On the forehead.

Santiago kissed me on the fucking forehead.

The worst part was that right after that I was sure I looked like I'd been doused with cold water, and he had this annoying little smirk that stayed plastered on his face the entire rest of the night. Because he ruined batting for me that night. He ruined my life.

With a kiss to my forehead. The bastard.

Another bastard? Bobby. When we were about to leave he reminded me that we needed to call my dad. I passed my phone to him and he told dad, in my face and Santiago's, that yes, I was still alone and no, there was no boy with me. Once he shut the call off he shrugged and said he didn't want to get Santi in trouble. That was so nice of him, except for the fact that I now felt like Santi had got me in trouble. I drove home, trying to ignore his stupid, self satisfied mug, fielded off mom's questions, changed into pajamas and washed my face for nothing, because I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about that brief moment, when he leaned down, lips in a loose but very suspicious O that I'd hoped in my heart of hearts would land on mine, only to see it veer upwards to my forehead. I'd felt his lips on my skin like a brand. A warm, soft brand that penetrated all the way to my stupidly hopeful heart.

And all along he'd known what he was doing, how it would come across, and he got a kick out of it.

I tossed and turned in bed all night, sometimes dozing off a little and dreaming that that kiss was landed in a more southern region. And then I'd wake up, because not even in the dream I could believe it was true.

When I finally fell asleep dad opened the door to my room and woke me up.

"Good morning, honey bunny! You have a mission today."

I rolled all the way out of bed and to the floor. It took me a while to find my bearings and make my way to the bathroom, where I saw I had developed the most notorious pair of dark bags under my eyes. I'd become a panda overnight. A shower and new set of clothes later I appeared downstairs and asked what the deal was. I didn't even have sufficient energy to get mad that he'd woken me up.

"I called Chris," he said as he sipped some OJ. He put the Orlando Sentinel down and faced me. "You both are going on a little field trip. Mayfield is playing today against Jordan Washington High, and I want you both to go scout the game."

Mom put a plate of toast with strawberry and rhubarb jam in front of me, and my stomach suddenly decided it was fine to be awake after all. I munched on a toast and asked, "Why don't you go with him?"

"Because," mom said. "He's going on a date with me."

Dad's pained expression was poetry in action. "We're going to the outlets."

Oh, yeah. That'd take the whole day.

I sighed. It was probably better that I do this, rather than stay home steaming about that freaking kiss. Non kiss. Whatever the fuck it was.

"Fine."

Dad beamed. "Don't forget to take video, and I expect a full report of what you see out there by the end of today. We need to know their strengths and weaknesses vs. ours."

And so I found myself with Chris on his car, trying not to doze off between the air conditioner and the soft music. Luckily he saved me from drooling against his window.

"Are you feeling better today?"

My mind struggled to decipher what he was talking about, and then I remembered that Ellie had told him I had cramps last night. And then I remembered that she'd bought a box of Trojans and I wanted to find out if it had been opened at all. I didn't have any texts from her this morning, but it was early and even if something juicy had gone down she was probably just asleep.

"Oh, yeah. Absolutely. Midol is a savior."

He gave me a quick glance. "I've heard. My sister uses that one too. It must suck to be a girl."

I sank a little into my seat. "In more ways than one."

"But hey, at least you get free stuff from boys who want to get in your pants."

I had found an opening. I rested my elbow on my thigh and propped up my chin. "So tell me, did you give Ellen some free stuff last night?"

I could have sworn that his entire face went jalapeño red. This was far beyond tomato. And I had a very difficult time holding back some form of high pitched noise. At least I was awake now.

Suddenly he became a very conscious driver, checking all his mirrors and focusing intently on the road. I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, come on. Better you spill the beans now than leave me to imagine all the scenarios that could possibly make you blush that way." I poked his cheek, in case he didn't know where he was blushing.

"Please. Gentlemen don't kiss and tell."

I twisted around to face him as far as the seat belt allowed. "So you kissed!" I knew this, but he didn't know I did.

We were at a red light stop and he had no option but to throw me a bone. "You could say that."

Reminded of the non-kiss that Santiago delivered last night, I asked for clarification. "What do you mean? You can only have kissed or not."

"We did," he confirmed. And looked down. Because he had grown jalapeño red again. I didn't know Chris to be so shy, it was adorable. "We definitely kissed. More than kissed."

I choked. "What?"

"That's all I'm telling." He started the car again once the light turned green and I protested with a groan.

"You can't leave me hanging like this! It's not fair."

He laughed. "Stop pretending. We both know Ellen's going to tell you all the details."

True. I folded my arms and pretended to be mad. "Yeah but now I have to wait until she wakes up."

He took a turn, steering the wheel with only his right hand. Come to think, I hadn't seen him use his left at all during the ride.

"Why don't you tell me if you got some action last night? There were a lot of guys fighting to dance with you."

I scoffed, but now my attention was zeroed in on his hands. I was waiting to see if he'd use his dominant at all. "No action other than cramps."

He gave me a raised eyebrow. "I saw the way Casey Marchand was looking at you. Like you were desert. Same way he was looking at you on the beach."

Time to deflect. "You're speaking tongues and you're also not using your left hand, what's the deal?"

He winced. "Shit, you noticed."

"Chris..."

We stopped in traffic again, just off of getting on I-4. "It's been bothering me since last night, it's no big deal."

"Since last night only?" I asked, and he remained silent. I looked away, so mad that he could probably see fire coming out of my eyes. "I'm sorry, but you should stop playing altogether. You could get a lot worse if you keep pushing yourself."

"Are you going to tell coach?"

"No," I said through gritted teeth. "I won't be made responsible for something you should decide. Just know I'm not happy with it."

"Hey..." He trailed off and sighed. "Pey, I don't need baseball." I gave him a look. "I mean, not the way your or Santi do, for example. I have a 4.0 GPA, I can get into a good state school with that and my family can help me shoulder some of the expenses. I don't need a baseball scholarship and don't want to pursue a career in it like you guys."

I couldn't see where he was going with this. "Then why are you so hell bent on playing?"

"Because of Seb."

That shut me up.

"Some of the happiest moments of my life were with him, being the only catcher who could catch his fastball, you know? Even though he was a senior and I was a junior." The soft music suddenly sounded louder to my ears, or it was that weird under the water like feeling of how sounds blur in strange ways when you want to cry. "He can't play anymore, and I kind of feel like I owe it to him."

I swallowed hard and looked down at my hands, twisting around each other on my lap.

He continued. "I don't need baseball to get to college, but I need it to finish high school the right way, you know?"

I nodded. "I know."

He gave a light laugh. "But I'm totally fine if you make Santi the main catcher and I move to centerfield, where hopefully my arm can just chill out."

I smiled a little. "That'd be a perfect solution if only Santiago and McCann would stop trying to kill each other."

"That was a one off," he said, with way more confidence than I'd have expected. "They won't fight again."

I side eyed him. "Do you know something I don't?"

"Maybe..." He laughed when I gave him my best death stare. We were on I-4 now, much closer to where the game was going to be. "I had a chat with them after your dad took you to the infirmary."

"I'm listening, no need for the pregnant pauses."

He grinned. "That fight was about a girl."

I rolled my eyes. "Jessica."

"In a way," he said, shrugging. "She and Jared were a thing over the summer. Seems like there was some drama-"

I cut in. "He cheated."

"Yeah, something like that, but he's still hung up about her and he's been mad that she and Santi were fooling around." He took an exit. I made note of the past tense but tried not to react to it. At least outwardly. Inside I was a ball of joy. "So he said a few things that set Santiago off and the rest is history."

"What kind of things? Was it about Seb?"

"No." He shook his head. "Jared's a dick but he's not some soap villain. I don't know what it was."

"I knew most of that." I grunted. "That could have been a good piece of gossip, if only you weren't such a terrible detective."

He pulled the car into a parking lot and we could see the game already. "And, we're here."

We got off the car and walked together around the chainlink fence until we found the entrance. We got there early enough that the game was only in the first inning. We sat on the bleachers and I pulled out my notebook and pen.

"Here's what we're going to do," I announced. "I'm going to study and make notes, and you're going to take video of whatever's relevant for you or for me."

"Yes, ma'am."

We were here for Mayfield, but the other school might turn out to be an interesting case study was well. Mayfield's star pitcher was still Byron Johnson, who had some nasty curveballs that were hard to hit. We were going to get lots of video on him.

To my shock, instead of focusing on the plays I kept the previous line of conversation. "I mean, I just don't get what all the guys see in her. She's pretty but she's petty, if you know what I mean."

"I wouldn't call her pretty." He snorted. He pulled out his phone and found the setting for video. "She's hot."

We waited in silence while he recorded a few pitches in succession, then I said, "But is that really all that matters to guys?"

"Of course not. Why do you think she can't hold a steady boyfriend for more than a summer?" He thumbed through his phone. "She's been with so many guys that it's intimidating to even wonder how you'd measure up to any of them."

"Ugh, so she and McCann were officially a couple, huh?"

"Hot and heavy, and all."

I made my first notes. Byron had a quirk with his pitching arm, pulling it in behind his head. The batter probably had a harder time to see where he released the ball, so it'd be harder to read the trajectory. I squinted under the sun, as if it'd help me decipher whether he did this all the time or only for his best ball. I asked Chris to record with the zoom all the way in. He struck the batter out and the inning ended.

I still didn't understand why Santi would mess around with her. Especially if it hadn't been for, you know, sex. Or popularity, which Santi did not give two shits in a basket about. But I didn't want to ask Chris about this. He wasn't dumb. Instead of replying with whatever intel he had he'd ask me why I even wanted to know.

"Would you date her?" I asked out of curiosity. "Or do you like girls like Ellie better."

"Pff, what kind of question is that." He played back the video. "Ellen all the way — Look at his arm."

We put our heads together to look at the screen. "I know, it's weird. It's crazy how he hasn't hurt himself pitching that way."

"Hey," someone called to us and we looked up. A guy wearing Mayfield green appeared in front of us. We didn't even hear him climb up the bleachers. "What are you doing?"

I put on my best smile. "We're just the biggest fans."

"Cut the crap, are you recording us?"

Chris shrugged. "So what if we are?"

"Which school are you from?"

I struck a pose meant to be mocking. "We're from the old school." Chris bit back a laugh.

The Mayfield guy pointed at us with menace. "Stop that or I'm going to have to take you off the field."

"Wow," Chris said, looking around and making eye contact with the like two or three people closest to us. "I didn't know this was a private event."

"Even if you kick us out, we can still see through the chainlink fence, you know." The way I said this pissed him off even more, but then to our surprise Byron appeared next to him.

"Nick, leave our guests alone." He adjusted his cap and smiled up at us. "Metro High must be feeling threatened this year."

Chris and I exchanged a glance. Since our cover was up I asked, "How'd you know we're from Metro?"

"Hard to forget you two, always hanging out around your star pitcher, Sebastian Miranda." He shook his head. "But now that he's passed, I guess you have to resort to spying. God rest his soul."

Chris reacted before I did. I was about to stand up, throw my notebook at Byron's sanctimonious face or something, but he held me back with a firm hand on my shoulder. Instead he said, "We would've been without his talent this year anyway, and sure, we may have to work extra hard, but we'll still wipe the field with your asses."

Byron smiled. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise," I said. And I meant it.

Talk of Jessica Ashford stopped after that. Chris and I focused on the game. I filled in five pages of small chicken scribble that later that night I spent two hours translating into a solid report, with my friend's videos as attachment. We spent the entire ride back discussing how we'd play against them. I was so focused on this that I didn't even pay attention to my phone, pinging with Ellen's texts.

We had to win. For Seb's sake and ours. I had to stop being distracted.

I KNOW YOU GUYS HATE ME NOW

but

it'll be worth it