"Whaddaya think, huh? Is this the best game ever or what??" he asked.
I carefully modulated how I felt about them spending the afternoon destroying planes and grinned. "One thing's for sure, I'll never be able to sit through dull old Major League Baseball again."
"And it sounds like you did so much of that before," he laughed.
"Well, I am a little disappointed," I teased.
"Why?" he asked, puzzled.
"Well, it would be nice if I could find just one thing you didn't do better than everyone else on the planet."
He flashed his special crooked smile, the one he saved for special occasions, leaving me breathless.
"I'm up," he said, jogging off to the depot for another plane.
He played intelligently, keeping his pitches low to the ground, but high enough to be out of reach for Rosalie's swatting tactics, racking up points like lightning before Emmett could lumber over and power-slam it. Carlisle heckled from the sidelines with a booming voice that hurt my ears, but Fredward still managed to outwit even psychic Alice in her rebound-play.
The score constantly changed as the game continued, and they razzed each other like any street aviator317 would as they took turns with the lead. Occasionally Esme would call them to order. The thunder rumbled on, but we stayed dry, as Alice had predicted.
Carlisle was up to pitch, Fredward on the laser, when Alice suddenly gasped. My eyes were on Fredward, as usual :P, and I saw his head snap up to look at her. Their eyes met and something menstrual flowed between them in an instant. He was at my side before the others could ask Alice what was wrong.
"Alice? What's wrong?" Esme's voice was tense.
317. The author based these characterizations on her experiences with the legendary street aviators of Arizona, particularly Lucky Baloo (1923) and Mikey Neutron (1932), who essentially changed how the game was played in their respective eras.