Almost Home

Chapter Eleven

In exactly one win, we'll be in the championship where, as far as I know, if we can defeat the team that had previously defeated us - twice, as it's a double elimination tournament - we'd win the championship.

I have all the faith in the world that we can do it and so does Easton.

He'd told me half a million times.

Today, though, is an off-day and although I'm tired enough to just stay at the hotel and rest up for our next day, Lydia has never been one to sit still for very long.

"Is there a mall in this city?"

"I'm sure there is."

"Let's go to it, then," she's lying on her stomach on her bed, a pillow tucked under her head and her cell phone held tightly in her hand.

"Why can't we just stay here?"

"Because we're only here for another week and I want to enjoy it," she states, simply, "Come on, let's do something."

Unfortunately, when Lydia sets her mind to do something, I don't stand a chance, so with a final sigh, I stand and follow her to the mall.

It's big, as most malls are. There's three floors total, though the entire top floor is taken up by the food court.

"How's this?"

Upon arriving at the mall, before I'd had time to protest, Lydia had steered me into a clothing store, finding a shirt within twenty seconds and holding it up against herself.

It's cute - a pale pink tank top with a flowery kind of design running across the side of the stomach, looped up around to the opposing chest side.

"Easton would hate it," I laugh, aloud, as I look at it, my mind immediately flitting to when he turned down my pink dress because he didn't like the color.

As soon as I say that, though, without waiting on Lydia's response, I turn and head towards the athletic clothes tucked into the corner.

Much more my style.

I find a few shirts that I like, all of which I picture myself playing softball in to make sure that they're good.

After holding them up against myself, I even buy a few.

"That one's cute," Lydia comments on the last one I place on the check-out desk, "It brings out the color of your eyes."

Because my eyes are brown, I know that there's no color that brings them out, but I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.

After we walk out of the store, Lydia holding a couple bags and me holding a single one, I make it a point to drag her into the sports store.

For all she had put me through in her store, she owes me.

"What do you think about this one?" I mock her, weighing a bat out in my hands, leaning it against my shoulder, "Does this bat compliment my eyes?"

It's the newest design - black with orange stripes up its side and a black handle.

"No," Lydia deadpans, glancing up from her phone for half a second to look at it, "It doesn't compliment anything about you actually."

I tap her in the side with the bat and rather react like I figured she would - jump away as dramatically as possible - she only takes a step to the side to avoid it.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I hate sports stores," she says, crinkling her nose enough that her glasses raise slightly, "It smells like burnt rubber in here."