Page 11 of Pitching for Keeps
"Moundy," the shorter one repeats, holding back a chuckle. "Bro, she said moundy."
"Is that what you kids are calling it these days?" The tall one asks his friend. "Checking out the mound?"
"I need to go," I squeak, backing away.
"Don't leave on our account!" The shorter one calls. "We can practice in the outfield! Give you two some privacy to discuss... pitch grips!"
I turn and sprint off the field, their laughter following me. Jay catches up within minutes.
"Smooth exit," he says, not even breathing hard.
"Those children are a menace."
"They're seventeen. Everything's funny when you're seventeen." He matches my pace. "Besides, Rodriguez is going to tell this story for weeks."
"I'm moving to Alaska."
"Before or after we finish our mound inspection?"
"Not funny!"
"It's a little funny."
We reach the house in silence. On the porch, I turn to face him. "I'll see you tonight. At the rehearsal dinner."
"Tracy, about this morning?—"
"We should forget it happened."
"Were we really about two seconds away from?—"
"From nothing. From absolutely nothing between two people who are mature adults."
He studies me for a moment. "Right. No drama."
"Zero drama."
"Got it." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Hey Tracy? Your shirt's on inside out."
I look down. He's right. "It's a fashion choice," I say with as much dignity as possible.
His laugh follows me into the house, warm and familiar and absolutely not making me want to turn around and kiss him senseless.
By evening, I've almost convinced myself I can handle the rehearsal dinner like a normal person. I'm wearing the blue dress Megan picked out, I've practiced my "polite wedding guest" smile in the mirror, and I absolutely have not thought about this morning's almost-kiss over forty times.
The country club's private dining room is beautiful, all soft lighting and elegant table settings. What's not beautiful is the seating arrangement that somehow has me directly across from Jay. Again.
"Wasn't I supposed to be at the other end?" I whisper to Megan.
"Greg's mom rearranged things," she says innocently. "Something about conversation flow."
Fine. I can handle this. I'm a professional adult who definitely didn't calculate anyone's ERA to four decimal places this afternoon.
"So Jay," Greg's dad starts during the salad course, "tell us about the game last night. Twenty-one strikeouts!"
"It felt good," Jay says modestly. "Sometimes everything just clicks."
"Must have been your lucky day," Greg's mom adds. "Do you have any pre-game superstitions?"
