1.
"Jackson."
"Hm."
"Get me a diet Coke."
"I'm busy, Lydia. Chill out."
"You're the one who wanted to take me to this stupid game in the first place," Lydia hissed at him venomously. Lydia did not deem this to be a good date. Her sometimes-boyfriend, Jackson, had acquired some tickets to a stupid Reds game and here they were, crammed in the stands with Lydia going out of her mind with boredom.
She glanced to her right. "Jackson," she snapped. He didn't even look up from his phone. "Would you mind explaining what exactly you're doing?"
"Lydia." He finally looked up from his phone. "If you want a diet Coke so much, get. It. Yourself." And then he went right back to it.
Lydia huffed and fell silent. Sometimes her relationship with Jackson felt a little shallow and contrived. They bickered like this all the time, which she'd always dismissed as little couple fights, but now that she was thinking about it, she couldn't even remember the last time they'd gotten along more than five minutes outside of sex...
"You want mine?"
Lydia turned to her left at the new voice, now taking in the stranger on that side of her that she'd been ignoring completely for the past half an hour.
He had dark brown hair tucked under a cap and tawny-coloured eyes to match, a gently sloping nose, and dark eyebrows currently hopefully arched up. His smile was a little lopsided but with unbridled enthusiasm, making his adorable cheekbones poke out of his face more prominently. Letting her eyes flicker down his form, she noted his scrawny looking frame. But then again the hands that were holding his unopened can of pop out to her were long-fingered and attractive.
He wasn't her usual type, but she could admit he was cute.
After thoroughly and without shame checking him out, she asked him plainly, "Is it diet?"
His smile fell slightly. "Oh. Um, it's regular Coke."
She rolled her eyes with great exaggeration. "Then no. Obviously." She turned away from his gaze. She was very used to men checking her out. She was beautiful, after all; she knew that. That didn't mean she had to encourage them.
Unfortunately, the man on her other side was still not paying any attention to her, even when she tugged at his arm ("just a second, Lydia, Jesus.") and she was left leaning back and folding her arms.
She could still feel the stranger's eyes on her. "Who are you cheering for?" he asked tentatively. He had a nice voice. Kind of low, raspy in a good way.
She considered ignoring him. But he sounded harmless, and her creep radar wasn't going off, and she was bored as hell, and Jackson was a dick, so she responded.
"We're here for the Reds," she replied stiffly.
He gaped at her. "The Reds?"
His tone was most disapproving, and Lydia was a little miffed. "And you're cheering for..."
"The Mets," he exclaimed proudly, tipping his cap (which Lydia could now see the Mets insignia emblazoned on) and pointing at his blue and orange jersey. "I've been a fan since I was a little kid." Then he mumbled, "I thought I was right about you."
She heard him. "What do you mean, exactly?"
He looked stricken at being caught. "Well, I just thought, that since you're- you're really beautiful, and perfect, that you must cheer for the Mets. Because they're obviously the better team."
