White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) by Samantha Christy Page A

makes an incredible throw to home plate, omitting the cut-off man, putting the ball directly into the catcher’s mitt just in time for him to get the tag.
    “Heeeeee’s OUT!” yells the umpire, as he makes the signal with his arms, prompting massive cheers and high-fives from most of the stadium.
    Griffin springs up from his seat and all but climbs over the people in front of us. “Better have your fucking eyes checked, Blue. I could tell from here, he was under the tag.”
    Everyone in our section turns to us, looking at Griffin’s uncharacteristic outburst. Several fans light-heartedly disagree with Griffin’s statement. I’m not so nice about it, however. “ You need to get your eyes checked. He was clearly tagged at least a foot off the plate.” We’re still standing, so I put my hands on my hips for emphasis. “And why is it okay for you to cuss?” I raise my brows at him.
    I push aside the realization that I secretly like the fact that he spontaneously cusses, too. Some guys sound crass or childish when they cuss, but the way he does it makes my insides tingle.
    He ignores my question. “The guy was safe!” he argues, loudly.
    “No, he wasn’t!”
    “And you’re the expert?”
    “I have eyes. It was the right call, Griffin.” I point my finger at the catcher. “He has an impeccable record. He hasn’t missed a tag at home in thirteen games.”
    Griffin stares at me in wonder. Then his eyes harden once again. “What the fuck does that matter? Just because he’s good, doesn’t mean the call should go his way. The guy was safe, Sky.”
    “He was out!” I shout in his face, not even caring that I had onions on my hot dogs. “So fucking out. And don’t call me Sky.”
    “Don’t say fuck!” he shouts back at me.
    The seats in the stadium are spacious, but we’re standing with mere inches between us as we yell back and forth. We continue shouting ridiculous absurdities at each other until we realize everyone else is sitting back down and we’re the only ones still standing. And all eyes are on us.
    Our eyes simultaneously go wide and I could swear I see the hint of a blush cross over his face. I hastily sit down and he follows, crossing his arms in a huff, clearly still pissed off about the call. Or our argument. Or both.
    I hear a low belly chuckle come from behind me. I turn my head to see an older man with a burly white beard. He’s wearing a Yankees cap and a large foam finger. “How long y’all been married?” he asks.
    Griffin chokes on the sip of beer he was taking. He looks at the guy and then back at me and I’m sure I’m bright red. He shakes his head. “We’re not married.”
    “Oh.” He looks back and forth between us. “Well, you sound just like me and Bess did forty years ago. Ya got that same fire in ya for each other. Maybe someday you’ll be expecting your sixth grandbaby like we are.”
    I vehemently shake my head at the man. “No, we’re not together. He’s married.” Foam finger guy raises a questioning brow. “To my best friend,” I add. He shakes his head and chuckles as he puts his hands up in defeat and leans back into his seat.
    I open my mouth to explain, but Griffin puts a gentle hand on my knee and shakes his head. I know what he’s telling me. It’s not worth trying to explain to the stranger. Our situation is complicated. How it must look to other people can be confusing. Just wait until the pregnancy is showing—we’ll really start to turn heads then. I roll my eyes, silently agreeing with Griffin. He removes his hand from my knee and I’m all too aware of just how much I miss it.
    There are several more controversial calls in the game, but quite conspicuously, Griffin and I remain silent. We simply eye each other and laugh. Fortunately the ‘bad’ calls evened out in the end. And although my team won by two runs, Griffin doesn’t whine about it, so I decide not to gloat.
    All in all, it was a fantastic game. If you take the fight out of