The Summer We Learned to Lie

The cable guy wasn't supposed to be hot. Definitely not supposed to be seventeen and wearing a varsity baseball jacket with 'FOX' stitched across the back.

"You're blocking the driveway," I said, trying to sound authoritative instead of flustered. My older brother had left me in charge of the house while they were at Bear Lake — again — and I took my temporary authority seriously.

Fox (that's what his jacket said, okay?) flashed this grin that made my stomach do something embarrassing. "Just finishing up, ma'am. Your parents' been having issues with the internet?"

"Something's been glitching," I admitted, then immediately regretted how much I'd said.

"Mind if I check the setup inside?" He leaned against his van like we were just casually chatting, like his smile didn't have me mentally cataloging my outfit (old softball sweats, why God).

Let him in? Alone? The thought accelerated my heart. But this was Fox McAllister, sophomore catcher who'd hit that walk-off home run against Central. Everyone knew who he was.

"Sure," I said, trying for casual. "I'm watching Netflix anyway. Not like I'm doing anything important."

I was absolutely lying. I'd spent the last forty-eight hours cyber-stalking his ex-girlfriend's Instagram, feeling like the world's most pathetic spy. Sophie had moved on. Her story showed her at some party, laughing with college guys. Meanwhile, I was over here analyzing whether Fox had liked my post about the sunset (he hadn't).

"Cool," he said, following me inside. "What are you watching?"

"Nothing," I said too quickly. "Just... whatever."

He worked efficiently, crouching behind the TV. I sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through my phone, not actually seeing anything.

"So," he said suddenly, from the floor. "You play?"

"What?"

"Baseball." He nodded toward the shelf where my old glove sat. "I've seen you at the park. Hitting coach's daughter, right?"

Heat rushed to my face. He'd noticed? When I was in sweaty workout clothes, failing at batting practice while my dad critiqued my stance?

"Used to," I said. "I'm more into... other stuff now."

"Like what?"

"Things that don't involve publicly humiliating myself three times a week."

Fox laughed, actually laughed, and something in my chest loosened. "Same. I only keep playing because my dad's obsessed. Between us, I kind of hate it."

I stared at him. Fox McAllister, star catcher, hated baseball?

"Then why—"

"Expectations, man." He stood up, dusting off his knees. "Everyone's got their thing they're supposed to be. My older sister's the smart one. I'm the athletic one. You know how it is."

I did know. I was the quiet girl, the one who stayed in the background. Not the popular one like Sophie. Not the interesting one.

"Your internet's fixed," he said. "Hey, you want to come to the game Friday? Not as, like, a date. Unless you want it to be? Then definitely as a date."

I blinked. Was this happening?

"I'll think about it," I said, channeling a confidence I absolutely did not feel.

"Cool." He stopped at the door. "Hey, you know what? You're way more interesting than Sophie ever was. Just saying."

The door closed behind him. I sat there for five whole minutes, grinning like an idiot, before remembering I still had to finish my history project.

Sometimes the unexpected cable repair was exactly what you needed.