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  “Oh,” Min said, and turned back to the field to see a batter hit a wobbly shot into left field where a kid on Harry’s team bobbled the ball. Cal missed all of it, staring up into the bleachers at them.

  Then Cal began to turn away, and the kid in the outfield picked up the ball and threw it with desperation and an impossible force for an eight-year-old. It smacked Cal on the back of the head, knocking him off balance so that he fell to his knees and then to the ground.

  “No,” Min said and zapped down the bleachers and around the chain link fence. “Cal?” she said, going down on her knees beside him as he tried to sit up. “Cal?”

  He looked dazed, so she stared into his eyes, trying to see if the pupils were different sizes. They weren’t, his eyes were the same hot, dark depths they always were, and she fell into them again, growing breathless, as music swelled behind her, Elvis Costello singing his heart out on “She,” and the voice in her head said, THIS ONE.

  Then she heard Tony say, “Turn that damn thing off,” and when she looked up, she saw two girls with a radio next to the fence and Cynthie coming around it to kneel beside Cal, too.

  “Sorry,” one of the girls said, and the other said, “Is he dead?”

  “Go away,” Min said and they left, taking the music with them.

  “Cal, are you all right?” Cynthie said, and Min looked down at him again to see him still staring at her.

  “Cal?” she said.

  The assassin from the outfield came running up. “Did you see that, Mr. Capa? I really threw it.”

  “Yeah, you did, Bentley,” Tony said, looking down at Cal. “You okay, there, buddy?”

  “I knew I could do it,” Bentley said. “I saw Wyman getting close to third base, and something just told me I could do it, and I really threw that sucker, boy.”

  “Cal, say something,” Cynthie said, panic in her voice.

  “Boy, I really threw that sucker,” Bentley said.

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “Too bad you missed third base by a mile and took out Mr. Morrisey.” He crouched down next to Cal. “Say something or Min takes you to the ER now.”

  “Did you hear music?” Cal asked, still staring into Min’s eyes.

  “I really threw that sucker,” Bentley said.

  Tony handed Min his car keys. “Go. The Cherry Hill ER is up the road a mile.”

  “I know the way,” Cynthie said, standing. “I have a car.”

  Min helped Cal to his feet, trying to steady him as he lurched, and Tony took his other side.

  “I’ll take him,” Cynthie said. “My car is just—”

  “No,” Cal said as he righted himself. “If I’m going to throw up, it’ll be in Tony’s clunker.”

  “Drive fast,” Tony said to Min, and helped them both to the car.

  Cal lay on the table in the ER, trying to remember what had happened. He’d been staring at Min, watching the breeze flutter the ends of her blouse and tousle her curls, and he’d been telling himself that she was a pain in the ass and that he didn’t want anything to do with her, and then that ball had come out of nowhere and—

  “Cal?” Min said, leaning over him. The fluorescent light above backlit her hair and she looked like an angel again.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “The doctor said you’re going to be all right,” she said, trying to look cheerful. “I just filled your prescription.” She held up an amber plastic pill bottle. “For the pain. In case you have headaches. Do you have a headache?”

  His head felt like it was in a vise. “Yes.”

  She opened the bottle and dumped out two pills into her palm. “Here,” she said, handing them to him. “I’ll get water.”

  Cal thought about telling her that he’d already had a pain pill and then decided that since the damn thing wasn’t working, two more would be good.

  “You scared me,” she said, when she came back with the water. “You got hit in the head. People get killed that way. I don’t know how many a year. I haven’t had time to look it up.”

  Cal propped himself up to take the pills. “Bentley,” he said bitterly.

  “I’m sure he’ll be sorry,” Min said. “When he gets over how hard he threw the ball.”

  “Little bastard,” Cal said without heat. “Was there music? I could swear I heard—”

  “—Elvis Costello singing ‘She.’” Min nodded. “You did. Some kids had it on a radio. Which is weird because I don’t think it gets a lot of airplay. My sister’s using it in her wedding.” She sounded as if she were babbling, which was so unlike Min that Cal chalked it up to his general dizziness. “I called Bink on her cell and told her you were okay and I was taking you home.”

  “Your sister likes Elvis Costello?” Cal said.

  “No,” Min said. “My sister likes music from Julia Roberts movies.”

  “Oh,” Cal said and focused on her. “You cut your hair.”

  “Diana took me to her stylist,” Min said. “To go with the new clothes. I did what you said.”

  “I didn’t tell you to cut your hair.” His eyes dropped to her blouse, looking through the thin fabric to the equally thin camisole underneath, and he almost fell off the table.

  “Easy,” Min said, breathless as she tried to prop up his weight, and he looked down the open neck of her blouse and saw pink lace under the camisole.

  “Pink,” he said.

  “Oh, good, you’re feeling better,” Min said, relief in her voice. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  “Okay,” Cal said. “I like your hair.”

  Half an hour later, Min pulled up in front of Cal’s apartment, having followed his increasingly groggy directions. “Let’s go,” she said, and opened the car door for him.

  “I can get up there myself,” Cal said, weaving a little as he got out. “Take the car—”

  “You’re not going up there alone.” Min pulled his arm across her shoulders. It felt good there, if heavy. “My mother raised me better than that.”

  “Well, then you’re going up first so you can’t look at my butt.”

  “There’s an elevator, Charm Boy,” Min said, kicking the door shut behind them. “Move it.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, and she stopped so he could get his bearings, but he put his hand on her curls again, patting them. “Springy.”

  “Right,” Min said and herded him upstairs to a white, slightly battered apartment that looked like something he would have lived in during college. She steered him through a living room furnished with Danish modern furniture that would have made all of Denmark cringe, into an even bleaker, uglier bedroom. “How are you feeling?” she said as she guided him toward his headboardless bed.

  “Better,” he said, sounding groggy. “The drugs kicked in and I’m not coaching baseball.”

  “There you go,” she said, “Always a bright side.” She shouldered him toward the bed, and he bounced when he sat down.

  “You’re a lot more aggressive than I thought you’d be.” He fell back onto the pillows, but his feet still hung off the side.

  “You’re a lot heavier than I thought you’d be,” Min said, and realized that was probably because he moved so well when he was conscious. Semiconscious, he moved like a lurching glacier. She pulled off his Nikes, and her heart skipped a beat. “You’re an eleven-D.”

  “Yes,” Cal said, sleepily. “Tell me that proves I’m a beast. You haven’t said anything lousy to me all day.”

  “Elvis wore an eleven-D,” Min said, and Cal mumbled, “Good for him.”

  She picked up his feet and threw them on the bed, and then realized that he was way too close to the edge; if he rolled off in his sleep, he’d hit his head on the battered bedside table. She shoved at him to get him to the center of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” he said, half asleep as she tried to rock him over.

  “Trying to keep you safe,” she said between her teeth as she put one knee on the bed and shoved again. “Roll over, will you?”

  He