I dutifully went to the freezer and scooped a handful of silver-tipped bullets from their hiding place in an ancient box of Skinny Cow ice cream bars—ice cream bars having been eaten to make room for bullets. From the exasperated look on Alex’s face as I dumped the frozen ammo into his palm, I figured it was best to keep to myself the fact that I had, on occasion, used the butt of the gun for some light fix-it projects around the house.
Alex frowned down at the butt of the gun, picking at something white stuck into the grooves with his fingernail. “Is that plaster?”
“Either that or the sugar coating from the bubble gum in the junk drawer,” I said. And then, noticing the sheer annoyance marching across Alex’s face, “I don’t know. It’s your gun.” I batted my eyelashes attractively before Alex had the chance to roll his eyes.
“You know what,” he said, putting the gun aside, “we’ll deal with firepower later. We have a game to get to. Are you still up for it?”
I slapped my palm to my forehead—then winced. “That’s right! My Giants!”
Alex held out a hand. “We don’t have to go.”
“The hell we don’t!” I jumped up and tried to mask the sharp pain I felt by pasting on a home-team grin. Then I looked at Alex and frowned. “You can’t go like that.”
Alex looked down at himself. “Like what?”
“Like—” I struggled for the right word. Like “every fantasy I’ve ever had” didn’t seem to cut it. Instead, I grabbed his hand and dragged him toward my room. “Come on, let’s get you set.”
I rummaged through my pajama drawer and grinned, triumphantly holding out a Barry Bonds commemorative T-shirt. “Here, put this on. Just—”
My eyes widened and my mouth went dry as Alex dutifully slipped off his sweater, revealing a tight white T-shirt underneath that hugged his firm chest appreciatively.
“Don’t—”
He whipped off the T-shirt next and I was left staring dumbfounded and openmouthed at his smooth chest, his muscles like perfect stair steps down his abdomen. I commanded myself to tear my eyes away but was drawn to his sun-kissed contours like a moth to a flame. He slipped the Barry Bonds T-shirt over his head and grinned at me, caught ogling.
“What was that?”
“Uh, just don’t ... get mustard on it.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“How do I look?”
Yummy! I wanted to scream. I bit my lip. “Needs something. Oh, wait.” I turned to my closet, rooted around a bit, and turned, sliding a giant orange foam finger onto Alex’s left hand. “Perfect!”
Alex looked at the enormous finger, shook it. “You know, I was going to wear this, but I thought, nah, too formal for a first date.”
The word “date” tumbling off his lips gave my heart a little shudder. Normal people went on dates, and normal girls got kisses at the end of their dates. I snuck a glance at Alex’s full lips and licked my own.
“Come on,” I said, dragging him out the front door by his normal-sized hand.
There was already a heavy mist on the air when we hit the sidewalk. Alex jingled his keys and I raised my eyebrows.
“What are you planning on doing with those?”
“I was planning on driving with them.”
I shook my head, took his keys, and deposited them in my purse. He stared at his open palm when I laid a dollar bill in it.
“What’s this for?”
“Muni. No one drives to the ballpark.” I grabbed his sleeve and started tugging. “Come on, the five will be here any minute.”
We fed our dollars into the machine and collected our tickets while the bus driver gave us both a broad smile and an enthusiastic thumbs-up. We edged our way down the crowded bus aisle, angled ourselves between the sea of orange and black–clad revelers. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, jostling toward the ballpark, I felt happily normal—scratches, black eye, and visit from one pissed-off angel aside. I looked around and felt as one with my city mates—even though my companion was technically dead. Alex’s knee thumped against mine, and he smiled, rubbing his hand over my knee, sending shivers up my spine, making every one of my hormones stand at attention.
Maybe today wouldn’t be the crappiest one in recent memory.
Forty-five minutes later we were seated behind home plate, balancing overpriced beers and trough-sized baskets of garlic fries on our knees. Alex held both our hot dogs in one hand and sipped at his beer while I arranged my jacket and beckoned for the peanut guy as he made his way down the aisle.
“Peanuts, too? When was the last time you ate?”
“It’s not a matter of hunger,” I reported, fishing some bills out of my back pocket. “It’s all about the ballpark experience.”
Alex got the peanut guy’s attention and pushed my money aside, shelling out for two warm bags of nuts. “Okay, do we have everything?”
I took my hot dog from his hand and took a big bite, nodding happily. “Let’s play ball!” I said with a mouthful.