Page 7 of Tagging Bases

He emphasizes his last name, as if we should recognize it, but we don’t. New York’s a big place, after all.

“Should we know who you are?” Daniel asks.

Harrison shrugs, unbothered by the question. “Probably not. But I know who you two are.”

I groan internally and brace myself for what’s sure to come. It’s not uncommon for people to recognize me and Daniel. We’re fairly well-known college athletes. I’ve lost count of how many selfies I’ve taken and autographs I’ve signed. I love it, though, as does Daniel. If it weren’t for our fans, our lives would be a lot less exciting.

“You’re Daniel Hollingsworth. And you’re Charlie McManus.”

When he points his long index finger at me, a strange sensation flows through me, taking root in my belly. It’s not unsettlinglike when I had food poisoning. It’s more…pleasant. Warm.Tingly.

“Catcher and pitcher, respectively, for the Ashford U Green Wolves. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for a selfie or anything.”

“Then what do you want?” Daniel crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to appear intimidating. The pink mankini lessens the effect.

“The answer to my question. Why are two big-shot college athletes running around Manhattan in mankinis when they could be at a bar, ringing in the new year with their girlfriends? At least, I’m assuming you’re both in relationships.”

“He is; I’m not,” I tell him. “And it was a dare orchestrated by his girlfriend.”

“Smart woman.” Harrison winks at Daniel, who blushes again.

“Now you know why we’re in here,” I say. “Your turn.”

Harrison stands up and walks over to the door. “I was expressing my First Amendment rights.”

He plays a game of charades with us without asking. From the way he wiggles his finger and waves his hand in the air, I think he’s trying to tell us he’s a graffiti artist. It would explain the splashes of color all over him.

“You were protesting?” A note of respect creeps into Daniel’s voice.

“Something like that. Until the cops who caught you caught me.”

“You don’t look like graffiti’s your style.”

“Oh?” Harrison’s eyebrows lift. “Then pray tell, whatismy style?”

Daniel shrugs. “I don’t know. You just don’t strike me as a rebel.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that looks can be deceiving?” Harrison’s smirk returns, but this time, it’s playful.

“My mother has told me a lot of things. Wash behind my ears,look both ways before crossing the street, never trust a man in black…”

My eyes bounce back and forth between Daniel and Harrison as if I’m watching a tennis match. It’s strange to see Daniel warm up to Harrison this quickly. Usually, he keeps people at arm’s length until he can get a good read on them. I’m the one who welcomes strangers with open arms.

A noise from outside the cell interrupts the conversation. “Ten minutes till midnight,” cries out one of the guards.

Shit.Midnight already?

I glance at Harrison, who meets my eyes with an unreadable expression. My stomach flip-flops, my toes curl, and my fingertips tingle. I tell myself it’s a byproduct of all the alcohol still coursing through my veins. But who am I kidding? I’mintrigued.

Daniel sits on the bench and rakes a hand through his hair. “We’re totally gonna miss the ball drop.” He pauses, then adds more quietly, “And I’m gonna miss kissing Olivia.”

“You could always kiss me instead,” Harrison offers brightly with a wink.

Daniel barks out a laugh. “Thanks, you’re cute, but I think I’ll pass.”

Cute?

Harrison shrugs. “Your loss.”

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