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“Who?” she asks, looking around.

“Don’t stare.” I nod toward the family, smiling politely when the dad locks eyes with me and waves. “You see, there’s this thing called the Baptist News Network,” I continue quietly. “Twenty bucks says that the mom is on its phone tree. She saw us holding hands, so we’re basically already engaged. Your picture might
even be on the sports page tomorrow. ‘
Girlfriend to Lewis Creek’s Pitcher, Austin Braxton
.’”

Eric opens the door for the family, muttering, “Finally,” when we reach the sidewalk. He holds the door for Brett and Jay, but I grab it so he can go on in. The air conditioning blasts through the doorway, making me cough as Marisa stops beside me.

“You all right?” she asks. “You better not be getting sick. If you get sick, I’ll buy myself a Hazmat suit. Swear it.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “Just a sore throat. No big deal.” It actually feels like sandpaper, but she doesn’t have to know that. She makes no move to go inside, instead standing there with this little half-smile. “What?”

She tilts her head toward the parking lot. “Back there. You said girlfriend.”

I did what? My eyebrows scrunch together. “I did?”

She nods. “You did.”

I mean, there are definitely worse things I could’ve said. Maybe my brain was doing me a favor. My pulse quickens as I ask, “Girlfriend?”

She nods again, her smile growing. “Girlfriend.”

And now I’m grinning like an idiot. She walks inside ahead of me. The guys are lined up along the counter, all three leaning against it with their arms crossed.

“That’s the sweetest damn thing I’ve heard all day,” Eric says. “Now can I smash some balls to get it out of my head?” He turns to the guy manning the register and slides him a twenty. “Five, please.”

The dude’s a charmer. Really.

After picking our bats and helmets, we head for the only open cage, at the back. Little kids scream behind us, their screeches echoing throughout the room. Future Bulldogs?

Eric tugs on his helmet and nods toward Marisa. “What about it, Braxton? You gonna properly introduce us or what?”

Without him checking her out this time? Gladly. I slide my arm around Marisa’s waist. “Marisa, you already met Jay. The Jolly Green Giant is Brett”—I point to Brett, who raises his hand—“and the kid is his brother, Junior. Or, you know, Eric. Whatever.”

Eric glares at me while stepping into the cage. “I’m gonna kick your ass one of these days.”

I smirk. “Good luck explaining that to Coach.”

Jay leans on his bat, looking to Marisa as the pitching machine kicks on. “Braxton said you used to be a catcher,” he says.

She crosses her arms. Stands up a little straighter. “That’s right.”

Jay studies her for a moment and says, “Greatest catcher of all time—go.”

“Really, dude?” I ask, right as Marisa replies, “Ivan Rodriguez. No contest.”

Jay holds up a hand. “Just watching your back, Braxton. You know how some girls are—they’ll claim to be fans, but they can’t name a single player.” He points his bat toward Marisa. “She’s legit. She gets the best friend seal of approval.”

Leaning back against the wall, Brett crosses his arms. “All right, I’ll play. Best third baseman.”

Marisa steps away from me. This is getting good, actually. “Current or all-time?”

Brett smirks. “All-time.”

Seriously? Please. “Chipper Jones,” she and I say at the same time.

“What?!” All our heads snap toward the cage. Eric drops his bat. The machine spits out a ball as he charges the fencing. “Bull-freakin-shit. What about A-Rod?”

The girl’s done gone and pissed off a Yankees fan.

Marisa scoffs. “Please. He spent nearly half his career at shortstop. He doesn’t count.”

But she can obviously hold her own. Brett and I eye each other. He grins and wiggles his eyebrows. “Pass the popcorn,” he whispers. Jay’s gawking like we’re watching some live-action reality show.

“Jones was a shortstop, too,” Eric retorts. “
And
they tossed him in the outfield a few times. Forget about that?”

Marisa moves toward the cage. “Still more time at third than A-Rod. But fine, you want to go by batting average? Three-oh-three.”

I didn’t even know Chipper’s career average. I’ve been shamefaced by my girlfriend.

Eric’s jaw goes rigid. “Homeruns: over six hundred.”

Marisa steps closer, her nose pressed against the fencing. “Remind me, who was suspended for the entire 2014 season for—gosh, what was it? Doping?”

That girl plays dirty. Eric’s mouth drops open. The final pitch slams against the cage, but he doesn’t even flinch.

We have a winner, folks.

“I think you just killed Eric,” I tell her.

She backs away from the cage, a smug smile on her face, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more turned-on in my life. I grab her hand, pulling her to me. “You know,” I say, “I’m startin’ to think you have a thing for forty-year-old retired baseball players.”

She bats her eyelashes. “And what if I do?”

I lean down and press my lips to hers. She smiles, hooking her arms around my neck. “Don’t care,” I murmur. “As long as you’re kissin’ me, dream about Chipper all you want.”

The cage door slams closed. Eric steps out, running a hand over his sweaty hair. “I’m still alive, no thanks to you,” he says. “And I’m gonna puke if y’all don’t take that to the truck or somethin’.”

Marisa gets this mischievous glint in her eyes as she holds his stare. “Chipper,” she whispers.

Eric slaps his hands over his ears. “Not listening to your blasphemy.”

She smiles up at me. “I think he likes me.”

chapter fifteen

A jackhammer wakes me Monday morning. My eyes pop open. ’Kay, no jackhammer in my room. But good God almighty, my head aches like a bastard. I would sit up, but there’ve got to be straps tying me to the bed. Either that, or someone tossed a two-ton weight on me while I was sleeping.

The jackhammer goes off again. I rub my eyes, squinting at the light spilling into my room. My throat’s on fire and my head’s killing me, and this must be some punishment for something I did in a past life, because this has to be what dying feels like.

The door to my room opens. Momma pokes her head inside. “You awake? I’ve been knocking forever.”

Oh. So she was the jackhammer. “Yeah,” I tell her, and cringe. Gross. My mouth tastes awful. I sit up, the navy sheets clinging to me as I rub a hand over my face. The sharp chill of the room smacks my bare chest.

She steps into the room, crossing her arms. “What time did you get in?”

“No clue.” I could probably remember if I thought hard enough. Too bad thinking hurts right now. “It was dark. I downed Nyquil. That’s the last thing I remember.”

She sighs and looks around my room, shaking her head when she sees my laundry basket. “You going to be all right while I’m at work?” she asks. “Do you need anything?”

Wincing, I flop back against the pillows with an
oof
. “Fine. You don’t have to yell.” There have to be goblins using pickaxes on my brain. It’s the only logical explanation. I cough and cough and cough, nearly cracking a rib in the process. Closing my eyes, I sink into the pillow. My muscles relax immediately. Soft pillow. Cool pillow. Favorite pillow. This is nice.

“Well,” Momma says, “sorry to yell again, but you’ve got a really pretty visitor.”

My eyes pop open right as Marisa appears in the doorway, wearing both my Braves cap and Gamecocks hoodie. She’s holding one of those grocery tote-bag things. Momma pats her on the shoulder and waves to me before disappearing into the hall.

“Hey,” I say through a cough. “You need a Hazmat suit first.”

She smirks, walking toward my bed. “I like living dangerously.” She sits on the edge of the mattress. “That bad, huh?”

“How’d you know I was sick?”

She scrunches her eyebrows. “You texted me.”

“When?”

She pulls her phone out of the pocket of my hoodie. “Right here,” she says, hitting the screen a couple times. “From four o’clock this morning, and I quote: ‘I’m dying. Goblins are in my head and the TV mucus glob is in my chest. Erase browser history please.’” She turns it so I can see the screen. Yep, there it is. I am, in fact, a moron.

“Effin’ Nyquil,” I mutter. “I guzzled it when I got home because my throat was hurtin’.”

She laughs and stuffs the phone back into her pocket. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works. There’s dosage for a reason.”

Freakin’ doctors’ kids.

She digs into the bag and tosses me a pill bottle. “I wasn’t sure exactly what you meant by ‘goblins,’ but I took a guess. It sounded painful, so I brought Tylenol. Dad swears by it.”

“You brought me medicine?”

“That’s not all.” She holds up the bag. “OJ, chicken noodle soup, and ginger ale. It’s not, like, homemade soup or anything. Just the canned stuff. I totally would’ve made you homemade, but it was super-early.”

My mouth drops open. “You’re Mary Freakin’ Poppins.”

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she shrugs. “What can I say? I’m perfectly perfect.”

You really are
. Clearing my throat, I nod to the bag. “No whiskey in there? You know it flushes out everything from colds to pneumonia.”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re going with science here, not wishful thinking. Plus your mom would have my butt if I got you drunk.”

I lean back against the pillows, sinking into them once again, and
this
—this is what heaven feels like.

“You have fun yesterday?” I ask.

“So much.” The mattress shifts as she stands. She leans over, her hair falling across my face as she kisses my forehead. She pulls away slowly, her mouth hanging open. “Oh. Oh, God. Dude, you’re scorching.”

Somehow, I manage a smirk even though it hurts like hell. “We both know I’m hot, Rissa. You don’t have to tell me.”

She places her hand on my forehead. “Well, your ego’s still in shape, so you’re not dying.”

I grab her wrist gently, lowering it to my side. “I am dying. Stay here with me. You can’t deny me my dying wish.”

“I have schoolwork to do,” she says. “And you need sleep, Goblin Boy.”

My smirk stretches into a full-blown grin. “Are you scared of me now? Can I at least blame my stupidness on the fever?”

“Only for so long.” She kisses my forehead again. “Get some rest. Text me whenever you can.”

“You came all the way over here just to bring me soup and orange juice?”

“You took care of me. My turn to take care of you. That’s what more-than-friends do, right?” She inches toward the door, clutching the grocery tote. “I’ll put these down in the kitchen. Is there anything you need before I leave? I can heat up the soup or get some water?”

Her words blur together as my eyes close. Dying hurts. “Can’t you stay a little longer? Please? I’m not above begging.”

She sighs. Her footsteps move back toward the bed, and soon the mattress dips as she sits again. Her hand slides into mine. “I’ll stay as long as you need me,” she says. “Or until you go unconscious. Whichever comes first.”

My breathing steadies. Her skin feels so good against mine. So nice. So right. “I wanna hold your hand forever,” I murmur.

Her breath hitches, and I think she says, “Sleep, Austin,” but her voice, along with the rest of the world, fades to black.

chapter sixteen

All I’m gonna say is that Nyquil should be illegal. The goblins are still picking away at my brain when I pull into Marisa’s driveway on Thursday night. Luckily, the other crap that held me hostage in bed all week is gone. (Trust me, being in bed all week isn’t as awesome as it sounds.) I grab my Chem book, hop down from the truck, and walk up to her front door, ready to get my study date on.

The thing is, I’m finally starting to understand this Chemistry stuff. But this gives me even more of an excuse to come to her house. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

I press the doorbell and wait. Wait. Wait some more, because apparently the Marlowes have this thing where they’re blissfully ignorant of doorbells or something. The door finally opens, with Dr. Marlowe manning its entry.

I nod to him. “Evenin’, Doctor.”

He steps to the side. “Evening, Austin. Marisa’s in her room. Head on up.”

Life lesson: you never question miracles, and a dad telling you to “head on up” to his daughter’s room? One of the most miraculous moments. “Thank you, sir.”

He closes the door as I jog up the stairs. Sure enough, light spills from Marisa’s room and into the hallway. I peek inside the room, where she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, writing in a notebook. I knock on her door, which is half-open, and smile when her head pops up.

“You look much better,” she says, closing her notebook. “Plague is gone, right? No more goblins?”

“Plague is gone. Goblins are stickin’ around, but at least I’m conscious. And Nyquil-free.”
So I won’t be asking to hold your hand forever. Don’t worry
.

Her mouth curves up as she walks toward me. “I’ll go grab some snacks.” Squeezing my hand, she reaches up to kiss my cheek. “Make yourself comfy. I’ll be right back.”

As her footsteps trail downstairs, I do just that by kicking off my boots and plopping onto her bed. I take off my cap and put it on her nightstand, which knocks a stack of books off in the process.
Crap
. I bend over and pick up the mixture of school books, weird girl books with prom-queen-looking cover models, and notebooks. She’s, like, a book hoarder. After everything else is safely (and not nearly as neatly) back in place, the purple notebook she was just writing in lies open on the floor.

I shouldn’t read her personal stuff. That’s the first rule in the history of rules: never read a girl’s journal, or diary, or even her freakin’ notebook. But the scrawled writing across the first page practically screams at me as I pick it up.

I’m slipping again. Nothing’s helping. Nothing.

I don’t know what to do
.

My heart races as I glance to the doorway. What the hell does “slipping” mean? Not literally, I’m assuming, considering it’s kind of hard to slip and write at the same time. But it’s not like I can ask her what it means, because then she’ll know I was reading her stuff, and
then I’ll be the one mysteriously “slipping” down the stairs with a pissed-off girlfriend at the top. And I value my pitching arm a little too much for that to be a possibility.