“I don’t think the objectification of players is the ‘spirit’ of baseball.” I take a sip from my water bottle—it’s unseasonably warm for Memorial Day weekend in Michigan.

“You wouldn’t.”

I groan, and it sounds like there’s a baby bear stuck in my throat. I’m not telling my boyfriend he has a nice butt—which he does—in front of a bleacher full of students, teachers, and parents. His parents. My head instinctively tips toward their location two rows behind us. I sat with the Belles before Emma started coming to games. Those were quieter, less embarrassing days.

Just as Zander takes his spot behind home plate again, Emma does what I won’t. “Nice butt, Belle!”

Zander shakes his head as his mitt stretches in front of him, readying himself, and I can’t help but wonder why he puts up with me and my shameless plus-one.

“Ball two!” the umpire yells, eliciting more screaming from Mr. Emerson and glares from Emma.

“Two up, two down!” Mani yells, once again reminding everyone on the field that only two batters might stand between them and regionals. There are runners on first and second and a tied score. Please let this be over soon. Zander’s mom, Trudy, catches my eye and gives me a little wave as she passes a paper bag of neon yellow popcorn to her husband, Dean, sitting behind her. I give a little wave to her and Becca. I would be surprised by most college juniors driving three hours to watch their little brother’s baseball game, but not Becca. There is nothing average about the Belle family. Which is what I love most about them.

Smack! Another ball hits Zander’s mitt, pulling me out of my thoughts.

My phone buzzes, and a white box pops up. It’s a text from my Aunt Sarah, who was supposed to be here an hour ago, taking the place of Hairy-Arm Guy, who is still disturbingly close on my right.

Aunt Sarah:

Concession stand

I turn to make my way out of the bleachers.

“More hot dogs?” Emma doesn’t wait for my answer before starting to make her way to the aisle. “These baseball games are serious business, I’ve gained ten pounds this season.”

I follow her, trying to keep my eyes on the game as we walk to the bright blue two-story stand that holds the concession area down below and the announcer’s nest overhead. Just as we reach the counter, I hear a loud grunt, and gasps fill the stands.

“Did he just hit a batter?” I say to Emma, who is craning her neck to see over the man behind us. I haven’t seen a pitcher hit a batter in years. I’ve never seen Aiden hit a batter.

The ump stands. “Take your base,” he yells in a booming voice.