“Which is a nice way of saying I’m older than the dirt on the field,” she says.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. She’s wearing a Dodgers jersey with the name “Koufax” on the back and a Dodgers baseball cap. She puts her Dodgers tote bag down on the seat beside her, then turns to me.
“You, too, sweetie.”
“This is Teague’s first MLB game,” Mateo says proudly. He wraps his arm around my shoulders. “And lucky her, she’s got a seat between the two of us.”
Betty smiles, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. The lines, combined with the glitter of light in her brown eyes, tell me she’s smiled a lot during her lifetime, and I’m even happier I’m here tonight. “We’re gonna make some noise, you and me,” she says.
“Okay,” I tell her. Mateo had mentioned making noise, too, so it must be some team spirit thing. I’m down with that. “I like rooting for the home team.”
“Soon to be your favorite team,” she says as I feel Mateo’s warm breath fan the back of my neck. I don’t dare turn my head for fear my mouth will be way too close to his.
“You smell really good, Knox,” he whispers in that ridiculously sexy voice of his.
My entire body trembles at his compliment and close proximity. I lift my shoulder to get him to back off. He does, thank goodness. And even though I’ve yet to return my attention to him, I’d bet anything he’s smirking and showing off those sexy dimples of his.
Thankfully, our food arrives, giving me something to do besides think about Mateo’s effect on me. I offer a garlic fry to Betty. “Don’t mind if I do,” she says. I think she eats more than me—which is totally okay—while she and Mateo tell me about the baseball games they remember best, the outlook for the season, and who’s primed to have a good year.
After we stand for the national anthem, Mateo asks if he can get Betty or me anything else. “No, thanks,” we both answer, but he says he’ll be right back anyway.
I can’t help but watch him go. His jeans fit his tight, round butt to perfection, and his white Dodgers shirt stretches across his shoulders. Before he disappears from sight, he looks over his shoulder. Shoot! I quickly turn and duck, hoping he didn’t see me checking him out. His ego doesn’t need any more stroking.
And now I’m thinking about stroking in an entirely different way. Ghuh.
Betty drags a thin spiral notebook out of her tote. As she opens the spiral, she reaches inside her bag and pulls out a pencil. With the pages exposed, I see it’s a score book. “You like to keep score?” I ask, grateful for the distraction.
She nods. “For the past thirty-five years. I’ll show you how it’s done if you’d like.”
“I already know how. My dad taught me. He brought a score book with him when we went to minor league games so I’d have something to do and not complain I was bored.” The math side of my brain has always loved any numbers table, matrix, chart, or graph.
“You can be my second set of eyes, then.”
“Happy to.”
“Happy to what?” Mateo asks from over my shoulder.
“Help Betty keep— What’s all that?” A gradual smile takes hold of my face and I’m sure that once again, Mateo has turned my cheeks pink.
“First-game gifts,” he says. “We’ve got a Dodgers argyle sock monkey, a foam finger, and a few other things I couldn’t say no to.” He hands me the monkey, the “#1” finger, and a plastic shopping bag. No guy has ever bought me gifts like this. My stomach tightens. I almost lean over and kiss him.
“Thank you, but you know you didn’t have to do this.” I am over the moon he did this.
“That’s exactly why I did it. Well, that and to see you blush.”
I hide my face behind the foam finger.
“He’s a keeper,” Betty says.
“You’re only a keeper if you want to be caught,” I tell her.
“You two know I can hear you, right?” he says cheerfully. Completely unbothered by our discussion of his availability.
“And Mateo and I are only friends,” I add to make it clear to Betty where Mateo and I stand. I’ve had plenty of guy friends before. I tutored most of them in math during college, though, so maybe that’s why I feel so out of my element here. I know what’s expected when there are guidelines. With Mateo there are zero rules.
I can’t hide my face all night, so I drop the finger and smile at him. “Should I look inside the bag now or later?”
“Definitely now.”
“Okay.” Inside is a white baseball cap with the L.A. logo on the bill, which I immediately put on, blue-and-white Dodgers flip-flops, and a royal-blue shirt of some sort. I pull it halfway out of the bag to take a better look. It’s a nightshirt with stripes around the short sleeves, and on the front it says, Cuddle with a Dodgers Fan. I dart a glance at him.
“Doesn’t have to be me,” he says, all innocent-like. “But it can’t be anyone else,” he adds, “at least not when you’re wearing it.”
“I guess it’s too late to tell you I don’t sleep in anything.”
He chokes on the beer he’s sipping.
“Nice,” Betty says.
“Thanks.” Sometimes the truth is the exact ammunition a girl needs. I do tend to shed my clothing when I sleep, but only when I’m hot. Which is often, since I sleep under a down comforter. In the fall and winter months, however, this new sleep shirt will be perfect.
“You’re not as predictable as I thought, Knox.”
I slip the very cute monkey into the bag with the other gifts—that I love!—and tuck the bag under my seat. “I could say the same to you.” He didn’t have to buy me anything; the game is gift enough, but he went the extra mile to make me—or rather this night—feel a little more special.
I am so aware of Mateo sitting beside me, our knees or elbows occasionally touching, that I have no clue what happens in the first two innings. At the top of the third, I’m almost done with my second beer and feel much more relaxed. I know. It’s stupid to drink as a means to slow the hog-wild rate of my pulse. But it’s doing the trick I haven’t mastered on my own when I’m out of my element.
In the fourth inning, we get the chance to “make some noise.” Everyone in the stadium pounds their feet and/or hollers and whoops. Betty is by far the most vocal in our aisle, which makes me “woot” even louder. She slaps me a high five when I do. Our “noise” pays off a minute later with a double by the second batter. His hit gets him a run-batted-in and the Dodgers take the lead.
At the bottom of the seventh the game is tied. Two outs, man on third. The count is full and the Dodgers batter keeps fouling pitches off. I scoot to the edge of my seat, find Mateo’s hand, and squeeze it for good luck. He holds on to me. Our eyes and smiles meet for a brief moment before we focus back on the game. The pitcher winds up, throws, and the batter hits a single! The runner on third scores and the Dodgers have taken the lead again. The crowd goes wild. I wave my foam finger in the air with my free hand.
Now that that’s done, I can finally get up to use the ladies’ room. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Mateo. “I need to use the bathroom.”
He stands to let me by. “It’s just down the stairs behind us.”
Once I’ve done my business, I hurry back to our seats so I don’t miss anything good. I’ve got my eye on the jumbo TV screen as I get to the top of our aisle. It’s kiss cam time, and I love that. Until the couple that comes up on the screen is Mateo and a pretty brunette. I dart a glance down the aisle, and sure enough there is a girl in my seat.
I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t care to look. But it’s like an accident on the side of the road and I have to. I watch on the big screen as the girl smiles at the camera, then she and Mateo kiss. In front of fifty gazillion people, they kiss to cheers and applause.
The picture on the screen switches to another couple. I peer back at my seat. The girl and Mateo are talking now. She’s giggling and tossing her hair over her shoulder.
I have no reason to be upset. Mateo and I are friends. Which means he can kiss whomever he wants. But I guess out of respect, I don’t feel friends should engage in kissing other people when out with each other.
You wish you’d been the one in that seat when the kiss cam was on.
No I don’t.
Yes you do.
No I—oh my God, stop talking to yourself because you’re jealous.
That’s the reason for this ridiculous internal conversation, right? I’m envious of the other girl. Because I’ve thought about Mateo’s lips way more than I care to admit, and I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
Which really only proves I’m human and female. Because look at him! The dark hair–green eyes combo is enough to land butterflies in any girl’s stomach. Add the smile and dimples, and the tingles dive straight between a girl’s thighs. So I’m not jealous. I’m hard up.
I’m also not letting the kiss bother me.
I press my shoulders back and march down the aisle. “Hey,” I say, arriving at our row, “nice kiss, you two. I’d die if my face was put up on a screen like that.” Mateo starts to stand, but I quickly slide past him into the row and say, “Don’t get up. I’ll just sit on the other side of Betty.” Her tote has occupied the empty seat for the game so far, so I don’t think anyone’s coming to claim it.
“Teague,” Mateo says with concern? Remorse? I’m not sure which.
“Here,” the girl says, standing up just as I pass her. “I’m not staying.”
She just stopped by to kiss my date.
Not that kind of date, Teague.
“It was great to see you, Mateo. Call me, okay?” the girl says before she moves down the aisle and joins a couple of other people two rows lower and off to the right.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to hurry her away.” I truly didn’t. I thought my tone had been perfectly easygoing and unaffected.
I won’t lie and say I’m not glad she’s gone, though.
Mateo doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. I keep my attention straight ahead until his stare is too much. Since when does he keep his mouth shut?
“What?” I turn my head a little bit, enough to look at him sideways.
“You’re jealous.”
“No I’m not.”
“It’s okay if you are. I get that reaction a lot, so you don’t have to worry about being embarrassed.”
I turn to face him more fully. “You did not seriously just say that.”
“I’m just stating a fact,” he says smugly. And somehow it also comes off as endearing. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a pack of girls following him at all times like they’re in heat.
“You can’t be. You have no idea how I’m feeling.” The part about other girls being jealous is probably true. And maybe his being so happy with himself is deserved, given every time I’m out in public with him, girls are constantly checking him out.
“I think I do.”
“I think you don’t.”
“Tell you what, if I guess right how you’re feeling, I get to kiss you. I guess it wrong and you get to kiss me.”
I laugh, a nervous, high-pitched laugh that most likely gives away how I’m feeling. He’s flirting with me now, which is so not fair. I hate him for doing it.
I like him for doing it. But I’m not an expert flirt like he is.
I remember his lips were just on some other girl’s and I’m quickly cured of any foolishness. He may have my stomach tied up in knots, but I won’t ever be second again.
“I’m not kissing you,” I say.
“You want to. And you’re bummed you missed your chance.”
“I can’t believe any girl would want to kiss you with all the bull crap that comes out of your mouth.”
His green eyes twinkle under the stadium lights, and a slow, effortless smile takes over his face. This time I hate him for the eye-smile combo.
“You are fucking adorable. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“You’re annoying. Anyone ever tell you that?”
Suddenly, the crowd jumps to their feet and cheers. The ovation washes over me, reminding me where we are. Someone hit a home run. The Dodgers are up by two now, but Mateo is still more interested in me, which is very unsettling.
“I didn’t kiss her,” he says, the people around us still on their feet.
“What?” I ask, confused. I saw them kiss.
“She kissed me. And I didn’t want to embarrass her with a camera on us.”
“You don’t need to explain your actions to me.”
He plays with a strand of hair at my shoulder. “I want to,” he says. “I don’t disrespect my friends, Teague. I’m sorry you saw it, but I need you to know I didn’t kiss her back. Not in the slightest.”
Thinking about it, she had leaned into him, and he’d looked more resigned than happy about the attention put on them.
“Okay. Thanks for telling me.”
“So, you want to make out now?”
“What?!” He is impossible. Incorrigible. I want to slug him at the same time I want to smash my lips against his. Which is never going to happen. Never. Because then he wins.
And I lose in more ways than one.
Betty clears her throat. “Ahem. If I can interrupt for a moment, it should be said that this is a baseball game, and you’re about to miss a potential milestone for one of the best players in the National League.”
“Shit.” Mateo whips his attention back to the game. He tells me that if the Dodgers batter gets a hit, it will be his five hundredth, which is a big deal. I know this. It’s not like I live under a rock where sports are concerned, but I stay quiet and move to the edge of my seat again when the count goes 3-2.
Mateo and Betty are on their feet. I jump to mine when the batter hits the ball. It feels like half the fans are going insane while the other half is super quiet, silently wishing for the ball to drop in the outfield. It does!
Fist bumps with strangers, applause, and hurrahs happen all around us. It’s a loud, frenetic, happy moment I’m glad I got to be part of.
But when Mateo lifts me off my feet and hugs me to his chest, everything goes silent except for the rapid beat of my heart. All I can think about is how good he feels. And if he feels this good with clothes on, what would he feel like without them?