CHAPTER NINE
Mimi’s team is up to bat first, so our team gathers in a huddle to discuss fielding tactics while Mimi finishes setting out the jumpers to mark the pitch.
“Harper, you okay to bowl again this year?” Katya suggests, after she’s finished explaining to a new yoga friend of Mimi’s, who hails from New York, that rounders is essentially the same as baseball except with a small bat and there’s no such thing as strikes—you get one shot to hit the ball and then you have to run.
“As long as no one else wants to give it a go,” I reply, glancing round the circle as everyone shakes their heads, refusing the responsibility.
Katya is on second base while Rakhee, who mentions she has pretty good throwing skills, is elected as a deep fielder. The others on our team decide among themselves who’s taking the other positions, and then we all put our hands in the middle and, on Katya’s instruction, cry out in chorus, “WINNERS!”
As our huddle disperses and the other team begins to line up at the batting jumper, I hunt down the tennis ball that we use instead of a rounders one—since the park is always fairly busy, a softer ball is deemed more appropriate should a stray one be sent careening in the direction of an oblivious family enjoying a picnic nearby.
I do a few practice throws with the backstop before Mimi steps up to bat first.
“Ready, birthday girl?” I ask with a grin.
“Born ready,” she replies, holding up the bat.
The game begins, Mimi scoring half a rounder on her first hit. I always forget how fun rounders is until I’m playing it in a London park on a sunny day. The competitive spirit is running high, the batters yelling instructions at each other about when to run to the next post, while cheering each other on after a great hit. The fielding team is just as enthusiastic, their shouting and screaming gathering interest from passersby who look in our direction and smile.
By the time it’s Ryan’s turn to bat, there’s been a real mix of ability on his team and no one has managed to score a full rounder on their own. Mimi claps him on the back as he bends down to pick up the bat from where the last teammate dropped it as they ran to the first post.
“You’ve got this, Ryan,” she says. “Don’t let Harper bait you and put you off your game.”
“Hey!” I cry out, tossing the tennis ball from hand to hand. “You really think I’d stoop so low as to bait someone right before they bat?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past you, Harper Jenkins,” Ryan declares as he strolls toward the batting jumper.
Flicking my hair back behind my shoulder, I wait for him to position himself and then, with full concentration, I bowl the ball. There’s a loud crack as the bat makes forceful contact, sending the ball soaring overhead, way out beyond third base. Dropping the bat to an eruption of cheers from his team, Ryan starts sprinting.
“Come on, Rakhee!” I shout encouragingly as she races toward the tennis ball and then, finding it, throws it with all her might back toward us as Ryan clears second and heads to third. Katya jumps into the air to catch the ball, before spinning and lobbing it to our teammate on fourth base, but Ryan has already swept past into the arms of his team, who congratulate him ecstatically.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, catching the tennis ball as it’s thrown back to me for the next batter. I was really hoping he wouldn’t be good at this.
“You lot were so cocky with your ‘winners’ chant!” Mimi announces, picking up the bat and doing a victory dance on the spot. “But we’re going to be difficult to beat! Our points are ticking up and no one is out.”
“Yet,” Katya yells from behind me.
Tearing my eyes from Ryan, who is still receiving high-fives from his teammates, I prepare to bowl to Mimi. She hits it straight up in the air and I run forward, catching it as it falls right into my outstretched hands.
“Noooooo!” Mimi cries, burying her head in her hands, as it becomes my team’s turn to cheer.
Katya runs over to lift me up in celebration, before plonking me down and saying to Mimi, “You tempted fate, babe! Rookie error!”
As the game continues, their team gradually begins to deplete until Ryan is the last man standing.
“Okay everyone,” I say, turning to address the fielders. “Whatever happens, we can’t let him get all the way round. If he gets a rounder, he can keep batting, but if we stop him from reaching that fourth post, then his team is out. Look alert, people!”
“Let’s do this!” Katya shouts, clapping her hands above her head.
Accepting words of encouragement from his team, who are standing around the table, drinking and crunching on crisps, Ryan acknowledges that it’s getting serious and peels off his over-shirt to wolf whistles. In his T-shirt, he rolls his arms back and forth.
I try not to be distracted by his muscled arms, now on show, as he picks up the bat and tosses it in the air so it spins, like a drummer showing off with a drumstick. It takes a lot of self-control not to stare at his bicep when it flexes as he catches the grip of the bat.
His blue eyes flash at me.
“Ready when you are, Harper,” he says, a hint of a smile appearing.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I take a step forward and bowl a terrible ball that goes right over his head.
“No ball!” Mimi calls out.
As the backstop chucks it back to me, I catch Ryan tilting his head at me curiously.
“Something put you off your game, Harper?”
“I was merely luring you into a false sense of security.”
“Try not to buckle under the pressure,” he advises.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not the last man standing.”
He grins, getting into position again. This time, I push any thoughts about his sexy arms out of my head and focus. It’s a perfect bowl, but it’s also a very good bat. He runs as fast as he can to the screams of his team, while I shout myself hoarse yelling at Rakhee to throw it back as quickly as possible, my whole team now congregating around the third and fourth bases, all of us on hand to stop him.
Just as he rounds the third, the ball is neatly caught by one of Mimi’s school friends, who taps it on the fourth-base jumper and Ryan is declared out.
Our team now gets ready to bat, knowing how many points we need to score to win. Mimi decides to bowl, while Ryan ends up in the space between third and fourth base, manning both of them, no doubt having regaled his team with the story of his famous pond catch.
My team gets off to a rocky start, but soon we’re into the swing of things and scoring some rounders. My first go at batting is a success, and I hit it far enough to make it the whole way round and score, which prompts Ryan to shout to his fellow fielders to “get back” when it’s my turn again, something that gives me a huge thrill of satisfaction.
As I rejoin my team’s queue after my second turn batting, my phone buzzes in my back pocket and I reach for it, expecting it to be Liam, whom I haven’t heard from today. I know he’s working, so I can’t be annoyed, but it would have been nice for him to message this morning to say he was sorry he couldn’t make it.
Checking the screen, I see it’s not a message but a showbiz notification.
IT’S OVER! Pregnant star Isabella Blossom splits with film director boyfriend the day after tearful public fight in Hyde Park!
Judging from the horrible way that Elijah behaved during those few minutes I was in his company during the press junket, I imagine she’s better off without him, but I still feel a wave of sadness for Isabella. She seemed like a really decent person, and she must have found some comfort in knowing she had a partner at her side while going through pregnancy and for when the baby arrives.
Ignoring the cheers and shouts from my team as someone legs it round the rounders pitch, I begin typing out a message to Rachael, from the press junket, saying I’ve seen the story and if there’s any truth to it, I hope Isabella is okay.
Her reply comes back moments later:
She’s not great, to be honest. It’s all very overwhelming for her and think she feels quite alone. I’ll let her know that you messaged, she’ll appreciate it xx
I frown reading the message, my heart sinking.
“Harper!” Katya says, nudging my arm. “You’re up!”
I’d been so engrossed in the news, I hadn’t realized it was my turn to bat again.
“Come on, Harper, just one rounder and we’ve beat them!” Katya informs me.
“Oh! Uh … sorry, I was distracted. Hang on, does this mean the whole of the game rests on my shoulders?”
She nods solemnly. “It’s all down to you, my friend.”
To a round of applause from my team, I make my way to the jumper crumpled on the ground marking the batting spot. I catch Ryan’s eye as I prepare myself.
“Not too long ago I was in your position, Harper,” he says. “You think you have what it takes to make it all the way round?”
“You certainly didn’t make the grade as far as I can remember.”
He flashes me a grin. “You need the rounder to win. Not half a rounder, a full one.”
“Yes, thank you, Ryan, for explaining that really complicated point system to me.”
“I was emphasizing for dramatic effect, not explaining.”
“If you two stop bickering, then we can actually play,” Mimi says bossily, her hands on her hips. “Ready, Harper?”
I scowl at Ryan as he winks at me, before turning my focus to Mimi and lifting my bat.
“Ready.”
As the ball is tossed in my direction, I swing with all my might. There’s a loud thwack as it collides with the bat, before it soars through the air.
“Run, Harper! Run!” Katya shouts at the top of her lungs.
Dropping the bat, I begin sprinting, the eruption of noise from both teams roaring in my ears as I keep going round first, then second base. The ball is sent flying back overhead as I make it to third and is caught by Ryan as I near the fourth base.
Both of us launch ourselves at the final base at the same time, skidding across the grass and colliding as we land on the fourth jumper, me on the flat of my back and he on his front, the ball clutched in his hand.
Both teams start cheering and clapping, until Katya stops and says, “Wait, why are you celebrating?” to Mimi, who replies, “Hello! We won!”
“No, we won,” Katya retorts.
“No,” Mimi says, giving her a strange look. “We won!”
“Harper got the rounder!”
“Ryan got her out!”
“She’s in!”
“She’s out!”
As the two teams launch into an argument over what happened, I push myself up on my elbows to look at Ryan, whose face is level with my knees.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I think I’ve bruised my bum,” I admit. “You?”
“I’m going to have a few grass stains,” he says, getting to his feet.
He holds out his hand to help me up, and I take it. His hand is warm as it clasps mine, his grip strong and firm. I stumble a little as he pulls me up, steadying myself by grabbing his forearms. He’s so close, it makes me a little light-headed.
“All right?” he says. His voice is suddenly softer.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I drop my hands, stepping back from him and collecting myself. “Sorry you lost, but good game.”
He blinks at me. “Excuse me? You lost.”
“Are you joking?” I look him up and down. “My feet hit the jumper before you did!”
“No,” he says slowly, “I got you out.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this!”
He frowns. “Doing what? Telling the truth?”
“You’re lying just so you can win!” I say accusingly.
“I’m not the liar here, Harper. You know as well as I do that I got to the jumper first.”
“I was in!” I insist.
“You were out!”
I turn to appeal to everyone else, who have come to gather around the birthday girl. “What’s the final verdict?”
Katya throws her arm around Mimi. “How about we call it a draw?”
“That’s a bit boring,” she responds.
“It’s only the first round of the day. There are still a few more games to get through,” Katya reasons. “We can beat you at everything else and win overall.”
“You wish,” Mimi says, her eyes twinkling at her wife. “Fine, since no one can impartially call that final point, we’ll say it’s a draw.”
Anyone else who still cares nods, accepting the judgment, while others amble over to the table to refill their drinks, energized after the game.
“Um, no, it was not a draw,” I maintain stubbornly, folding my arms. “I was in and Ryan knows it; he just can’t admit that he lost to me.”
“I would happily admit if I did lose fair and square, but I didn’t,” he says. “You know I got you out. I reached that jumper before you did.”
“Oh, come off it, Ryan!” I sigh impatiently. “You just can’t accept that I beat you.”
“It’s not about you, this is a team game,” he says, rolling his eyes. Mimi and Katya share a look before mutually agreeing to leave us to it, wandering away to join everyone else round the table. “Your team didn’t get that final rounder because I got you out.”
“You know, losing does not make you a loser. But lying does.”
He doesn’t look impressed. “Spouting inspirational quotes at me won’t make me give in and pretend that you won. You need to stop thinking about this personally.”
“How am I thinking about this personally, Ryan?”
“Maybe because I’m the one who got you out, you’re refusing to accept it,” he says and my face flushes with heat.
“I’m refusing because it didn’t happen,” I affirm. “God, you’re annoying. You really think that—”
“Wait, Harper—”
“No, don’t interrupt. I’ll have you know that I am a very fair and reasonable person, and there is no way that just because it’s you who happened to be the person to attempt to get me out—”
“Harper, if you—”
“It’s genuinely insulting that you think I would lie about winning simply to get one up on you personally. I know we don’t—”
“Harper … cake!” he cries in exasperation.
I blink at him.
“They’ve brought the cake out and they’re singing ‘Happy Birthday,’” he explains, pointing over at the table. “I’d be very happy to stand here listening to you rant afterward, but we should probably go join in.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.”
We hurry over to the rest of the group, who are singing while Katya holds up a chocolate cake with one lit candle on the top. Ryan and I manage to join in on the last line and dutifully clap when Mimi blows out the candle.
“Time to set up for beer pong!” Katya announces. “The tournament will resume in ten minutes.”
I stand awkwardly next to Ryan, wondering if it’s appropriate to go back to our disagreement. He knows deep down that I’m the victor here, and that’s really all that matters. He’s just lied to save face, whereas I can hold my head up high and—
“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” he asks me suddenly.
I glance up to see he’s watching me intently with a bemused expression.
“I was thinking that there’s no point in arguing over the rounders game.”
“I agree. Would you like a drink?”
“Sorry?”
“I brought some gin along. I was going to make myself a gin and tonic. Would you like one?”
“Oh. Yes, please. Thanks.”
I follow him as he grabs a couple of cups and fills them with ice from one of the cooler boxes before looking round for the bottle of gin.
“Was it bad news?” he asks, locating the gin and splashing it into the cups.
“What?”
“The message you got on your phone during the game. You’ve got an open-book face,” he says, opening a bottle of tonic and letting it fizz. “I noticed you looked upset. I don’t mean to be nosy, I just hope it wasn’t anything too bad, whatever it was.”
“It’s okay, you’re not being nosy. I mean, it was bad news. Not for me, for someone else. But if I tell you, you’ll laugh at me.”
He glances up, intrigued. “Try me.”
I exhale. “Fine. I got a notification that an actor I interviewed recently broke up with her boyfriend. She seemed like a really nice person and now she’s going to have to deal with all these reporters prying into her business, trying to get a photo of her crying or something. And she’s having a baby any minute, so you know, she’s got a lot on her plate, and … I don’t know. It made me sad.”
He passes me my drink.
“Go on, then,” I say, taking the cup from him. “You’re thinking I’m too invested in celebrities who I don’t even know. You and Cosmo both think my job is ridiculous.”
He recoils, lines forming on his forehead. “No, I don’t think that.”
“The celebrity world is silly in your lofty opinion, I’m sure.”
“I’m not going to pretend I am as invested in the … uh … celebrity world, as you put it. But I’d never make fun of you for caring about someone who is hurting. It says a lot about what kind of a person you are.”
I’m so taken aback by the compliment, I’m lost for words.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, confused.
“I was expecting you to say something snarky.”
“About you being upset because someone is going through a tough time?”
“Well … yeah.”
He takes a sip of his drink. “So, that’s what you think of me.”
“What you think of my job,” I remind him.
“Not being particularly interested in something isn’t the same as looking down on it. Besides, you haven’t asked my opinion on your job, so how would you know?”
“All right, then. Ryan, what do you think about the celebrity angle of the magazine?”
He smiles into his drink. “Fluffy nonsense.”
“I knew it!”
“I’m joking!” He laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, you want my honest opinion?”
I sigh. “This should be interesting.”
“I think … I think you write insightful, clever features about people who lead extraordinary lives, and even though they might be so famous that everyone thinks they know everything about them, somehow you manage to show them in a light that makes it seem as though we didn’t really know them at all—until we read your piece. You really care, and because of that, your readers care. It’s brilliant and powerful journalism. Oh, and you’re quite funny sometimes, too,” he adds as an afterthought.
Once again, in a matter of minutes, I’m stunned into silence by Ryan Jansson.
“You look confused,” he observes after a while of me standing there staring at him with my mouth open.
“I … what do you mean by ‘quite funny’?”
He rolls his eyes. “I say all of those things about your writing talents and that’s the comment you pick up on.”
“I’m genuinely shocked you’ve read any of my articles.”
“Have you read any of mine?”
“A few,” I admit coyly.
He seems impressed. “What do you think?”
“Are you still planning on writing a book?”
He looks surprised at my question. “I told you about that?”
“A long time ago.”
He nods. “Right. Yes, like a lot of journalists, I’m working on my first novel.”
“You’re writing fiction. Huh.” I pause, before admitting, “I always thought you’d write nonfiction, some kind of big exposé or something.”
He sighs at my assumption. “Because I’m so serious and boring.”
“No,” I say. “You told me you wanted to use your journalism to do something good. To give people a voice who might not have one.”
He gives the smallest hint of a smile, as though I’ve just proved him right about something.
“Why are you looking so smug?” I ask, frowning at him.
He laughs. “I’m not. I … never mind.”
Rakhee appears at my side. “Are you two still arguing about who won? The beer pong is about to start, so you can forget about the rounders and try to beat each other at this instead.”
“Excellent,” Ryan declares, unhooking his sunglasses from the front of his shirt and putting them on. “There’ll be no mistaking the winner in this one. Your team has no chance.”
He wanders off to the end of the table where Mimi is busy lining up the cups for the game, while I follow Rakhee to join my team at the other end, who are discussing tactics such as whether it’s worth bouncing the Ping-Pong ball first or if it’s easier just to aim for a clean throw into the cups.
I pretend to listen, but really I’m distracted by two things that Ryan said to me today that, when I think back on how he said them, make me feel strangely giddy.
One, he called my journalism brilliant and powerful.
And two, he declared he would be very happy to stand and listen to me rant after singing Mimi a happy birthday.
Which, when you think about it, is really a very sweet thing to say.