Has it really been that long since I’ve been with someone? Yeah . . . it has been. Spring training ate up most of my time, and when I wasn’t called up to the Majors this season, I’ve been working even harder in the weight room and batting cages so that when I do get a chance, I’m ready.

I couldn’t even tell you the last pair of tits I saw.

The server plops our drinks on the table and takes off again without a word. Myla reaches into her shirt to the right and pulls out her phone. Jesus, that was there the whole time? I was too distracted by the cleavage that I didn’t even notice.

She holds her phone in front of her drink, and I watch her take a picture.

“Is that for your Instagram?”

“Of course,” she says as she taps away on her phone. “Got to keep my followers satisfied with content.”

“But it’s water,” I say.

“So?” she asks. “I don’t complain about your incessant need to show videos of you batting. We get it. You can hit a ball.”

“You realize hitting a baseball is one of the hardest things to do in sports?”

“Shall I throw you a parade?” she asks right before she glances up and smirks. “Ooo, I can feel the steam of your anger from all the way over here. Chill, dude. I’m just joking. But seriously, don’t hate on my pictures. I have an avid following . . . including you. Which, by the way, I meant to ask, why did you follow me?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. It was a year ago.”

That’s a lie. I know why I followed her. She intrigued me. I threw up a passive-aggressive post, she commented as if it was nothing, and I was surprised. Also, the drinks thing was weird. She got me interested.

“Why did you follow me?” I ask in return.

“In case you threw any more shade my way. A girl has to defend herself.”

“When she uses unsuspecting people’s wall décor as a throw blanket, then I guess so.”

She lifts her water to her lips and says, “You and I both know that flag is anything but décor. And what’s with the Velcro?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have stock in it or something? Who hangs wall décor”—she uses air quotes—“with Velcro. If anything, you would use tacks, or perhaps Command strips.”

“Aren’t Command strips just a fancy alternative to Velcro?”

“No,” she answers and leaves it at that, even though I’m pretty sure it is.

“Well, we had Velcro, so that’s what we used.”

“Odd.” She sets her water glass down and props her chin on her palm, her boobs nearly exploding out of her shirt now. “Tell me, Ryot Bisley Balls, do you still have the flag hanging up?”

Of course she would call me my Instagram name. I’m surprised it took her this long.

I take a swig of my beer because I know she’s about to rain down upon me with insults when I tell her the truth. “Yeah, I do.”