The Boyfriend League (4 page)

“S
o, Bird said you need a ride home,” Jason said.

“Is that okay? Because I could probably find another ride,” I said.

“No problem. Makes sense. We're going to the same place.”

I knew guys who exhibited more enthusiasm while waiting in the dentist's office. Could I feel more like a burden?

While chairs were being shoved back and guys were leaving, I'd been talking to Mac about cheap things to do in town, since we'd run the gamut of free things.

“Thanks for the tips,” Mac said, grinning.

“Sure.”

With my tote bag slung over my shoulder, I
followed Jason out to his car, a black Honda Civic. He beeped his key chain to unlock the doors, and I climbed in. It was early evening, the shadows had begun lengthening, and the car wasn't too unbearably hot. He had cloth seats, which were great, since I was wearing shorts. Mom's Lexus has leather seats, and I've burned myself more than once before the “cooling seats” feature kicks in. That's right. Her seats were actually air-conditioned, a skin saver in north Texas.

“So, do you know the way?” I asked, as Jason pulled into traffic.

“Think so. This street will take me to Haddock. A right on Haddock will take me to Leigh. Your street, right?”

“You got it,” I said.

He glanced my way really quickly, before turning his attention back to the road. “I was surprised to see you at practice.”

“Are you kidding? I'm all about baseball.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Bird and I haven't missed a Rattler practice or game since the town got the team.”

“I've never known a girl who was that into baseball.”

“Well, now you do.”

Tell your friends. Step right up. Meet the most amazing girl you've ever known.

“Your dad's great,” Jason said, in what seemed like an abrupt change of subject.

“Yeah, I like him,” I said.

Jason laughed. A deep rumble that just sorta rolled through the car, rolled over me, made me smile.

Also made me brave. If I wanted him to talk about me to the guys, I needed to give him some ammunition. I needed to do something that would make me a worthy topic of conversation. A little more alone time was needed, and since I'd gone several hours without an ice-cream fix, I pointed toward my favorite ice-cream shop. “Want to stop at Ben and Jerry's? I'll treat.”

Five minutes later, we were sitting in a booth, each of us with a double-scoop cone. Jason was eating Cherry Garcia, and I was eating my all time fave, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. The scoop shop was also my source for lip balm.

“Speaking of my dad,” I said, “Cherry Garcia is his favorite, too.”

Jason looked at me with those blue, blue eyes. He'd raised his sunglasses so they sat on top of his head. “I hope I didn't sound weird, saying what I did about him.”

I shook my head. “I know he's great. I live with him.”

He leaned forward a little bit, resting one forearm on the table, like he needed it for support. “It's just that last night…I felt like I was playing pitch with
my
dad. I've never done that before.”

“You've never played pitch with your dad?” I asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice. I'd played pitch with my dad since my hand was big enough to curl around a ball.

Jason really concentrated on his ice cream. “My dad was never around when I was growing up.”

“Never?”

I couldn't imagine anything more awful. My dad was an incredibly important part of my life.

And why had I suddenly turned into a question repeater? I sounded like some sort of game-show host trying to make sure the contestant understood the question. As a reporter-wannabe, I needed to learn to initiate the questions.

Jason shook his head. “Nope, he took off when I was a kid, after brother number three was born. It's always just been us and Mom.”

“Are all your brothers younger?”

“Yeah, two are twins, a year younger than me, then my third brother is a year younger than them.”

“That had to be hard growing up.”

He shrugged. “Never knew any different, really. Mom was there, Dad wasn't. She used to play pitch with me. I always thought that was cool.”

“That
is
cool. That she made time for you like that.”

“Yeah.”

He concentrated on eating his ice cream, and I wondered if he was thinking about his mom. I couldn't imagine being away from my parents through the summer.

“Why number eleven?” I asked, to fill the silence. In baseball, jersey numbers weren't assigned according to positions. Players could select the number they wanted. “Is it special or random?”

He glanced up. “Nothing too significant, really. I was eleven when I started playing ball, so I asked to have number eleven, like I thought I was going to be eleven forever. And I've just kinda stuck with it over the years.”

Weird. The number on my softball jersey was eight—for the same reason.

“How was work?” I asked to keep the conversation going. Even if it was a downhill direction, movement was movement.

“Okay. Busy. Way too many orders for fried pickles. Apparently people here like to eat out.”

“Oh, yeah. As a matter of fact, I hope you didn't think last night's home-cooked meal was our normal routine.”

He smiled. “Your mom warned me that she has all the local restaurants on speed dial.”

I laughed. “Yeah. It's kinda funny. Every January, her New Year's resolution is to start
cooking meals every night. We're going to eat healthier: fruits, vegetables, low carbs. By the end of the month, she's back to bringing home takeout.”

Then I furrowed my brow, remembering last night's dinner conversation. “When did my mom tell you about her speed dial?”

“Last night, in the hallway, after she came out of your room.”

“You were talking to my mom? I heard you laughing. I thought you were talking to Tiffany.”

“I talked with her a little later. You're the only one in the family I haven't really talked to.”

“Yet, here we are talking.”

“Yep, we're doing that, all right. Since you like baseball, I guess you know what a closer is?”

“Of course.”

“Tiffany doesn't.”

“Tiffany is so not into sports.” She thought a baseball diamond was a type of gemstone. Seriously. Don't even ask how that revelation came up.

“She's interesting, though,” he said. “I don't think I've ever met a beauty pageant contestant before.”

I rolled my eyes. Even here, at my favorite ice-cream shop, Tiffany was getting the attention. “I'm not sure I'd call Miss Teen Ragland a beauty pageant.”

Jason had worked his way through his ice cream and took a bite of the sugar cone. “So what is it?”

Suddenly there wasn't enough cookie dough in my ice cream to keep me happy. What kind of contest was it? Let's see…she was judged on poise, talent, and her love of orphans…oh, yeah, and her beauty. I sighed. “I guess it's a beauty contest.”

“Have you ever entered?”

I couldn't help myself. I laughed at that and held up my hair by the end of the ponytail. “Me, Miss Every-Day-Is-a-Bad-Hair-Day? I don't think so.”

“It's more than hair. I don't think I've ever met anyone who cares as much about orphans as your sister does.”

If he hadn't looked so serious, I would have
burst out laughing again. “Well, there you go,” I said. “Orphans aren't my thing.”

He popped the tip of his sugar cone into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, the entire time studying me like he thought I was suddenly going to change into a bathing suit for the poise competition. When he was finally finished eating, he leaned across the table until I was able to see the blue of his eyes up close.

“What
is
your thing?” he asked.

S
taring into his earnest eyes, I almost told him the truth.

But the way I felt about baseball…it wasn't something I could share with just anyone.

“Movies,” I offered, trying to get my brain to shift into witty conversation mode. “Movies are my thing.”

His brow furrowed. “What, like making them?”

“No, like watching them.”

“So if a judge asked you—”

“Oh, no,” I said, waving my hand to dismiss the direction of his question. “I didn't realize we were still talking about beauty contestant questions.”

Geez, for a moment there, I'd thought he
had a real interest in me, and instead, we were playing some sort of what-if game. I was so glad I hadn't gone into my spiel about my passion for baseball.

“Saving the environment, I guess. If I were a contestant, I'd want to save the environment.”

“But if you weren't in a beauty contest, you wouldn't want to save the environment?”

“No—yes—I don't know. The environment is important. I recycle.” How had we gotten on this insane topic?

“What's your major?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Biology. I want to go into sports medicine.”

“Not pro ball?”

“I'd love to play in the majors, but realistically it's a long shot. I need something to fall back on. How about you?”

“I think the majors is a long shot for me, too.”

He laughed, really laughed. He had a terrific smile.

And I felt like I'd scored a few points.

“No, not the plans for your baseball career. School. What are your plans for school?”

“I've got a year of high school to go, and then I want to major in journalism.”

“Cool. You like to write?”

“Oh, yeah, keep a diary and everything.”

He leaned back in his chair, grinned, and nodded toward me. I expected him to ask if he could read my diary sometime. Instead he said, “Your cone is dripping.”

I glanced down. Somehow ice cream had eaten its way through the tip of my cone and dripped onto my shirt. Great, just absolutely great. With a groan, I told him I'd be back.

I tossed what remained of my ice-cream cone into the trash on my way to the restroom. Of course, there were no paper towels to clean up with…just hand dryers. I rubbed my wet fingers over the ice cream, creating a big wet spot right in the center of my chest.
Oh, yeah, beauty and poise contest, here I come.

I hit the hand dryer and bent down slightly, so the air would hit my shirt. I wasn't too tall, wasn't too short—like the little bear, I was just right. Medium height. Nothing special, nothing
to really make people take notice.

The dryer stopped, and I hit the button again.

By the time I was finished, Jason was no longer sitting in the shop. I found him outside, leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses in place so I couldn't read his expression. My tote bag was resting at his feet. Reaching down, he picked it up. “You left your bag on the bench. It fell over. Some stuff spilled onto the floor, but I think I got it all.”

“Thanks.” I took it from him, noticing that the roster was sticking out. My stomach dropped to the ground. Had he seen the scores?
Not unless he unfolded it.

“I can't believe how much stuff girls carry around,” he said, totally relaxed, as though he wasn't offended, as though he had no idea that Bird and I had been scoring the guys.

Thank goodness.

“We'd better go,” he said.

Yeah, we better, before something as innocent as stopping for ice cream turns into a disaster.

 

“Hey, Jason,” Tiffany said as he and I walked through the door, like she'd been waiting for his arrival.

Jason actually blushed, which I thought was cute. I wasn't sure I'd ever known a guy who was so easily embarrassed by attention.

“I'm thinking of going to a movie,” she said, before we could move past her. “Want to come?”

It was obvious she wasn't including me in that invitation—her gaze was riveted on Jason's face.

“Thanks, but I'm beat,” Jason said. “Practice wore me out. Think I'm going to shower and crash.”

“Maybe another time,” she said.

“Yeah, sure, I'd like that.”

He would? Was it just going to the movie he liked, or did he mean he'd like going with her?

Tiffany watched him head for the stairs like he was her favorite flavor of ice cream. Had she forgotten Mom's rule—no dating the houseguest?

Then she turned to me as though just
noticing I was there. “Ed Morton called.”

“The team manager?” I asked.

“Yep, he wants you to call him back.”

“About what?”

“I don't know. I'm not your secretary.”

Without another word, she hurried up the stairs. I hoped Jason had locked the bathroom door. Knowing Tiffany, she was hoping for an “accidental” locker room preview.

Oops, sorry! Thought this was my bathroom. I'm always confusing the left side of the hallway with the right. Silly me.

I walked into the kitchen where Mom was putting the last of the takeout cartons into the trash. Looked like tonight had been Italian.

“Hey, hon, how was the pizza?”

It suddenly occurred to me Mom had the habit of asking questions that really had no interesting answers. I shrugged. “Great.”

“Good.”

“Where's Dad?”

She tipped her head toward the door that led to the backyard. “Where do you think?”

I went outside. Dad was sitting on a cushiony chair on the redwood deck, sketch pad in
hand, no doubt designing a backyard sports project for a new customer.

“Hey, baby,” he said as I sat beside him.

“Dad, could you not call me baby?”

He finally looked up from his sketch pad. “Sorry. Guess my little girl's growing up.”

I grimaced. “Or little girl?”

He gave me a look that said he knew exactly why I didn't want to be called childish endearments, when I figured he really didn't know at all. What college guy would be interested in a kid? Besides, I was going to be a senior. It was time my parents saw me as I was.

“Want to play a little catch?” he asked.

“No, thanks, Dad. Not tonight. I was just wondering if you knew why Mr. Morton called.”

He shrugged, stuck out his lower lip. “Probably to schedule you for concession stand duty.”

I leaned toward him. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah. Host families are supposed to work the field's concession stand. Since hosting was your idea, I told him to contact you when he needed volunteers.”

I stared at him. “If I'm working the concession stand, how can I watch the games?”

“I don't think you have to work the entire night or every game. The duties are split among the families.”

“But you have a son for the summer. Shouldn't
you
do the concession duties?”

Dad gave me an indulgent grin. “I help with the field maintenance. You need to do your share.”

I opened my mouth to protest, and he held up a finger. “You wanted a ballplayer in the house.”

“Yeah, but I didn't know I'd have to work to have him.”

“You know what your mom always says.”

I groaned. “I know. Nothing ever comes easy.”

“That's right.” He reached over and patted my hand. “Go call Ed.”

“Did you give him Bird's name, too?”

Dad grinned one of those big Bruce Willis grins that crinkled his face. “You bet.”