“Yeah, around the reservoir,” Tyler says knowledgably, even though he’s admitted he doesn’t know his way around. He keeps checking his phone every few seconds when he thinks I’m not looking, but I still see the way he scrunches his face up at the screen before telling me, “It’s this way.”
We cross under a bridge, keep following paths, cross over a road (which takes me by surprise, because I had no idea that it’s possible to drive through the park) and keep heading north on the winding route that Tyler’s leading us on. It doesn’t even feel like we’ve been walking for twenty minutes when we stop for a short break by a pond. Several other people seem to have the same idea, and they stand and observe the water alongside us. We look at it for a while before discovering that it’s named the Turtle Pond. When I ask Tyler if it’s named that because turtles live in the pond, he laughs and says, “Duh.”
We set off again and it’s only a matter of minutes before the trees seem to disappear to create a clearing. And sure enough, it’s the Great Lawn: open and huge, surrounded by a footpath running around the fenced perimeter. If I squint enough into the field, I can see the light dirt of several ball fields.
“There’s one free over there,” Tyler points out. I can hardly even see the ball fields, let alone tell if they’re occupied or not. He clears his throat and starts walking again, heading along the fence. “Do you remember what you need to do?”
“Hit the ball,” I say, “and make my way around the bases until I get a home run. Unless you’re a jerk who purposely goes out of your way to catch the ball and put me out.”
Tyler lets out a laugh and passes the ball back to me. His skin finally brushes mine. It’s only for a split second, but it’s enough. “I warned you already, I won’t go easy on you.”
“But I want that home run.”
He doesn’t reply for a moment. Instead, he stares ahead at some tourists taking group photos. They look European and he studies them for a long while before switching the baseball bat over to his opposite hand. “Aren’t you a base kinda girl?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” he says, smiling. “Bases. Don’t you wanna stop at them?”
“Not unless I have to.”
He shakes his head and laughs again, but it’s under his breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice how he’s ended up closer to me than he was only a minute ago. There are three inches between our bodies, max. He’s biting his lower lip as we walk. “Don’t you think bases are too slow? First base, second base, third base . . . Satisfying to get to, but slow. I’m more of a home run kinda guy.”
And suddenly, the husky tone of his voice and the glint in his eyes and the way he’s trying not to grin all suddenly click together.
I slow my pace down until he turns around to look back at me. His smoldering eyes meet mine and I almost feel too nervous to ask the question that’s in my mind. A rose hue tinting my cheeks, I force myself to quietly ask, “Are you really talking about baseball here?”
A corner of his mouth pulls up into a smirk. He drops his eyes to the concrete path, his jaw tight as he tries his hardest to press his lips into a bold line. But I can still notice the way his eyes are crinkling at the corners, and when he parts his lips to speak, his voice is laced with both honesty and mischief. “If only.”
9
I tilt my face up to the sky. It’s a dull blue, almost gray, and I run my eyes over the tips of the trees, over the mass of greenery. Behind it, the buildings of Manhattan stand tall. It’s so beautiful. So New York.
“Ready?”
I drop my eyes back down to Tyler. He’s standing directly opposite me on the pitcher’s mound, a playful smile on his face as he tosses the ball back and forth. I angle my body slightly to the side and raise the bat, preparing myself. I want to impress him. “Hell yeah.”
“Eyes on me,” he calls. It’s the easiest part of all this. Eyes on Tyler? Ha. They hardly ever rest on anything else. “All you have to do is swing. Not too soon, not too late.” His voice is husky despite the fact that he’s talking loudly, and I try to keep my attention focused on the task at hand rather than how attractive his voice sounds. “You gotta swing at just the right moment.”
I nod and hold my stance, narrowing my eyes as I lock them onto the baseball in Tyler’s hand. Please hit it, I tell myself. Please look cool.
Smirking, Tyler kicks at the dirt before narrowing his eyes straight back at me. He firmly draws his arm back and, in a split second, hurls the ball at me. It comes whistling through the air and I panic, flinching as I swing the bat, almost dislocating my shoulder. I miss by a mile and the ball flies past my cheek, forcing me to jump to the left.