“If it were up to me, I’d have coined a much better nickname. Like silver. Or lily. Or summer. And then I could say, Oh, please touch my lily. Please finger my silver. Or go down on my summer. Go down on my summer now.”

My skin is sizzling, and I’m officially toastier than a forest fire. “Yes, I’d very much like to eat your summer, lick your lily, and kiss your silver. Also, I’d like to bury my face in your pussy.”

She lets out a shuddering breath as if this is hard for her too.

“And on that, want to go to Yankee Stadium and see your brother?” I ask.

“Thanks for the buzzkill.”

“You started it.”

30

It’s not football. And by football, I mean proper football. But baseball will definitely do.

Truth is, I rather like this American pastime, and that is unrelated to having an American-born dad and entirely down to how utterly cool his mother—my nan—was.

Nan, a born-and-bred New Yorker, was loyal to the Bronx Bombers till her dying day. She made me read her the box scores from the newspaper—the actual ink and print thing, not even online—during her last few days. She had season tickets before it was cool to have season tickets. She sat in the upper deck, hunched over in her blue-and-white windbreaker, keeping score and teaching me.

Yes, that’s one of my party tricks. I can record errors, strikeouts, fielder’s choice, double plays, and line drives.

I do it this afternoon, recording the first play while enjoying peanuts and more beer as the sun shines brightly overhead.

“Your little scorekeeping notebook is so cute. Don’t forget to record all the balls,” Malone says as I write down the count on which the pitcher walked the guy.

“Classy, Malone. Mock me for my hobby. Do I mock you for singing?”

He scoff-laughs. “Every. Single. Time.”

“No,” I say, affecting seriousness. “I sing along.” I slide into the tune I heard him singing the other week. “Tell all the gang at Forty-Second Street, that I will soon be there. Give my regards to old Broadway . . . See? I’m a much more supportive friend than you, being all respectful of your hobby.”

I write down the flyout that comes next on the field. But as my words make landfall, I wince. I’m not entirely the better friend, not even close. I’m the worst friend, given what I did in a limo last night. But I’m on the straight and narrow today. Turning over a new leaf.

Malone takes a drink of his beer. “Like I said, you mock me every time, and if you didn’t, I’d take you to the hospital for a psychological evaluation. You told me that once. That’s how I’d know you were an impostor.”

I stroke my chin. “True, true. Your insults are proof that it’s you and not a doppelgänger, pod-person, or robot.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” Charlotte says as the pitcher winds up. “We could actually, I dunno, watch the action on the field?”

Truly pats Charlotte’s shoulder. “It always falls on us women to make sure the men know why they’re actually at a game. Everything is a trash-talk fiesta for them.”

Malone shoots the woman I screwed last night a curious look.

I mean, his sister. He gives his sister a look.

“But I thought you came here because you liked the way the shortstop looked in his uniform,” Malone remarks.

“Ah, the plot thickens. Is that so?” I ask Truly. “Don’t deny it. You do come here to perv on Lorenzo Marquez.”

Truly shrugs like she has a naughty little secret she’s not giving up. “Truth. Preach it.”

Charlotte nods. “Amen. Shortstops are the hottest. I think that’s why my husband decided to play shortstop on your softball team.”

“Because they’re hot?” Malone asks incredulously. “That’s why Spencer is the shortstop? I thought it was because, call me crazy, he was actually good at fielding the ball.”

“That too. But also because shortstops are traditionally the hottest players. If you don’t believe me, just look it up.”

“And you’re complaining that we sit in the stands and do things other than watch the game and only the game? I believe that makes you the pot calling the kettle black, ladies,” Malone says.

Truly squeezes his arm. “Dear brother, at some point, you’re going to have to accept that baseball history is incredibly inclusive and now encompasses everything from not only the greatest ballparks, players, and plays of all time, but also the best parks for craft beer as well as the cutest butts in uniform. Also, I know you’re a historian of athletic physique too. You had a poster of Brandi Chastain above your desk in high school.”

“Whoa,” Charlotte cuts in. “I’m just hearing this story now? I’ve known you two clowns for years, and I’m just now learning your brother had a crush on Brandi Chastain?”

Truly wiggles her eyebrows. “The one and only. He has good taste.”

I tap Malone’s shoulder. “It was the picture, right?”

“Of course.”

“I had that picture too. She was tops when she won the World Cup with the fifth kick in the penalty shootout. Have you ever seen any game that fantastic before?”

Truly cracks up. “Jason, you’re so adorable. He did not have the photo because of the absolutely incredible play she made. He had it because of the sports bra.”

Malone cuts in. “Just like you had posters of Derek Jeter all over your room because of his five Gold Gloves or his World Series victories?”

Truly gasps indignantly. “I totally had his picture because of his World Series wins. He’s the man in the post season.”

“Oh, right,” I say, winking. “Of course. That’s why you hung up his shot. Just like everyone who read a certain magazine for, ahem, the articles.”

Truly crosses her arms, straightens her shoulders. “I admired him.”

“Admired his backside,” Malone coughs under his breath.

“I admired his gamesmanship.”

Malone chuckles, raising a finger to make a point. “So much that you also used to draw hearts in your notebook and write TG and DJ.”

She slaps his thigh. “I did not.”

Charlotte holds up a hand in admission. “I’ll confess. I did that. I also liked to add TLF for True Love Forever. But in my defense, I was fourteen.”

“Same, same,” Truly says quickly. “And just to be clear, I liked him because of his talent. Because of his skills.”

Malone clears his throat. “She liked his ass. It’s that simple.”

I pop a peanut into my mouth, making a mental note that some things never change. Truly Goodman is an ass woman. She squeezed mine the other night on the street, after all. And I have to say, my derriere is just as good as Jeter’s. Maybe not on par with Enzo’s, but Jeter’s will do.

Wait. I can’t be thinking about her interest in my ass. I’m at a game with her brother.