Page 63 of Up in Smoke

The game is still in the second inning, so thankfully, I didn’t miss much during my poorly timed meeting. Hazel doesn’t acceptgame dayas a justifiable reason to change our schedule, unfortunately.

The steady pace of baseball after a work-packed week full of dangerously high levels of screen time and stress is the hit of serotonin I need tonight. Knowing Tripp is still his old self, despite the way our schedules clashed all week, which prevented us from having our talk as planned, is comforting too.

Maybe he’s avoiding it like I have been. I’m worried the conversation won’t go as smoothly as we’d both like it to. Something about that excites me, though, because if it isn’t easy to talk over, that must mean one thing.

Neither of us wants to admit it. But that night wrecked us both, body and soul.

A slow-motion replay fills the TV screen. Our pitcher attempts a pick-off, then the umpire awards the base runner a pass to second. Coach throws his hat to the ground and digs his heel into it. The pitcher, one of the freshmen on the team, extends his arms out with a dumbfounded scowl, while the umpire holds up three definitive fingers in front of him.

Wait, was that a clock violation or something?

Tripp

Nah I don’t think so

Maybe disengagement rule.

Tripp

Huh??

I start to craft a response, but the explanation is a lot to type out. My thumb holds down on the microphone icon as I record a voice message instead, then hit send.

Audio transcription: It’s a stupid rule, honestly. I saw it during a pro game last fall. It’s new, apparently. Anyway, the pitcher only gets two step offs or pick attempts per plate appearance. If he can’t get the guy picked off and still tries a third time, the runner advances. So freaking dumb. Did you finish freeze branding, by the way?

Tripp

Audio transcription: Would you still be my friend if I told you I used to think a balk was just the pitcher changing his mind politely? Mind you, I was like twelve.

Audio transcription: That’s horseshit about the disen-whatever rule. What’s next? No fastballs allowed over ninety-five miles per hour? I’d pull this guy if I were—uh, scratch that. Literally strike three when I said that. And yeah, we finished branding. My arms are so sore. I think they might fall off.

I might be making a fool of myself by switching my voice to a posh British accent in response to his first message. I know it’ll crack him up, though. His reaction is totally worth it. I laugh through my nose and press record.

Audio transcription: Ahem. Excuse me, kind batter. It seems I’ve had a change of heart. Tea and curveballs at noon, then?

Audio transcription: I’ll still be your friend, but that’s too funny. You’re never living it down. Don’t even get me started on all the new rules. Freaking downer, I swear. Pure play is a lost art.

Tripp

Audio transcription: That’s the worst accent I’ve ever heard, actually. Did you finish your app yet?

Audio transcription: I think you know the answer to that. No, it’s not done. It’s coming right along, though. Trying not to worry too much about the timeline as a whole. Focusing on the little wins each week instead, remember?

Tripp

Audio transcription: Right. I’m with you. Little wins. Are you watching at your place right now? You can come over. If you want. I mean, I want you to come over if you want to. I already said that you get the damn gist.

Finally. I smile as I sprint to the shower. I’m excited to see him, and I want to talk about more than sports or the banter and small talk we exchanged through texts during the week.

A quick shower and fifteen minutes later, I walk into the bunkhouse wearing a smile. Tripp’s phone is in his hands. He doesn’t bother looking up. There’s a deep crease in his forehead, and my face drops.

22

MESA

“Why do we like baseball again?”Tripp groans.

I let out a heavy breath and toss a small handful of popcorn in my mouth. Blowing a three-run lead in the bottom of the eighth is nothing new for this team. As their resident super fans, Tripp and I still sit through the torture. It doesn’t compare to my own torment of sitting next to him, knowing something is most definitely wrong, but it comes close.

---