Bat Boy (Easton U Pirates 1)

“What are you listening to?” Donovan asked, his gaze roaming my face. My bangs were hanging in my eyes again, and I had the urge to brush them under my hat, but I was also fixated on the way he was biting his lip.

“Music, duh,” I deadpanned.

“I wanna hear.” He reached over and carefully fished the bud from my ear, then placed it in his own. I rolled my eyes, but my stomach was going crazy from the way his fingers brushed my skin. Fucking Brady Donovan.

When he tuned into the song, I held my breath without even understanding why. It was stupid, really, but I didn’t know if he’d think my selection of music was cheesy.

“Billie Eilish?”

“Amy Winehouse.” I shrugged. “Similar smoky voice, I guess.”

“Tragic how she died,” he murmured, still listening, and I nodded because it was definitely awful, especially when you heard how talented she was and how much more she had to offer the world.

As we sat quietly and listened to the end of the song, it felt strange and wonderful at the same time. There was this swirling tension between us—or so it felt, and obviously it was one-sided. Though Donovan might’ve been a bit anxious about the guys watching us. And yet not worried enough, apparently, to keep him from wandering over to my seat almost every away game, and this time from sharing my music with me. Now his warm thigh was resting beside mine, his bicep too, and if his ridiculous man-spread got any wider, I would probably disappear into the crack between the seat and the window.

“Can I have my earbud back now?” I asked after the next song ended. He nodded and returned it to my ear. When his fingers brushed my lobe, I shivered, giving myself away. Fuck.

I thought he’d move back to his seat like he normally did, but this time he didn’t.

He cleared his throat as he glanced down at the notebook on my lap. “What class you studying for?”

“Statistical Computing.”

“Statistical what? Sounds difficult.”

“I mostly understand it.”

“Of course you do. You’re smart as hell,” he said, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride blossom in my chest. I got that a lot, but coming from him, it was even cooler. And now I wondered what else he saw about me. Dangerous thinking. Stop this instant.

He added, “I could’ve used your help last year with calculus.”

“Yeah?” I smiled up at him. “Well, I’m not sure I could handle your anatomy classes. I’d definitely puke.”

He chuckled. “Stuff like that makes you squeamish?”

“Hell, yes.” I motioned with my hand. “I practically faint at the sight of blood.”

He smirked. “Thank God you don’t assist a hockey team then.”

“Right?” I replied, and he laughed. “Brutal. Can’t even watch. One nosebleed and I’m done.”

“Not many of those in baseball. Guess that’s why you’re an avid fan?”

“I was always interested in sports. Okay, most sports, but baseball is my favorite,” I explained. “Maybe it was my dad’s influence, I don’t really know.”

Donovan glanced toward the front of the bus, maybe to see if anyone was listening or if we had an audience. But after a couple of initial glances when he’d first sat down, nobody paid us any attention. “That why you do this job?”

“It’ll look good on my résumé, and like I said, I love the game, even if I could never play it. Plus, I know my stuff.”

He clicked something on his phone, then adjusted his body toward me. “Okay, stats guy, tell me who played the longest college game in history?”

He arched an eyebrow, while I searched my brain. I definitely loved a good game of trivia, so I couldn’t resist.

“Okay…I’ll say it was in 2008, or maybe 2009, between Boston and…Tennessee? No! Texas?”

“Damn, that’s impressive. I can never stump Ricky either. Thanks, by the way. For always talking to him, and…you know.”

Damn him. I’d guessed long ago that Donovan was only being kind because I was inclusive to his family, but the catch in his throat just now really got to me.

“Well, I don’t do it for you. I do it because I like your brother, doofus.”

His eyes softened, which killed me, and I had to look away. Thing was Ricky was a cool and engaging kid who just happened to have autism. More than likely, people didn’t see him that way, and it sucked.

“You mean it’s not to impress me, the official team captain?” He made a show of flexing his muscles, and I rolled my eyes.

“Your turn. Why do you play ball?” I suddenly wanted to know more about him. We’d spent the whole season in close proximity, so I’d heard bits and pieces over these last few months, but I enjoyed talking to him just like this, like we were in our own little private cocoon, with only the drone of the motor and the bus’s squeaky gears as a backdrop. I’d never admit I anticipated away games because of it.