Finn O'Malley waved his hand at me.
I wrenched open the door, looked down the hallway and then yanked him inside. "What are you doing here?"
"Picking you up for our date."
"I never agreed to this," I exclaimed. I had no idea where Ivy was.
"You didn't say no."
"What if Ivy were here?"
"So what if she was?" He shouldered past me and walked farther into the apartment, taking in the shabby surroundings. We had a few nice pieces of furniture I salvaged from our parents’ home, but the apartment complex itself was run down. Paint peeled off the walls, and the kitchen appliances looked like they were installed in the 80s.
A panicked urge to get him out of the apartment before my sister came home had me scurrying to gather my purse, wallet, and phone. I had everything packed and ready to go in less than a minute.
"Let's go. Where are you taking me?" I still had on my jeans and low V-neck Atra work top. Because I had the tiniest boobs known to western womankind, I could wear things split to my belly button and still not be obscene, so I tended to buy T-shirts that had very low necklines. I couldn't worry about that now, though, because I wanted Finn out of the apartment.
I pushed him out the door, and he let me. I thought of it as let because Finn was a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. That worked great when he was lifting you around but not so great when you wanted him to move.
"I should feel bad that you're treating me like a dirty secret, but since it's getting you out of the house with me, I'll let it go this time," he called over his shoulder. His words were a joke, but his meaning was not. He didn't like the idea I wanted him out of the apartment before Ivy came home, but I was barely prepared to see him, let alone see the both of them together.
He shut the door behind me and waited while I locked it. And then surprisingly, he took my hand and led me downstairs to his truck.
"Where are you taking me?" I repeated.
"Thought we'd go hit some baseballs."
"Baseball?" Finn had played wide receiver and first base in high school. I'd gone to many a game with Ivy.
"You once said you wished you could learn how to hit a fastball. I'm going to teach you tonight."
The last sentence was not meant to be sexual, but it came off that way, and I squirmed in my seat. He tilted his head to look at me and then smiled knowingly. Maybe the last sentence was supposed to be an innuendo. Or maybe I was just gooey mush inside because he'd remembered some comment I'd made years ago.
Sports West was a complex on the northwest side of town that housed an indoor soccer arena as well as indoor and outdoor batting and pitching cages. After Finn parked and opened the door for me, he pulled two wooden bats out of the bed of his truck.
I raised my eyebrows. “You bring your own bats?"
He hefted a bat in his hand and then flicked it into the air, catching it easily by the handle after a full rotation. "You want to learn how to hit with a real bat or a shitty one that's been abused by hundreds of people?"
"Why is it when comparisons are offered, it's never two good choices, but one good choice and one terrible choice?"
He gave a minute shrug. "Maybe because there's only ever one good choice."
"I don't believe that. I think there is more than one good choice anyone can make."
"Are you saying you want me to rent you a bat?"
I grabbed the extra bat from his hands. "No. I don't want a shitty bat hundreds of people have abused."
His laughter followed me into the cage. I took a few practice swings while Finn studied the helmets behind us. After knocking a few on the head and squeezing the plastic between his hands, he settled on one that he brought into the cage.
“This is really ugly.” I turned it over in my hands. The inside had a plastic adjustable frame.
“You could wear a bag, and you’d still be beautiful,” he replied and took the hat out of my hands. Caught off guard by his compliment, I didn’t resist as he dropped the helmet onto my head and then dialed the adjuster knob so the brim didn’t fall over my eyes.
Then he set his bat against the net and walked down the alley to the pitching unit. He did something and then returned. "I dialed it down to sixty miles per hour."
"Sixty?" I reared back. "I'm supposed to hit something hurtling toward me at highway speed?"
"Any slower and it won't get to the plate." He moved behind me, and I thought he'd do the classic arms around the girl, hips snug against her move, but he didn't—to my surprise… and regret.
He placed his hands on my hips and kicked my feet apart. "Line up your hips with the pitcher's mound and balance on the balls of your feet, resting slightly on the back leg. In fact, lift your left leg and kind of shake it, and then put it back down."