We’re tucked in the corner of the dugout, the cooler between us. I could kiss him, we’re so close, but the team is on the other side of the fence. And there’s the fact that I promised him I’d never do that again.
Dumbass, I think to myself.
My fingers are about to freeze off from the ice I’ve been holding against his forehead. I pull it away to look at the bruise, now blooming an angry purple and blue.
“Gorgeous,” I say.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, with a half-smile, he traces the trail of water dripping down my arm.
Cynthia Hamill 