Author's note:
So.. I decided to write Holly's point of view as well, which means the story will be her POV from now on unless otherwise mentioned. (I added names to the chapters to make it easier.) I'll try to figure out how to write from inside Holly's head, which probably will mean longer chapters since she has a tendency to use long words and sentences. And although I have an outline (obviously), I haven't finished this part of the story so there might be a while between chapters..
Also, thanks for the favs, follows and lovely reviews, they made my day!
Without further ado, back to the batting cages.
Chapter 7
"I told you I don't like sports. I'm leaving!" she giggles, the sound of her black combat boots on the concrete floor echoing in the old warehouse as she makes her way towards the entrance.
"Gail, come on! Wait!" you shout at her retreating form, trying hard to quell your laughter. You don't think she's upset, not really, but watching her walk away feels oddly alike a punch in the stomach anyway.
You're on the road to potential disaster, and you know it. Yet you keep going straight ahead, refusing to even think about the true reason behind your behavior. Regardless, there's something about this particularly snarky police officer that makes you so unreasonably unguarded. You're not that much of a people-person – you don't claim to hate them like Gail does, but you're the type of person who are kind to many but only truly befriends a few. And you haven't felt this much of an urge to get to know someone in a really long time.
And that's why you don't bother picking up the bat that Gail so graciously flung across the pitch. Instead you head after her, walking even though your feet feels like they would rather run. (Let's face it, running after her would look more than a little desperate, and would only give her another bunch of reasons to make fun of you. Not that you mind her being snarky and making fun of you, not at all, but it feels a bit unnecessary to hand her a bunch of reasons on a silver plate.)
She's standing by the reception desk in the entrance, hovering awkwardly and flipping through some pamphlets, like she doesn't know whether to go back in, stick around or take off entirely.
"Hey.." you say, suddenly unsure of how to continue.
"I hate being crap at things," she tells you bluntly, eyes glued to the pamphlets.
"That's okay."
She shuffles her feet on the concrete, drawing an invisible circle with her left foot.
"You don't have to be good at hitting balls with a bat, and you're allowed to hate both that and the fact that you're crap at it," you continue hesitantly.
That causes her to lift her head and look at you with a mixture of amusement and annoyance on her face.
"Oh god, you really are one of those caring, comforting types aren't you?" she says with a slight tone of pain in her voice.
"Yeah, sorry, can't help it," you say with a shrug and a smirk.
She straightens her back and gives you a defiant look.
"You gonna come back in? Ten more tries and I promise I'll buy you food after."
"Really?" she says, and you want to smile at the audible skepticism. "Aren't food supposed to be included in dates, like, without a list of requirements attached to it?"
You stare at her for a few seconds before your brain catches up.
"Excuse me, but you called me and told me you wanted to hang out – this is not a date, and if it were, you'd thereby be held accountable for the asking, which in the end means that you should buy me food. And this is not a date."
"Whoa, slow down, Lunchbox, I was kidding. But I'm not sure if burgers are worth the public humiliation."
"Right.." you say, and you sort of want to hide when you realize how small and dissappointed your voice got all of a sudden. The tide turned in a matter of seconds, and now you're the one being awkward with Gail all cocky instead, and you can't for the life of you figure out how to get the ball back in your court.
"But, since you are a much more adequate companion than the Sheriff of Nottingham, I shall abide to your wishes," Gail says then, in what might be the snottiest, most faux british accent ever heard on the North American continent. She sweeps by you with an intrigued look on her face and it takes you a good five seconds to catch up and follow her back to the cage. She's already in place, helmet and all, waiting for you to push the button.
"I swear to god this stupid thing is gonna kill me," she mutters, casting a spiteful look at the ball launcher and gripping the bat so hard that her knuckles whiten. But hey, that minimizes the chance of her throwing the bat again, right?
After treating her to the promised burger, with a side dish of teasing her for ending up throwing the bat another four times and only managing to hit the ball twice, you give her a ride back to the flat she shares with Diaz and Epstein. You're not even halfway to yours when your cell buzzes, and you have to talk sternly to yourself to keep from looking at it until you've parked outside your house.
[Thanks for tonight. I had fun.]
You can't help that you smile at that, and you can't help cursing the mix of cautiousness and excitement growing inside you either.
Random fact: I had no idea what a ball launcher was called, so I googled "that thing that shoots baseballs at people". Apparently I was not the first one to wonder, since I found the answer right away.
