Page 23 of Fair Ball
“I’m not the dickhead. You’re the dickhead.”
“Dickhead! Dickhead!”
“I’m gonna—”
I hop off the counter and wrap my hand around Austin’s raised arm. “I could train Harold. Work on him using nicer language.”
Austin tilts his head, taking me in, eyes drifting between my own.
Such intensity.
Sends chills up my spine.
I ignore them and deliver that bad news. “But I think you’re going to have to watch your language too. He’s only mimicking what he’s heard. Aren’t you, Harold?”
“Hello, beautiful!”
Austin mumbles a few curses, and I bite back a smile.
“Elton! Elton!”
I reach into my back pocket for my phone to play Harold’s favorite, “Philadelphia Freedom,” and he puffs up his feathers before bobbing his head, keeping time. He dances back and forth happily, and I walk over to the cage, leaning in to laugh and sing along.
Behind me, I hear Austin mutter something about the fucking bird and fucking cute, but he’s gone before I can comprehend it. By the time he returns, I’ve watched a short YouTube video on training cockatoos and have his smoothie waiting for him. He sets down a duffel bag and accepts the smoothie from me, our fingertips skimming as he says, “We’re leaving for Washington right after the game this afternoon, so I won’t be home until next Wednesday.”
“I’ll have your fridge full. Is there anything special you want for when you come home? A meal or something?”
He shakes his head. “They feed us before, during, and after the plane ride.”
“Yeah, but I’d be happy to get you something special. A sweet treat? A welcome-home pie?”
“Welcome-home pie?”
I shake my hands between us. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to be a good assistant.”
“Make the bird stop calling me a dickhead, and that’ll be enough.”
“It doesn’t seem enough, but…” A sudden idea sparks in my brain. “How ’bout I drive you to the field?”
“You’re not—”
“I don’t have anything else to do today. I’ve already fed Harold, and I need to pick up some walnuts from the grocery store to start training him, so I can do that after I drop you off.”
“Millie.”
“Austin.”
His lip twitches. “This isn’t the school drop-off line.”
“No, this is me being your assistant and driving you to work because you’re paying me an exorbitant amount of money. Let me do it.” I point to where I spilled the drink. “Make up for my clumsiness.”
“I—”
“Know you don’t care, but I do. I want to do a good job. So, please, let me take you to the stadium. I can pick you up when you return.”
He crosses his arms, so I do too. I’ve always found it easier to mimic someone in conversation, match their energy and tone. Though I doubt I’d be able to perfect his scowl.
After an eternity of staring at me, he says, “You wanna come to the game?”
