Page 5 of Pitching for Keeps
By the time Megan knocks on my door at nine, I've changed outfits four times (settling on a sundress that says "I'm helping with wedding decisions" not "I still remember you think I look pretty in yellow"), redone my ponytail three times (high says trying too hard, low says didn't try at all, middle is just right), and checked the MiLB app twice (Jay's ERA is down to 2.74, not that I'm keeping track).
"Ready for cake?" Megan sings out. "I'm so glad you and Jay can come help us decide. Greg's stuck in meetings until noon, but I really need to finalize this today."
"Jay's coming?" My voice does that embarrassing squeaky thing again.
"Well, yeah. I invited a few people from the wedding party for opinions. Just you, Jay, and my friend Sarah. Small group so it's not overwhelming." She grins. "Plus, Jay said he has to leave by eleven for batting practice, so we can't take forever."
Of course he has batting practice at eleven. Game day batting practice for evening home games starts at 3:00, but he always goes early to work with Ted Brennan on their signs. Not that I remember his routine or anything.
The bakery is one of those trendy places with exposed brick and Edison bulbs, the kind that makes cupcakes look like fine art. Sarah's already there, a bubbly blonde who immediately starts telling us about her kindergarten class. I like her instantly, mostly because she provides excellent cover for not looking at the door every twelve seconds.
Then Jay walks in, and my carefully constructed "I'm totally fine" facade crumbles like a stale cookie.
He's in athletic shorts and a Stars t-shirt, clearly planning to head straight to the field after this. His hair is still damp from a shower, and he's got that focused look he gets on game days. The same look I used to love because it meant he was already visualizing his pitches.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, sliding into the seat across from me because apparently the universe hates me. "Coach called a morning meeting."
"No problem!" Megan chirps. "We're just deciding between these final four options. Greg and I narrowed it down months ago, but we need fresh opinions for the final choice."
The baker brings out four cake samples: classic vanilla with buttercream, red velvet with cream cheese frosting, lemon with raspberry filling, and chocolate with salted caramel.
"Oh, we should probably start with—" Megan begins.
"The vanilla," Jay and I say in unison.
We freeze. Megan's eyes narrow.
"I mean," I stammer, "vanilla is traditional. Makes sense to start there."
"Right," Jay agrees quickly. "Traditional."
We each take a bite of the vanilla. It's good, obviously, because this bakery has won awards. But Jay makes a tiny face that I recognize—the same one he used to make at dining hall vanilla cake. Too sweet for breakfast, he always said.
"What do you think?" Sarah asks.
"It's nice," Jay says diplomatically.
"Very... vanilla-y," I add helpfully.
Megan watches us like we're a science experiment. "Let's try the red velvet."
We work through the samples, and I'm doing great at being normal until we get to the lemon raspberry. Jay takes a bite, and his eyes close in that way that means he's really savoring something. My traitor brain immediately supplies the memory of him doing the exact same thing with my grandmother's lemon bars.
"This one," he says decisively. "This is the one."
"Really?" Megan asks. "You're sure?"
"Trust me. The combination is perfect. Not too sweet, interesting enough to remember, classic but with a twist." He glances at me. "Sometimes the best things are familiar with just a little surprise mixed in."
I choke on my cake.
"You okay?" Sarah pats my back while I cough.
"Fine! Just... went down wrong."
Jay pushes his water glass toward me, and our fingers brush when I take it. Because apparently, we're in a romantic comedy where even hydration is charged with meaning.
"I actually agree," Sarah says. "The lemon raspberry is special."
