Page 8 of The Strike Zone

“Okay.” I repeated, “I don’t want to get friend-zoned or whatever the fuck Reeves called it.”

Fucking Reeves.

The spiral I’d stopped myself from spinning into pregame, was threatening to take hold again.

This was all Jupiter Reeves’s fault.

I’d been quietly having a conversation with my boys about how to ask out Scout now she was single, when Jupiter Reeves interrupted with his sole contribution by telling me not to get friend-zoned.

That was it. Don’t get friend-zoned.

I was about to ask him what he meant when Coach called a meeting, and I hadn’t seen Jupiter since, unless you counted the dugout. And even I wasn’t stupid enough to talk to Jupiter Reeves about a girl during Opening Day game.

That was the sort of shit Ace pulled.

“You think I should go and find Reeves and ask him what he meant?”

Find Reeves, or find Scout. It was debatable which was more nerve wracking.

I waited for Tanner to answer. Instead, he pulled his cell out and began scrolling.

I was still waiting thirty seconds later. Did he not realize I wasn’t asking a rhetorical question and didactuallyrequire a response?

“Duuude?” I tried again, making no attempt to keep the whine from my tone. “What should I do?”

I was about to slap the cell from his hands when he finally looked up, and a wide smile split his face.

“What?”

“I don’t think you’re in the friend zone yet. You’re definitely still in the strike zone.” He snickered, thrusting his cell in my direction. “She saw your home run.”

The screen was open on the New York Lions TikTok channel—which Scout was in charge of. I found myself staring at a looped close-up video of me smashing the ball through the air, far into left field and the stands, jogging past the bases and off the field.

The last five seconds was in slow motion, my mouth curved up on the right and looking every ounce as smug as I felt when I saluted the fans before ducking back into the dugout.

The smugness returned tenfold as I read the text over the top.

king of the field

“Check out the one underneath.”

I scrolled down to find a video of Ace and me warming up.

My smile grew.

It wasn’t us just throwing and catching or going over strategy. No sir. Those groin stretches the PTs had us doing on the daily were paying off in more ways than one, and I didn’t mind in the slightest that a close-up of my ass was there for the world to see.

Not if Scout had videoed it.

The social media team usually had cameras set up along the field to capture each game, and they always stayed close by. But today I hadn’t been aware of seeing any of them. Or rather, I hadn’t spotted Scout.

Normally I knew when she was near, as though I had a sixth sense for anything concerning Scout Davison, but today I’d been too focused on making sure Ace had a better Opening Day than last year.

And I had. We’d annihilated the Braves.

But if these two videos were anything to go by, Scout’s attention had been on more than the game. Especially as—from scrolling through the rest of today’s posts—no one else had two made of them.

I glanced back up at Tanner, my chest puffing. “Do you think she’s into me? That’s what this means, right?”

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