“I’m good,” I said, “I’ll just grab something later.”
“How about these seats?” he asked, clapping through a play. “Pretty great, right?”
“Better than I’m used to.”
“How’d you get into baseball?” he asked.
“My dad.” I’d already mentioned that partway through the first inning, but Frank had been distracted. “I grew up in Buffalo, so it was a big deal to drive in for a game.”
“You already told me that, didn’t you? Sorry. My attention’s a little divided.”
“It’s okay, totally fine,” I said, even though I was starting to question why he’d asked me to the game. It seemed as if he might enjoy it more alone. “We never had seats this close. We were usually in the bleachers. It’s cool to actually see the players’ expressions.”
“This is the only way I’ll come to a game. I can’t sit farther back than this.”
“There’s actually a weird sense of camaraderie in the nosebleed section . . .”
François groaned at a bad call and turned forward. I should’ve considered how long a baseball game could go on. It was my first date in a while, and this wasn’t making a case for doing it again anytime soon. Silence made me just as uncomfortable as stilted conversation. Was he not interested enough to learn more about me? What if we ran out of things to talk about at some point?
I wiped sweat from my upper lip. I was starting to regret my long-sleeved shirt. It’d been cold when I’d left my apartment, but the sun was right on top of us now. Apparently, the weather was still making up its mind. “So, did you stay in the city this summer?” I asked.
“I spent some time at my parents’ beach house in Florida,” he said. “You ever been?”
I perked up with a fresh topic. “Just Miami. Is that where their house is?”
“Boca Raton. Did you go for work?”
“No, a bachelorette party with some girlfriends for a weekend.”
François looked back at me and winked. “Sounds like a fiesta I’d like to attend.”
He hadn’t shown much physical interest in me since we’d met outside the four train before the game, so I wasn’t sure how to take his comment. Friendly? Suggestive? Creepy? I didn’t think I’d make it through the rest of the game without a drink, but as he’d pointed out, we’d met in a bar. I didn’t want him to think I needed alcohol to have a good time.
I tried to think of something else worth mentioning. Frank had gone monosyllabic when I’d brought up Bruno, and my dog was probably my favorite subject. “On my way here,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “a guy on the subway offered me half an avocado. Isn’t that strange?”
Frank smiled over his shoulder. “Subway?”
“I mean, that’s not an ideal place to eat anything, especially avocado. And then to offer me some?”
“You mean the sandwich place?” he asked. “They offer me avocado all the time.”
“No, no. A man on the subway offered me half.”
“Oh, got it. Yeah, weird,” he agreed, turning forward again.
Weird, yes, but maybe not enough to mention. I should’ve gone with the silence. I had all sorts of interesting work anecdotes and factoids to stimulate conversation, but this probably wasn’t the right audience to inform that magazine covers with the word climax sold better to women than ones with orgasm.
After five minutes that felt like thirty of watching the game, two hands appeared from behind me, one holding a loaded hotdog, and the other a full beer. Condensation dripped over the long fingers of a large male hand attached to a brawny, dark-haired forearm.
How I knew that it belonged to my frustratingly gorgeous and just plain frustrating coworker, I wasn’t sure. I turned in my seat to meet Sebastian’s amused green-blue eyes. From beneath the shade of his baseball cap, he gave me a megawatt smile, showing off nearly all of his straight, white teeth. “Thirsty?” he asked.
I just stared at him, opening and closing my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I’d need proof.”
Sweat trickled down my temple. I’d already been warm, but with Sebastian’s presence, the afternoon seemed to get a few degrees hotter. “I thought you meant a selfie or something. You said you only go to Sox games.”
“Did I?” He thrust the food and drink at me. I took it, but only because I’d never been more grateful for a cold beer. “We noticed you weren’t drinking, and that concerned me . . . us.”
At the top of the steps, Justin balanced armfuls of hotdogs and beer. He started to wave and nearly fumbled it all, catching himself at the last second. “Where are you guys sitting?” I asked.
“Same section as you.” Sebastian gestured a few rows behind us. “What’re the odds?”
Shit. The only thing worse than a boring date was Sebastian witnessing a boring date. He couldn’t know how bad I was at this, or I’d never hear the end of it. I had to make more of an effort. “This is François,” I said.
Frank shifted around in his seat and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sebastian.”
François lowered his hand. “You’re brave to wear a Sox hat around this place.”
I pulled back and sure enough, the Boston Red Sox logo looked back at me. “You can’t wear that here!”
“I’m not.” Sebastian removed it and dropped it over my hair. “You are.”
I shook my head hard since my hands were occupied. “Take it off. I wouldn’t be caught dead—”
“You need it, Keller. You’re starting to look like a stick of cinnamon gum.”
“I don’t care how I look. I’m no turncoat.”
“Come on, now, nobody’ll even notice,” he said, adjusting the cap as he settled it on my head. “Small price to pay to maintain such flawless skin.” He winked, then turned and met Justin four rows directly behind us.
“The nerve,” I growled, turning forward again. Cinnamon gum? Flawless skin? Did his sarcasm know no bounds? “Can you believe him?”
“You want my hat instead?” François asked. “You are a little red . . .”
I sat back in my seat. I didn’t want François’s hat, because—I hated to admit—I liked wearing Sebastian’s. It was like being back in high school, and the quarterback had just draped his letterman jacket over my shoulders.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s just a hat.”
But it wasn’t just a hat—and the beer in my hand wasn’t just a beer. They were exactly what I needed in that moment. What did it say that my enemy was taking better care of me than my date?
As the game rolled into the next inning, I began to cool down with the help of the beer and the baseball cap. Except now, I was faced with a different kind of heat—Sebastian’s eyes on the back of my head. Was he watching me or the game? Why would he be watching me? Why did I care? Now that I’d wondered it, I couldn’t think of anything else.
Frank glanced at my beer. “How was it?”
Too small, I thought since I only had a few sips left. Based on his earlier comments, though, I assumed he’d judge me for having a second one. “Satisfying.”
He smiled at me. “You’re cute.”
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Well, I just . . .” I hesitated. “I was worried you weren’t having a good time.”
“I’m having a great time.” He put an arm along the back of my seat. “This is my kind of date—Yankees and a sweet girl. Now, if only we were winning.”
“Want me to go down there and have a chat with them?”
He laughed. “How’s someone like you still single?”
“I, um . . . just got out of a relationship.”
“Ah. Me too. I wasn’t planning to get back out there so soon, but here I am.” He angled toward me. “Honestly, I was shocked when you asked me out. My ex never would’ve done that—too shy.”