Tyler stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and saunters over. “Nice one, moron,” he mutters. His eye is slightly swollen and red, and Snake’s cheek is cut open.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Snake says. He shrugs, attempts to gently nudge Tyler, and then sighs. “Game was over, anyway. You won. I get it. Whatever, whatever. Shut up. Don’t mention it. Let’s go home. I wanna sleep for, like, two days. Two days or two months.” He turns around and starts to make his way across the road toward the subway station. He’s not all that well balanced, and he sways as he walks.
I shoot Tyler a sideways glance. He appears almost apologetic, but he also looks worn out and defeated. He manages to offer me a smile. “Did we really just get kicked out of Yankee Stadium?” I ask. “Did we really just get kicked out of my first ever baseball game?”
“Well,” he says, “at least you’ll never forget it.”
We follow Snake over to the station, and I quickly discover that there’s a benefit to being kicked out of the game before the end—the subway is quiet and there are plenty of empty seats on the downtown 4 train. Snake’s too lethargic and drunk to even talk to us, so he spends the entire journey back to Manhattan with a scowl on his face. Even when we step off the 6 train at the Seventy-seventh Street station he doesn’t wait for us, and I realize he’s a total sore loser. He marches his way down Lexington Avenue and turns the corner onto Seventy-fourth Street, and we lose sight of him after that, but it looks like he’ll get back to the apartment long before we do. Tyler and I are strolling along at a much slower pace, despite the fact that we’re not talking. It still feels comfortable, though.
It’s after eleven by the time we reach the apartment building and the sky is a deep blue. The streetlights are casting a warm glow over the sidewalks, and Tyler comes to a halt by his car. The Honda Civic has disappeared, leaving an empty spot in front of the Audi, allowing Tyler to reach back for my wrist and gently pull me in front of the hood. He doesn’t say anything as he does this, though, only smiles at me in the dark, his teeth bright. Carefully, he pushes me against the car.
He’s grinning now, his emerald eyes sparkling. Pressing his palms down on the hood either side of me, he traps my body between his and the car. His gaze meets mine. “So Derek Jeter got that home run, huh?”
He looks at me so sincerely that I can’t help but blush, because, as always, we’re not really talking about Derek Jeter or baseball or home runs. We’re talking about us and we’re talking about the deal we made: the deal that just so happens to now be in play. Now we’re getting our home run. “I guess so,” I whisper. I can’t raise my voice any louder.
Tyler nods and drops his eyes to the ground, still smiling. It’s as though he’s nervous too. While I wait for him to say something, I study the veins in his neck and his arms, noticing how they stand out right now more than they usually do. I only look away when I sense Tyler glance back up to me, and when he does, he furrows his eyebrows and asks, “Why didn’t you kiss me?”
“Tyler . . .” I sigh as I struggle to form words, surprised by his question. Shouldn’t the answer be obvious? Swallowing, I shift my gaze to his hands either side of my body, and I place mine on top of his. I don’t look back up. “You know we couldn’t,” I say, finally. “Everyone was watching.”
There’s a silence. He pulls his right hand out from beneath mine and runs his fingers up my thigh and then my arm, slowly. The sensation of his skin, warm against mine, seems to set my body alight. His hand reaches my shoulder, and delicately he reaches up to cup my jaw. It’s at that point that my eyes flicker back up to meet his, gazing anxiously back at him from beneath my eyelashes. With a lustful expression pooling in his eyes, he dares to breathe the words, “No one’s watching right now.”