Out of My League

Chapter 7 (Izzy)

The Colonials win the first game that I ever watched live and that might just be the coolest thing to ever happen to me.

Although, accidentally calling Noah Parker hot to his face and not at all meaning what it sounded like was sort of, very, humiliating.

What if he never talks to me again because of it? What if he didn't really understand what I meant and was only trying to be nice?

It seems like something he'd do - be nice, that is.

"Izzy, did you hear me?"

I snap out of my head, the place where I'd spent the better part of the past thirty minutes, to look at my best friend's wide, curious brown eyes.

"Where'd you go?" She asks.

She's asking me where in my own head I'd been pulled away to, but I don't feel like talking about it.

"Narnia," is what I reply, but the simple quirk of her eyebrow alerts me to the fact that she doesn't believe me, or rather, prefers to hear the truth.

I don't say anything and neither does she, but after a moment she informs me that Connor asked her to hang out after the game.

"Oh, good," I reply, calmly, before I actually hear what she said and blurt, "What?"

Reagan giggles, "I know! I can hardly believe it either!"

I remain silent, unsure of what it is that I want to say.

She takes my silence as an invitation to speak and continues, "I mean, I started today thinking I was going to spend it in the stands alone and now, I'm going to hang out with a major league baseball player. It's really crazy to think about."

"Yeah, crazy."

"Are you mad?"

"What? No, of course not," I reply, "Why would I be mad?"

"You seem like you are."

"I'm not, I swear," I tell her, truthfully, "I'm just deep in thought is all."

"About what," she slides over on the bench, bumping our hips together, "Talk to me."

"Do you think Noah hates me for accidentally calling him hot?"

We're in the dugout alone for the moment. The team is out in the outfield, receiving their post-game talk from Coach Russell so we have to make this conversation fast if we're going to have it.

"Hates you?" She stares at me like I just asked her the genuine question of what two-plus-two is, "Why would he hate you?"

"Because I accidentally called him hot," I answer, equally as genuine, and confused, as she'd been with her question.

"No, of course he doesn't hate you," she swats at my arm, "You didn't really mean it, did you?"

"Unofficially," I say, laughing, "But I'd never say it out loud."

"See? You're fine."

When I don't say anything, but resume my continued staring at the dusty dugout floor, she reaches over, grasping the lower half of my face in one hand and pushing the corners of my mouth up with her fingertips.

"Turn that frown upside down," she says as she does so, "I swear to you that everything is okay."

"You're sure?"

"I'm positive."

"Okay, then," putting my hands on my knees, I push myself to my feet, "Let's get this dugout cleaned up because I want some help before you leave with Connor Sterling."