Baseball games are so not my thing. The uncomfortable metal bleachers, the bees that always seem to be hovering around the concession stand, following me and my ritual sixth-inning hot dog. We’re all squished into this one tiny set of bleachers, and I have to make a conscious effort to keep from grazing the hairy dad-arm next to me. Gross. Why couldn’t Zander have picked basketball—or any sport, really, that doesn’t take place out in the blazing sun? Of course the only thing worse than sitting in the hot sun, watching his back while he catches a ball, is sitting in the cold, watching as he’s pummeled again and again on the football field. Oh, the joys of fall.

“He needs to chill.” Emma jabs her head in the direction of our dugout, where Mr. Emerson has taken his usual spot along the fence outside. If she had ever gone to games before this year, when she started dating the shortstop, Mani Flores, Mr. Emerson would be background noise to her by now. I don’t even hear him anymore; I’m sure the coaches don’t either. It really does drive Zander nuts when he gets like this though.

Next to me, Emma shakes her head, her brown eyes squinting at the middle-aged man who bears a striking resemblance to the Hornets’ star pitcher, Aiden Emerson. The chain-link clangs every time his open palms slam into it, screaming “Come on, Emerson,” or “Focus!” Which has been a lot this game—Aiden is struggling. He’s been struggling for weeks, ever since he showed up to a game with an unexplained black eye. The black eye is gone now, but it seems our all-state pitcher has disappeared along with it.

I hit Emma’s knee with mine. “Emma.”

“Olivia.” She draws out my full name, long and slow.

“Stop staring.”

Emma doesn’t turn away. “How is anyone supposed to concentrate with all the yelling?” Her voice is loud enough that I expect Mr. Emerson to look at her—to come tearing into the stands toward us, to shake us like he does that poor fence—but his eyes stay glued to his son, out on the mound. We’re background noise to him too. The woman in front of us looks back at Emma with annoyance in her eyes. “Not you,” Emma whispers, with a sweet smile and shake of her head. Emma’s boyfriend, Mani, turns from his spot between second and third and looks at the outfielders. He yells, “We got this, two up, two down,” just as Em screams, “Nice butt, Flores!” He smiles and she laughs, amused with herself.

And I wish I could magically sink down under these bleachers. I shake my head and Emma smacks my leg with a smile. “Your boyfriend’s isn’t bad either.” She winks one blue eye at me. “Wouldn’t kill you to get into the spirit of things.”