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Focusing on each stitch helped. The familiar needle manipulations, slipping along the soft yellow fiber restored some sense of normalcy as I settled into my groove and returned my focus to the courtroom.

“Mr. Hernandez, you indicated that the hot dog incident was part of a campaign of harassment. Can you tell the court more about that?”

Hernandez shifted in his seat and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it.

“It started when I moved down from the Mariners for a rehab assignment with the Rainiers. I rented a house down here. One morning, I woke up to see my front lawn all forked up. Literally. Spelled out in plastic forks, it said, ‘you forking suck.’ And that’s when I knew it wasn’t random. Fans get testy when they think you screwed up and want to call you on it, but I didn’t expect to get heat for an injury.”

“Were there any other incidents?” the prosecutor asked.

Hernandez nodded.

“Please share them with the court.”

He scrubbed his hands across his face.

“Mostly little stuff. My trash cans tipped over. A glitter bomb package. That kind of thing.”

“Any other instances you can share with the court?”

Hernandez frowned, gazing across the jury, clearly reluctant to speak. With a deep sigh, he nodded. “There was a … display set up in my front yard.” As if ripping off the Band-Aid, he continued in a rush. “Garden gnomes in baseball gear set up in my grass as if mid-game with bases and everything.”

I suppressed my grin. That sounded like the kind of prank my old teammates would pull. Elaborate and annoying, but harmless.

Hernandez paused, a flush washing up his cheeks.

“They were all mooning the pitcher, which I supposed was meant to be me, in a Yankees uniform.”

“You used to play for the Yankees, but were traded against your will, isn’t that right?” the prosecutor prodded.

For the first time Hernandez appeared truly uncomfortable. Maybe annoyed. Slowly, he nodded.

“You must answer aloud for the court,” Judge Ye reminded him.

Hernandez leaned forward. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hernandez. You can be excused.”

Hearing how some dipshit terrorized a neighborhood didn’t exactly leave me feeling favorable to the defendant in the wake of Ted’s collapse. Sure, the pranks were stupid, but crashing a truck was more than a practical joke. I’d faced my share of harassment from fans when I played. Mostly harmless, it always had the potential to turn ugly. Sympathy for Hernandez washed through me. He’d been both demoted to the farm team and hassled over an injury he couldn’t control.

I couldn’t help sneaking glances at Andi, seated inches in front of me, as the defense cross-examined Alex Hernandez. Her soft curls smelled citrusy and made me think of sunshine and warmth. She invited connection, drawing you in with her soft smile and warm brown eyes. That glint of mischief never failed to capture my imagination. Andi sparkled. She lured you into a relaxed state with her friendliness, then cut in with something witty, and I’d forget all over again that I wasn’t supposed to be falling for her.

It was lust, not love. You couldn’t love someone you’d barely talked with. And my friendship with Jimmy meant more to me than a quick tumble with his sister. He’d become my closest friend when Jess had defected with Dean, and I couldn’t afford to lose more people in my life. It still chapped my ass that I’d been dumped by not only my fiancé, but effectively my whole team and friend group.

One bad day had ended my soccer career and my engagement.

I’d already proven that any attempt at capturing Andi’s attention couldn’t last. She’d only approached me when she was already horny on Crown and that had more to do with the liquor than me. Since that night at Haven, she’d avoided me, choosing to hang out with whoever she dragged along to trivia to join their team. Apparently, I was easy to forget. Sure, she’d banter with me if given the opportunity, like last night. She was always up for a challenge, but I had to wonder if that was all I’d been to her: a challenge.

I let the soft clack of my needles soothe my errant thoughts and focused on the proceedings as Hernandez was excused from the stand and Judge Ye swore in Hernandez’s neighbor.

Mrs. Larson looked fragile behind the witness stand, but the tracery of purple veins under paper-thin skin appeared at odds with her rigidly straight spine. Her sharp eyes seemed to take in everything about the courtroom.

“Mrs. Larson, can you tell us about the events on the night in question?” the prosecutor asked.

“You mean the night the local police accused me of hysteria? Or the one when they figured out I was right, and there really was a rogue reindeer in the neighborhood?”

The prosecutor’s eyes wrinkled like he wanted to smile, but he maintained a smooth façade. Mrs. Larson reminded me of some of our crotchetier callers. Just because their stories sounded wild didn’t mean they weren’t true.

“Let’s start with the night of September fifth. What’s the first thing you recall?”