“You don’t like the Yankees? They’re like America’s team.”
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at her like she had three eyeballs. “You’re sick, you know that?”
Hailey couldn’t help it. She laughed. “It’s only baseball, Maxwell.”
He slapped a hand against his heart. “Only baseball? Only baseball? That’s only my heart you’re ripping to shreds and throwing on the sidewalk.”
She rolled her eyes and kept walking. “Please tell me you aren’t one of those guys.”
“What guys?” he said, catching up.
“Those guys. The ones who don’t have a life from March to October because they’re either at the ball field or glued to their TVs. The ones who base their year on whether their team wins the pennant, then plot ways to murder their Yankee neighbors when the Yankees take the World Series. Again.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She shook her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing. Dammit, she liked him. More with every passing hour.
As I told my editor this morning (she’s a big Red Sox fan) I scare myself sometimes. I really do. I seriously should have put money on the Yankees to win the World Series.