The Boyfriend League (5 page)

T
uesday afternoon I was at my desk, working on my column, when I heard Jason come home from work. I heard him go into his room and shut the door. I thought about crossing the hall, just to say hey. That would be the polite thing to do.

Only if we were supposed to treat him like family, then I should really ignore him. After all, I never went out of my way to welcome Tiffany home.

I heard Jason open his door, heard his footsteps in the hallway, then on the stairs. I wondered if he was going to raid the kitchen, but that made no sense. He'd just gotten off from work, and I'd overheard him mention to Mom that she didn't need to worry about feeding him
when he worked, because he got a free meal when he finished his shift.

Mom and Dad were both still at work. Tiffany was off cutting the ribbon at the grand opening of an appliance store, which meant it was just Jason and me. Tonight was the season opener, and for all I knew, he might be nervous about it. Maybe he'd want someone to talk to.

I closed my file and went in search of him. He wasn't in the living room or the family room. Not in the kitchen, either.

Then I heard a sound in the laundry room. The washing machine starting its churning cycle. I'd used it a couple of hours earlier. I'd even used the dryer. Unfortunately, I had a bad habit of not retrieving my clothes until I needed them, which meant they were still there.

I looked into the laundry room. Sure enough, Jason had put a laundry basket on top of the dryer, and he was holding a pair of my panties—a red, lacy low-cut pair—like he thought they had the potential to bite him.

He must have heard me in the doorway, because he looked at me, his cheeks turning the
same shade as my underwear. “I need to get my uniform washed…and dried. I'm not sure who these clothes belong to or what I should do—”

I stepped into the room, and without actually claiming the underwear as mine, I snatched them from between his fingers and tossed them into the laundry basket. “Yeah, I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks.” He backed off like they were radioactive. He was wearing a ratty T-shirt and faded gym shorts, the kinds of clothes I usually wore when I was trying to get everything washed on the same day. Except even with ratty clothes on, he looked good. Comfortable. Snuggleable. Yeah, he definitely looked like a guy that a girl would want to snuggle against.

“We all do our own clothes around here,” I said inanely, pulling the rest of my clothes out of the dryer and dumping them in the basket.

“That's cool. Same goes at my house. It's just that most of the underwear is boxers or briefs. Definitely very little…lace.”

I looked over at him. “Because you've got three brothers. No sisters?”

“No sisters. I'm discovering it's way different living with girls in the house.”

“It's different having another guy in the house, too. I'm not sure Dad even comes into the laundry room unless one of the machines isn't working. Otherwise, Mom does his laundry.”

Could we have a more boring conversation? I was beginning to understand why Tiffany fixated on orphans as a topic. It ensured she didn't spend time talking laundry. That was worse than discussing the weather.

“Sorry about leaving the clothes in the dryer. I didn't realize you'd need to do laundry so soon.” As a courtesy I started to clean the lint filter.

“I probably should have said something. I always wash my uniform before a game.”

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him.

He shifted his stance, as though suddenly very uncomfortable with his confession.

“Ballplayers have pregame rituals. That's mine. Washing my uniform,” he explained.

“What do you do when you have a double header?”

His cheeks turned red. “Wash it twice.”

“Do you wash and dry it, then wash and dry it again, or do you wash it twice, dry it once?”

“Look, I'm not obsessive-compulsive like some guys. I just like to go to the game in a uniform that's as fresh as it can be.”

Which wasn't really an answer to my question, but I let it slide. “Okay, sure. I understand.” Although I didn't really.

He gave a brisk nod, and I knew even before he spoke that a change in topic was coming.

“It was really nice of your parents to make their house available. I know it's not easy having company all the time. I'm really trying not to get in the way.”

I waved that off. “Hey, we wanted you here. No way would we consider you in the way.”

“Still, I know it has to create some stress, a little fissure in the family routine.”

“Family routine? Please. We have no routine, other than Mom and Dad working all day, Tiffany doing whatever, and me doing this and that.”

Putting his hands behind him, he lifted himself up on the washing machine, while I put the lint filter back into place and tried to decide if I should go ahead and start folding my clothes. No, that would mean making each piece of underwear visible and available for inspection. That was a little too personal.

Really I had no reason to stay.

“So what is this and that?” he asked, giving me a reason. “I mean, what do you do all day?”

“If I told you, I'd have to kill you.”

He laughed. “So, what, like it's all a big secret?”

“Not really. I just always wanted to use that line.”

“So what do you do?”

“Well, I have my own personal summer reading program. I have to read three books a week. Right now I'm reading
Marley and Me
.”

“I read it. It's good.”

“It's going to make me cry, though, isn't it?”

“Probably.”

He seemed amused by that prospect.

“So you just read all day?” he prodded.

“I work on my column for the newspaper.”

Now he seemed impressed. “You write a column for the newspaper? You mean the school paper?”

“Well, I do write for the school paper. I'm actually going to be editor next year, but I also write a column for the local paper. Before you think it's a big deal, you should know the editor is always desperate for filler pieces.”

“But you get a byline and everything?”

I couldn't stop myself from grinning. “Yeah, I get a byline and everything. Thursday morning edition. Weekdays are usually slow days, and I think that's when he's most desperate for news, so my little column fills up what would otherwise be white space.”

“So what do you write?”

“It's called ‘Runyon's Sideline Review,' and I write about things that happen in the stands during different kinds of sporting events, from the perspective of the fan rather than the player. Gives me a reason to go to a variety of events, and I have a press pass so I get in free.” Like I needed a reason.

“You're kidding?”

“I'm serious. For my next piece, I'll probably
reveal the scandalous secrets of the concession stand, since Bird and I are working the first shift tonight.”

He grinned, like I was clever or interesting…or maybe just amusing in a she's-fun-to-talk-to-but-I'd-never-date-her kind of way.

The washing machine went into spin cycle, making a really loud banging noise, and he hopped to the floor.

“It's unbalanced,” I said, like maybe he'd never had to deal with an unbalanced washer before. I know some machines self-balance. Ours doesn't. It actually starts walking across the laundry room, like it's possessed or something.

I lifted the lid and waited for the spinning to stop. There was a big sign on the inside of the lid: DO NOT PLACE HAND IN MACHINE WHILE IT IS IN MOTION. As though I couldn't figure that out on my own.

Okay, apparently guys didn't wash clothes like girls. I sorted. Delicates from nondelicates, darks from lights. Jason had simply stuffed everything into the washing machine. Lights. Darks. Jeans. Socks. Underwear. You name it.
It was a hodgepodge of clothing.

“I can do that,” he said, as though suddenly remembering he had personal items in there.

He was beside me and had his hand in the machine, before I had my hand out. I was sorta blocking his view—at least that's what I figured must have happened—because he grabbed my hand instead of his jeans. His hand was like twice the size of mine and really warm. I felt this tingle travel up my arm and down to my bare toes, making them curl against the tile. Because he'd come around me, my shoulder was sorta curved into his chest. I could smell his leathery scent, and thought I could even smell fried pickles from all the orders he must have carried that day.

I looked up, up into his blue, blue eyes. He was looking down at me, like maybe he was only just seeing me for the first time. His brow furrowed deeply, his lips parted slightly.

I wanted to say something clever, witty, and sexy.

Because this certainly seemed like a kissing moment. If this was a movie, it would have
been. It would have been the moment of awakening, of discovery. He would have lowered his mouth those three inches and kissed me.

But this wasn't a movie. It was more of an awkward moment, and I was pretty sure he was trying to figure out how to get out of it without embarrassing himself further.

Bang!

The back door to the kitchen slammed shut.

“Dani!”

Tiffany.

“Hey, where are you?” she cried out.

I so didn't want to answer. I wanted to stay exactly where I was and see where this moment might lead.

“Oh, there you are,” she said, coming into the laundry room. “What are you guys doing?”

“The washing machine is unbalanced,” I said.

“And it takes two of you to balance it?”

“I was demonstrating the necessary technique,” I said.

“You just shift the clothes around.”

Because I felt like I didn't have a choice, I
pulled my hand out of the machine and stepped back. I watched Jason struggle to move his heavy, wet clothes into a more balanced arrangement. Then he closed the lid. The machine went into a nice humming spin cycle.

“Great job,” I said, smiling at him like he'd accomplished a miracle.

“Thanks.” He was blushing, not really looking at me anymore, but looking at Tiffany.

So much for our almost connected moment.

“You had some news to impart?” I asked Tiffany. “Because it sure sounded like it when you came crashing through the door.”

“I don't crash, but yeah, I have news. They've asked me to sing the national anthem at the July Fourth Rattler's game. Can you believe it?”

“Makes sense. You being Miss Teen Ragland and all.”

“I've decided I'm going to do my own version.”

I stared at her. “Your own version of what?”

“The national anthem. I'm going to sing it in a way that makes it bigger and grander than it is.”

“I hate when people do that,” I said. “It makes it more about the person than the song. ‘The Star-Spangled Banner' should be sung the way Francis Scott Key wrote it.”

“You're just saying that because you're jealous they asked me instead of you to sing it.”

“I can't carry a tune to save my life. Why would I want them to ask me?”

She looked at Jason. “Don't you think she sounds jealous?”

“Don't put him in the middle of this,” I said.

“Whatever. I have an appointment with my voice teacher, so she can help me develop my own style. Tell Mom I won't be home for dinner.”

She flounced—actually flounced—out of the room.

I shook my head. I was
not
jealous, and I really
didn't
like it when people thought they could improve the national anthem.

I looked over at Jason. I was totally embarrassed that he'd witnessed my sister and me arguing. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I'm sort of a purist when it comes to certain things.”

“I hear you. I was at a game once where the
guy sang the last note for two minutes. I kid you not. I was really uncomfortable standing there wishing he'd just finish. Because it is our country's song. And then I felt disrespectful, wanting it to end.” He shrugged, like he still felt uncomfortable that he'd ever had those thoughts.

The washing machine shut off. Wow, we'd been talking through an entire wash cycle. How amazing was that?

I didn't need to see his individual pieces of laundry going into the dryer, so I picked up the laundry basket. “Guess I'd better get these folded.”

“Thanks for the help with the spin cycle,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

I headed out of the room thinking,
Could we sound any more domesticated and boring?

“I
so cannot believe we missed the opening pitch of the season,” Bird said as she tore open another package of wieners and dropped them into the steaming water. “I've never missed the opening pitch—not since the field was first built, not since the collegiate league came to town.”

I poured more popcorn kernels into the popcorn machine. “This is only our fourth year having a collegiate team. So you've seen what? Three opening pitches?”

“The exact number isn't the point. The
tradition's
the point.”

“I don't know why you're complaining. Brandon will probably play the whole game.” First basemen usually did. He and Bird had
talked a couple of times following practices. She really liked him. “Jason is the starting pitcher. He may be off the mound by the time we get out there.”

Although I wasn't supposed to like Jason in the boyfriend kind of way, I was interested in seeing him pitch. And I couldn't stop thinking about that moment in the laundry room when his lips had been so close to mine. What would it be like to kiss him?

“Maybe we should have volunteered for the last shift,” Bird said, bringing me back from the heat of the almost-kiss to the heat inside the concession stand.

“You wanted to see the fireworks after the game.” Last shift did clean-up.

“I love fireworks.”

The fireworks were another tradition. They had them at the opening game, the Fourth of July game, and the final game of the season.

“I know. I do, too.” But I'd hated choosing between watching Jason pitch or seeing the fireworks, between working a shift with Bird or working one without her. Although truthfully, I shouldn't have any decisions to make.
Jason was supposed to be a nonissue.

In the concession stand, we'd been pretty busy in the beginning, as people arriving at the field had wanted to grab eats before heading to the stands.

Ours wasn't a fancy field. A chain-link fence surrounded it. The concession stand was a simple wooden building that looked a lot like the fireworks stands we saw on the side of rural roads when my family took trips across Texas. We had a slight breeze blowing through the open windows and a small, noisy floor fan keeping us cool.

As Miss Teen Ragland, Tiffany was involved in a lot of local fund-raising efforts. Maybe I should talk to her about raising funds to improve the working conditions in the concession stand.

Two host moms were taking orders and handling the money. Not that anyone didn't trust us, but I think they saw Bird and me as the grunt workers. They called out what they needed, and she and I filled the orders: Cokes (in Texas, all soft drinks are called Cokes), water, popcorn, chips, nachos, and the most
popular item, hot dogs. Thank goodness all we had to do to prepare the hot dogs was slap a wiener in a bun and wrap it in foil. A small table near the concession stand housed the mustard and relish, so people could fix their dogs the way they wanted them.

As a rule, I didn't think anything was tastier than a ballpark hot dog, but smelling them cooking for more than an hour was causing me to lose my appetite.

“At least we'll have the party afterward,” Bird said.

Her parents had agreed to let her invite the team to her house for an opening game kickoff party—although we weren't really kicking off the opening game, since the party followed it, but we all knew what it meant. An excuse to party. Of course, she'd invited the host families as well. She hoped most of the parents would be too tired to come.

Suddenly the crowd released an excited roar and thunderous applause.

“What is it?”

“What happened?”

Bird and I asked at the same time. And of
course, no one could see the field, so no one knew, but we kept asking until one of the newer customers, straight from the stands, was able to tell us that Bentley had hit a home run.

Bird didn't know whether to be thrilled for his success or disappointed she'd missed seeing it.

“He'll hit another one before the summer is over,” I said, trying to console her.

“I know.” She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them back down. “I really like him, Dani. Even though we've only talked a couple of times, we have so much in common.”

“Three hot dogs!” one of the moms yelled back to us.

“Two popcorns!”

Using a pair of tongs, Bird grabbed one of the bobbing wieners while I snatched a sack for the popcorn. With an amazing flick and swoop of my wrist, I had it opened and ready so I could scoop popcorn into it.

“What do you have in common?” I asked as I squirted butter over sack one, then sack two of popcorn.

“Baseball, the kind of movies we like to
watch, television shows, music. You name it. Speaking of music, we've been talking about maybe catching a free concert at the amphitheater next week. He hasn't actually asked, but I've been dropping some blatant hints that I was interested. Stephanie says guys are shy about asking unless they know they won't get turned down. So I pretty much have done everything except tattoo it across my forehead. Anyway, if he does ask, do you want to come with us?”

I turned and placed the sacks on the counter, right beside this huge jar of gigantic pickles. Seeing the lengthening line, I tried hard not to frown. Why weren't these people in the stands, where I wanted to be, watching the game? So not fair.

I heard someone order M& M's. I loved the fact that all the candy was within the reach of the moms, so they could hand it out.

Mom One looked back at me. “Where are the Cokes?”

“I didn't know we needed any.”

“Four of 'em. Two Cokes, a Dr Pepper, a 7UP.”

I went to the machine, scooped ice into the
cups, and pressed a cup against the lever. I set the full drinks on the counter.

“Straws?” the guy said.

Obviously he was new to the field. “No straws,” I said. It was too easy for people to toss them on the ground. Then litter patrol had to work that much harder to clean up the area. As much as I didn't like working concessions, it was way better than working litter patrol.

Another call came for popcorn, so I went back to fill a sack, watching while Bird opened another bag of wieners.

“The concert?” she asked. “You want to come with us?”

I shook my head. “I don't want to be a third wheel.”

“And if the fourth wheel is another player? I'm sure I could get Brandon to ask someone. Pick a player. Any player.” She sounded like a magician doing a card trick.

“How pathetic is it that having a player in the house was my idea, and I have to be set up on a blind date?” I asked.

“It's not a blind date. The guys know who you are.”

“Whatever.”

It felt like a blind date setup to me.

Another round of shouting, yelling, and clapping from the crowd drifted toward us. Quite honestly, I couldn't wait for our shift to be over so we could get to where the real action was happening.

It was the bottom of the fourth inning when Bird and I were told to grab popcorn and Cokes—our reward for serving time in concession hell—and get out of the way so the next shift could get to work.

We didn't waste any time heading to the stands. No reserved seating at our little ballpark. Tickets were five dollars—except when they had special dollar nights—and people just sat wherever. Bird and I found some bench space on the third row, right behind the home team batter's warm-up area. As soon as we sat down, we automatically reached into our respective tote bags and pulled out our rattles. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw my dad sitting on the top row—his favorite spot, because it gave him “a bird's-eye view.” I waved at him, before turning around to focus on the game.

Ethan was at bat and Mac was warming up, swinging his bat. He turned around to face the crowd, touched his fingers to his batting helmet, and grinned.

“I think he's grinning at us,” Bird said, wiggling her fingers at him.

Was he? It seemed like he was, but there were so many people in the stands, it was really hard to tell. While this was a small, wooden-bat league and we were a small town, the citizens did support any endeavor the town pursued, so we usually had a good crowd at the games.

“How about Mac?” Bird asked.

“How about Mac what?” Here I was, doing my repeat-question thing again. I really needed to break that habit.

“How about going to the concert with him?”

“Read my lips.
No setup.
”

“I'll feel bad if I leave him at home with nothing to do. I'm supposed to serve as his ambassador, right? So you'll be doing me a favor if you go with us. It'll be a group of us. Just fun. No pressure. No setup.”

“I'll think about it.”

Maybe I'd ask Jason, too. Maybe we'd
make it a whole team thing. Give me a chance to explore options. There were still lots of guys I hadn't yet rated.

Ethan struck out, and Mac went to the plate. First pitch, he hit the ball out to left field. A hard drive that bounced off the Backyard Mania billboard. Several local businesses paid to advertise on the boards that fenced in the outfield. Of course, my dad's business had the biggest.

Tonight we were playing the McKinney Marshals. We watched their left fielder scramble for the ball while Mac made it safely to first base. The score was three to two, our favor, but we could use another run. Narrow leads made me nervous.

The pitcher walked Tyler, almost like it was intentional. Maybe it was. I knew they did that sometimes when a powerful hitter came up to bat, especially if they knew they might be able to get a double play off the next batter.

And the next batter was Jason.

He was a lefty. With the bat held in place beneath his left arm, he lifted the Velcro on his left batting glove, tightened it, lifted the Velcro
on his right batting glove, tightened it, took the bat, and stepped into the batting box. From where I was sitting, I could see his face clearly, the concentration, his grip on the bat.

Like so many other spectators, Bird and I waved our rattles. Our show of support. Then everyone quieted while the pitcher wound up….

Jason just stood there as the ball whizzed past.

A perfect strike.

Come on, come on, come on. Don't strike out.

Jason went through the whole tightening his batting gloves routine again. He stepped into the batter's box.

The pitcher wound up….

Jason swung at the ball and missed.

I knew even the best hitters sometimes struck out. I mean, if hitting the ball was a sure thing, it wouldn't be a sport, but still—

“Strike three!” the umpire yelled after the next ball crossed the plate.

I groaned. Jason's jaw clenched like he really wanted to hit something—the ball would have been nice.

Brandon stepped up to the plate next. With the end of his bat, he touched each corner of the plate, stepped back, stepped forward, touched the center of the plate. Took his stance. The first ball went past.

A ball.

Brandon stepped back, stepped forward, touched each corner of the plate, stepped back, forward, touched the center of the plate. He went into his stance.

I was suddenly aware of Bird gripping my arm.

Crack!

The bat hit the ball and sent it out over left field, out of the ballpark. Another home run. Another home run!

Bird was on her feet, jumping up and down, yelling, hugging me, shaking her rattle. I was yelling and hugging her back. Nothing was more exciting than a home run, even if it wasn't my guy who hit it.

When had I started thinking of Jason as my guy? He wasn't supposed to be
my
guy. He was just the guy living in my house.

Still, I couldn't deny that I wished Jason
hadn't struck out. I was a little embarrassed for him, which was totally silly. Guys struck out all the time. It was part of the game.

Besides, baseball was more than smacking a little ball over a fence. The other team had only two runs, which meant Jason must have done some impressive pitching, which I was certain to get a look at firsthand at the top of the fifth.

The next guy at bat struck out, which ended the fourth inning. Bird and I did another round of frantically waving our rattles to make them clack, the wooden slats imitating the sound of an angry rattler.

“Go, Rattlers! Woo! Woo!” we yelled.

I was excited because I was about to see Jason in action.

Only he wasn't the one walking out to the mound. He wasn't the one winding up and pitching the ball to the catcher. I was totally bummed.

“Looks like Jason is finished for the night,” Bird said.

I bit back a nasty comment, like that her powers of observation astounded me. I knew I
had no reason to take my frustrations out on her, so I simply said, “Yeah.”

“Hey, you'll see him pitch against the Coppell Copperheads tomorrow night.”

“Right. I'm totally cool.”

Even though I knew starting pitchers didn't usually pitch two games in a row.

And I couldn't deny I was disappointed tonight. Brandon and Mac were back on the field. That should be enough. But I really wanted to see Jason play.

Bird nudged me. “So go talk to him.”

“I'm not going to talk to him.”

“Why not?”

“I'm here to watch the game.”

“Oh, come on, Dani. He's probably totally bummed because he struck out. Give him a pep talk. You're hosting him. You need to show him support. Be there for him. Who else does he know?”

“My dad—”

Crack!

I heard the crowd gasp. I looked up. Pain suddenly ricocheted between the front and back of my skull. From far off, I heard Bird
screech, felt hands grabbing me, saw the red, white, and blue fireworks bursting around me, and had a split second to wonder why the game was already over….

Right before the world faded to black.