Cass thinks it’s hilarious when I tell her I may have accidentally invited "hottie-ab-man,” as she calls him, to Nate’s baseball game.

“Rowe, Nate’s literally going to shit himself. Like, I mean, he’s going to walk out there on that field, turn around and see you talking to Ab-man, and then shit his pants. And then he’s probably going to climb up into the stands and pummel this guy,” she says, and I know she’s sort of right. But I can’t really do anything now. I don’t even have Tucker’s number, and I don’t know his last name to look him up.

“What’s all the fussy fuss,” Ty says as he enters our room. That’s Ty’s new favorite term for my issues with Nate—fussy fuss. I’d feel offended if it weren’t an absolutely spot-on description of it all. Fussy fuss. I am sick of fussy fuss.

“Rowe invited that dude, that makes Nate crazy, to his baseball game,” Cass blurts out before I can stop her.

“Oh, damn. Rowe? Not cool. I mean you’re f**king with baseball again. Not cool,” Ty says, turning his back to me, and shaking his head with his arms out. I look at Cass, hoping for backup on this one, but she’s quick to take Ty’s side, too.

“Yeah, Rowe. I’m with him on this one. Not cool,” she says, sticking out her tongue at me and laughing. She’s finding this whole thing terribly entertaining, but meanwhile, I want to dig a hole, a really deep hole, and push my head inside and cover it in dirt. I’d be content to hide there, eating dirt, for the next two hours.

“Well, let’s go get this over with. It should be interesting,” Ty says, waiting for me at the door.

“What if I don’t go? I’ll just hang out here. If I don’t go, Tucker won’t see me in the stands, and then he’ll just go home,” I say, starting to really like this idea.

“That’s a terrible idea. First of all…wait, did you say this guy’s name is Tucker?” Ty asks.

“Yeah, why? You know him?” I say, hoping like mad that this situation doesn’t get any worse.

“Nah, Tucker’s just a pu**y name. That’s all,” he says, and Cass smacks the side of his arm with her bag. “Ow! Anyway…it’s a terrible idea because Nate’s going to be looking for you. And if he looks for you, and you’re not there, he’s going to play like shit. And he can’t play like shit.”

“But what happens if he sees me sitting next to Tucker?” I ask, not really sure how that’s any better.

“Yeah, you got me there. If he sees that he’ll play like shit. Huh…well, let’s get a move on then. I don’t wanna miss my brother’s crappiest game since little league when he was twelve,” Ty says, flinging the door open in his wake and waiting for me in the hall.

I stare at the door for a solid five seconds, weighing my options—weighing everything Ty said. And in the end, I know I’m going to his game. Not because I want to be there for him to see, but because I want to see him. Because I need to see him. Because I need to tell him I love him and end the fussy fuss.

Nate

My head is not completely in the game. It’s a crappy Ivy League team, so I know the competition won’t be too tough. If ever there was a game not to be fully invested in, this was it. I just needed to show up enough to make a good impression on coach, not make him regret bringing me in and playing me over his senior catcher.

I keep looking in the stands, waiting for Rowe to be there. But there’s still thirty minutes before game time, so I try to distract myself with a few rounds in the cages.

“Hitting with a little extra heat today, huh Preeter?” Coach Morris has been trying to get me to unleash my swing during the last few exposition games. He’s right—I’ve been swinging timid. And Rowe was right, too—I’ve been dipping my shoulder. I started working on that last week, and I’ve been striking the ball better ever since. I was excited to show off in front of her today, but now all I’m excited about is seeing her here period—knowing she doesn’t hate me.

“I’ve been working on it, yeah,” I say between grunts and swings.

“Good, well…whatever it is you’re doing, do more of that,” he says, going back to the charts on his clipboard before laughing and adding under his breath, “That’s what they pay me for. Coaching wisdom. Do more of that.”

Coach Morris is half the reason I’m here. He’s one of the best hitting coaches in college, despite what he says. And if I can come out of here with a halfway decent swing, I might really have a shot at catching in the majors.