The Boyfriend League Read online

  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. Brando