Did I Mention I Need You? (The DIMILY Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

My stomach flutters and backflips and plummets and twists. My pulse pumps erratically beneath my skin so fast I can feel it. My heart is either contracting or exploding. Either way, my chest hurts with how hard it’s pounding. Goosebumps appear along my arms. My breathing slows until I think it’s stopped, until I think I’m suffocating. I can even feel myself breaking out into a sweat, but I try to convince myself it’s because of the heat and not the fact that I really, really want to kiss my stepbrother right now.

“How about we make a deal?” Tyler whispers, voice as lustful as ever. I grip the edge of my seat to stop myself from making a move toward him. Right now is most definitely not the time for me to be all over him.

“A deal?” I echo, but it sounds much more like a squeak than anything else. I’m still staring at the field, at the grass, at the home plate. Anything but Tyler. If I look at him right now, if I even so much as steal a glance at his smoldering green eyes, then there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to hold myself back.

“How about,” Tyler murmurs quietly, softly, “we play baseball?” His grip on my thigh tightens.

My voice catches in my throat when I realize he’s not talking about the sport. He’s talking about something entirely different, something so terrifying yet exciting at the exact same time. A thousand and one thoughts are consuming me as I try to process his words, and I’m so taken aback that there’s no way I can even attempt to reply. I feel sick with exhilaration and my chest rises and falls as I focus on my breathing.

Tyler doesn’t wait for me to say anything. Instead, he starts to rub soft circles on my thigh with his thumb as he leans even closer to me. He buries his face into my hair, all while he presses his lips to the edge of my jaw. I feel him smile again. “If Jeter hits a home run tonight,” he whispers against my skin, “how about we get our own too?”

He must feel my body shaking beneath him. He must surely feel the way I’m trembling at his touch. He must definitely notice, because when he pulls back slightly, out of the corner of my eye I can see him smirking at me. He knows the effect he has on me. He likes the effect he has on me. And admittedly, I like it, too. I like his proposition even more. I know I shouldn’t agree to it, though. I shouldn’t agree to it because of Dean, because I have a boyfriend back home, but it’s so, so tempting. How can I say no to Tyler? How can I say no to the person I’m in love with?

Finally, I look at Tyler. He’s smiling back at me, eyebrows raised and eyes sparkling, emerald as ever. “Deal,” I whisper.

Snake returns shortly after with a plastic cup of beer in each hand and a wide grin on his face. He’s so pleased that I don’t think he even registers how on edge Tyler and I must seem. Tyler has scooted back over to the other side of his seat, as far away from me as he can possibly position himself, and I’m gnawing at my lip hoping that no one around us will somehow figure out that we’re stepsiblings. It’s impossible for them to know, but it still makes me paranoid knowing that they’ve most likely witnessed Tyler whispering in my ear and touching my body.

As I try to relax, I realize how much the stadium has filled up. Most of the sections seem to be full by now, and only a matter of minutes later, roll call comes into action. The noise within the stadium amplifies as each player is announced, the crowds cheering and whistling as they stride onto the field. Beneath their caps, each player has a competitive look in their eyes. However, none of these players are the slightest bit familiar to me. There’s only one player whose name I recognize: Derek Jeter.

His name is announced and the stadium erupts into applause: applause which I don’t hesitate to join in with. I’m on my feet alongside Tyler, chanting Jeter’s name in unison with the thousands of other Yankees fans while a middle-aged guy saunters onto the field, smiling. It occurs to me while I’m cheering that I’m seriously rooting for Derek Jeter. I’m depending on him to hit a home run.

The game breaks into play at exactly 7:30. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but the game starts off relatively slow and ends up being rather tedious. The first two innings are a total waste of time, with neither team gaining any runs. The most action I see is a Red Sox player get to third base. He’s tagged before home plate. By the second half of the fourth inning, the Yankees have two runs, the Red Sox have three. No home runs yet.

Snake keeps slipping out for more beers every twenty minutes, and by the sixth inning, I’m considering him impaired. I’m not sure why the staff at the stadium keep on serving him. Drunk or not, he still manages to sit down in his seat without swaying too much.

“This game sucks,” Tyler murmurs.

“ ’Cause you’re losing,” Snake slurs, smirk lopsided. “Losing, losing, losing. Losing bad. Losing
so
bad.”

“We’re only down by one run,” Tyler shoots back. He folds his arms across his chest and slumps further back into his seat, sighing. “We’ll catch up, trust me.”

The sixth inning drags on and I’m really starting to wonder why people find baseball entertaining. The Red Sox gain another win and Tyler keeps on groaning from my side. The other Yankees fans around us also seem to be growing impatient, and it’s not until the break between the sixth and seventh innings that everyone seems to liven up.

Suddenly and out of nowhere, our section seems to go wild. People start yelling, and people start cheering, and people start whistling. Someone behind me grasps my shoulders and shakes me around carelessly, whooping in my ear. From my left, Snake is howling with laughter, chuckling so hard he ends up spilling his beer. He covers his face with his hand and points his beer over in the direction of the video board.

My eyes immediately follow. Up on the video board, in front of Yankee Stadium and in front of fifty thousand people, I see myself. I see myself and I see Tyler. I see us surrounded by a pink border with love hearts. I even see the word “KISS” flashing over us.

I shift my horrified stare to Tyler. He looks back at me, eyes wide, his forehead creasing. Snake’s still laughing and our surrounding audience are still cheering, but all I can do is sit there, absolutely paralysed. Maybe I’d find it hilarious, too, if I did see Tyler as just my stepbrother. Maybe then we wouldn’t look so panicked. I can’t laugh about any of this, though, because I really do want to kiss him, but I just can’t. I can’t because Snake’s here, because there are fifty thousand people around us, because this game is being televised.

Burying my head in my hands, I shake my head firmly. I feel so humiliated. The cheering turns to booing and I’m too afraid to even sit up again, so I steal a quick glance through my fingers instead. I’m so relieved to discover that Tyler and I are no longer on the screen. Instead, there are now two guys frantically locking lips.

I meet Tyler’s eyes. He shrugs back at me, but his mouth is gradually forming a small smile. “Why us?” I groan as I run my hands back through my hair. “Out of everyone here, the camera had to land on us?”

“That was hilarious!” Snake yells, leaning forward to look at us both. He pats my back with his free hand, hard. “So awkward.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter. I shrug him off me and he returns to drinking the remainder of his beer. I look back to Tyler again, but he’s only staring at me intensely and smiling.

After a moment, he looks back to the field as the seventh inning comes into play. His smile never falters. I want to ask him why he seems to have enjoyed our embarrassing moment, but he’s so focused on the game again that I doubt he’ll answer me.

The Red Sox end up gaining their fifth run, putting them three runs ahead, and then there’s the seventh-inning stretch, where the stadium sings “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and “God Bless America” in unison. I don’t join in, mostly because I’m not in the mood to, but Snake and Tyler have absolutely no apprehension whatsoever when it comes to getting on their feet and singing alongside everyone else.

The Yankees’ performance in their half of the seventh inning is a pathetic excuse for baseball, but by the eighth, something clicks. They gain three runs while the Red Sox gain none, and when Derek Jeter is up to bat, my heart pounds faster than usual. Each time he swings, I get this strange sort of flipping sensation in my stomach that makes me feel like I might hurl. The nervous excitement that’s consuming me is so overwhelming that I fear I might just pass out from it, my knuckles paling from how hard I’m gripping the edge of my seat. Tyler is calm the entire time, only ever groaning and shaking his head when Jeter’s home run never seems to happen, and as the game draws nearer and nearer to a close my excitement turns to panic. By the ninth and final inning, it’s 5–5. Derek Jeter still hasn’t hit a homer.

The Red Sox have the top half of the inning again, but they totally blow it. I wonder if it’s because they can feel the tension around the stadium or if they’ve just genuinely turned to crap as the game has progressed, but either way, they have three strikeouts before any of the players even get the chance to leave home plate. And when the Yankees move to offense for the bottom half of the inning, the Red Sox fans are definitely worried. Snake’s cursing under his breath while he anxiously squeezes his cap in his hands.

The Yankees, however, aren’t much better. They do progress at one point, only when Mark Teixeira makes it to second base, and he lingers there while Derek Jeter comes up to bat. That’s when I start paying more attention. It seems as though it’s his last turn at batting for the game, which means there’s not much hope left for my deal with Tyler. Our deal only stands if Derek Jeter gets a home run, and so far all he’s managed to achieve during this game is reaching third base.

He saunters over the dirt to take up his position at home plate and my heart starts to race. He’s wearing an ankle support, but it doesn’t seem to stop him from kicking at the plate as he adjusts his helmet. Everyone around us suddenly gets to their feet—all but the Red Sox fans, of course—and Tyler reaches for my arm and gently pulls me up. He flashes me a knowing grin, a hopeful one. We both turn back to the field, and I’m not sure about Tyler, but I’m definitely holding my breath. Jeter swings a couple times before nodding and raising the bat, hovering it just by his shoulder, his stance strong, eyes narrowed. The pitcher hurls the ball toward him, but he doesn’t swing, only shakes his head. This happens again on the second pitch. In a last-ditch attempt at keeping the spirit up, the stadium starts to chant, the noise echoing all around me at once. Derek Jeter’s name is called over and over again, with applause in between, and I join in with the rhythm. I can hear Tyler chanting too, and there’s nothing to be heard except for the yelling of Derek Jeter’s name. Everyone is focused on him and nothing else.

The Red Sox pitcher lines up once more. Raising his leg, he draws back the ball, and in one fast jerk of his arm, he propels the ball toward Jeter. I stop chanting. I stop chanting because I stop breathing, because I’m squeezing my hands into fists so tight I think my fingers might snap.

And then, in the space of a split second, there’s a thunderous crack.

The entire stadium stops yelling. Even the Red Sox fans get to their feet, everyone’s eyes wide as the ball soars across the field. I keep my eyes trained on it as it moves, backspinning toward left center field. It’s almost in slow motion and I part my lips as Tyler presses his hands to his head. The ball flies over the Yankee Stadium letters, over the video board. It’s out of the park.

More importantly, it’s a home run.

The stadium erupts. The stands above me begin to rumble again and the thundering roars from all around deafen me. Teixeira strolls back to home plate while Jeter follows, jogging at a calm pace. There’s no rush. The Yankees have just gained two more runs, and have inevitably won the game. Somewhere in the excitement and mayhem of it all, I find myself jumping and cheering in celebration. Beside me, Tyler is grinning as he whistles, and when he catches me looking at him, he throws an arm around me and pulls me in close. I can’t stop smiling, either. The atmosphere is electric and I don’t think I’ve ever experienced something so energetic. It feels so incredible to be here at Yankee Stadium in New York City celebrating a Yankees win over the Red Sox, with the crowds so thrilled and with Tyler right by my side. Derek Jeter got his home run. My deal with Tyler still stands, and in this exact moment I don’t think my summer can get better.

I steal a glance to my left. Snake’s on his feet, too, but he’s not celebrating. He’s arguing with the Yankees fan sitting directly behind him, his words slurred. Tyler’s still cheering next to me despite the fact that I’ve stopped, and I quickly throw Snake a warning glance, but he doesn’t take notice. Instead, he jabs his finger into the chest of the Yankees fan. And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

The Yankees fan retaliates by throwing his beer at Snake, and Snake immediately throws a punch. Before I even get the chance to move out of the way, the Yankees fan throws himself over the row and tackles Snake to the ground, knocking me sideways. I fall into Tyler, who promptly catches me by my waist. I glance up at him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s glaring at the fight that’s broken out right next to us, his jaw tight, eyes narrowing. Hands still on my waist, he moves me over to the right.

Snake and the Yankees fan are on the ground, fists spiraling through the air, all while everyone else around us switches from cheering to oohing. The girls in the row in front of us let out screams as they try to get out of the way, but everyone else seems to encourage the fight. When I fire my eyes back down to Snake, I realize he’s on top of the Yankees fan, repeatedly hitting the guy’s jaw before catching his nose. Tyler jumps in at that point. He grabs at the back of Snake’s jersey, attempting to pull him away, but before he even gets the chance to, another Sox fan jumps over the row of chairs and punches Tyler square in the face out of absolutely nowhere.

“Hey!” I yell. I reach out for Tyler, but he jerks away from me and throws a punch back. It doesn’t make sense at first why some random guy has decided to hit Tyler, but once I notice all four jerseys, it becomes clear.

Snake’s a Sox fan fighting with a Yankees fan. Tyler’s a Yankees fan, too, and I highly doubt anyone would believe he was trying to help Snake. It’s not surprising why another Sox fan would get involved. He’s backing up Snake, a fellow fan, while believing that Tyler is backing up the other Yankees fan. It’s messy, with punches being thrown all over the place, and Tyler gets clipped on the corner of his eye.

My temper heats up at the mere sight of seeing Tyler get hit, so I do my best to intervene. I reach for his jersey and try to tug him away from the Sox fan’s punching range, but someone tosses their drink into the brawl and it hits my shoulder, soaking my shirt. I gasp, releasing my grip on Tyler as I’m knocked backward. I land on the ground with a painful thud and I hit my head against the seats. For a moment, I sit there, slightly dazed and unable to get back up. All I can think is that Snake’s an asshole when he’s drunk.

When I glance up, there seems to be a lot of yelling, and I realize security are breaking up the fighting. There are around four security guards and two cops, and it takes four of them alone to split up Snake and the Yankees fan. Tyler and the Sox fan break it up themselves, but they’re still grabbed and dragged out onto the stairs, nonetheless. One of the security guards even reaches for me, yanking me up from the ground by my elbow without much consideration for the fact that I’m in pain. He almost dislocates my shoulder as he pulls me along the row, twisting my arm in ways unimaginable.

The five of us are escorted away: me, Tyler, and Snake, plus the Yankees fan and the Sox fan, lips busted and eyes swollen. Section 314 starts to chant “BOSTON SUCKS!” as we’re led away, and they’re all cheering. Public fights are always entertaining unless you’re part of it.

We’re guided back down the stairs until we’re inside again, and the security guard holding on to me seems to trust me enough to finally let go. Snake’s yelling and muttering as we all walk, and I’m mentally daring him to shut up before he makes the situation worse. My stomach twists at the realization that we’re most likely going to be arrested for assault or battery, and I’m starting to wonder if perhaps I should take the opportunity I have right now to inform the security guard by my side that, in fact, I didn’t do anything wrong.

For some reason, however, none of us ends up in cuffs and in the back of a cop car. None of the security guards or the two cops says a word as they take us down all the flights of stairs, straight back down to the Great Hall. All they do is promptly shove us outside, turning their backs on us and heading away.