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
n 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.
Chapter 10
Needless to say, I missed the real fireworks.
I woke up to find some hottie leaning over me. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
I wondered if he was just here for the summer and needed a family to live with. Hadn’t I seen a recent headline: FAMILIES NEEDED TO HOST HOTTIES?
“Two,” I replied. I realized I was lying on the grass. Hottie was on one side, Dad on the other.
“What day is it?” Hottie asked.
“Tuesday.”
“What’s your name?”
“Is the game over?” I asked.
“For you it is. What’s your name?”
“Did we win?”
“Honey, tell the guy your name,” Dad said.
“Dani Runyon.”
“Good girl,” Dad said, patting my shoulder.
“Woof, woof.”
Dad laughed. “She does that whenever I say ‘good girl.’ She says it sounds like I’m praising a dog. So she’s okay, right? She remembers our little inside joke.”
I thought he had tears in his eyes. Why would he?
“Yeah, she seems to be,” Hottie said, “but you probably should take her to the hospital for a thorough exam. She’s okay to transport in a car. We can take her in the ambulance, but you’ll get billed for it, when it really doesn’t seem to be necessary.”
So Dad took me to the hospital. I’d never been to an ER before. I couldn’t figure out why they called it an emergency room, because no one moved like anything was an emergency.
And the hard plastic chairs were so uncomfortable. I lay my head against the pillow of my dad’s arm.
“You gave me quite a scare there,” Dad said, holding my hand. His hands were rough and calloused from all the building he did. I loved them. They were incredibly comforting.
“I didn’t know getting hit with a ball could knock you out,” I said.
“If it hits just right, sure. That’s the reason the city always has an emergency response team at the game. You never know, and we don’t need lawsuits.”
The lights were bright and hurting my eyes, so I closed them. “I didn’t see much of the game. What do you think of the team?”
“I think we’ve got some talent this year.”
“How ’bout Jason? How’d he do pitching?”
“Did good. Tired out in the fourth. They got a couple of hits off him. It happens.”
“Did you call Mom and tell her? Not about Jason. About me.”
It seemed like my thoughts were zigzagging all over the place. I couldn’t concentrate on one subject for long.
“Yes. She was going to come over here, but I told her not to worry. It’s just routine.”
“Is that why it’s taking so long?”
“Probably.”
We actually sat for almost an hour and a half before they called us into the examination room. Apparently since I was lucid, I was considered nonpriority. It was after eleven when I was released with a list of things to watch out for. (Number one on the list being inability to wake me up; yeah, being dead might be a bit of a problem.)
I was hoping Bird had my tote bag, because I so didn’t want to have to get a new driver’s license picture taken with this huge knot just above my brow.
Once we were in the car, and Dad had called Mom to let her know we were on our way home, he’d let me borrow his cell. I called Bird. The party was still going—I could hear it in the background—but no way was Dad going to let me go.
“Did we win?” I asked as soon as Bird answered.
“You bet. Six to two. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’ll live, but Dad won’t let me come to the party.”
“Bummer. I want to see you, make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. Just have a headache.”
“I didn’t even see the ball until it hit you.”
“I didn’t see it, period.”
“I’ve never seen anyone pass out before. It was scary, Dani.”
“It’s something I definitely don’t want to do again.”
“Just a second, babe,” I heard her say, then, “Brandon said to tell you the guy who hit the ball felt really bad.”
“Babe?” I repeated.
“Yeah, we’re sorta progressing. He kissed me,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“That didn’t take long,” I said.
Bird believed I took thinking too seriously, while she was more impulsive. When we went shopping, it took me forever to decide whether or not to make a purchase. She made her decisions in a split second. I want, I buy. She was amazing to watch.
“I thought the whole point of your plan was to get a boyfriend for the summer.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s working out for you, because it sure isn’t working for me.”
“The season just got started, and you sure got noticed tonight.”
“That’s not the way I wanted it to happen.”
“Are you sure your dad won’t drop you off at my house?”
“Just a sec.” I held the phone to my shoulder. “Dad—”
“Sorry, kiddo. Your mom would have a fit.”
How did he know what I was going to ask before I asked?
I sighed and put the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, Bird. Did you happen to grab my tote bag?”
“Yeah. I’ll give it to Jason. He’s getting ready to leave, anyway. I’ll check with you later.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I closed the phone.
“There’ll be other parties,” Dad said.
Yeah, maybe.
When we got home, Mom was waiting for us. In typical Mom fashion, she overreacted, rushed up to me, and looked at my forehead as though she’d never seen one before. Although in all honesty, she might never have seen a knot the size of a golf ball growing out of my head like some alien creature.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine. I’m totally up for going to Bird’s party.”
“I don’t think so. Not this late. How could you not see a baseball coming at you?”
“It happened so fast.”
“Are you hungry? I could fix something—”
She had to really be worried if she was offering to cook.
“Domino’s is still delivering,” she finished.
“I’m not hungry, Mom, just tired. My head’s kinda hurting.”
“Sleep late in the morning.”
She said it like it was a gift, when in reality, I had nothing to do except sleep late.
She kissed me on the cheek, and Dad patted my shoulder as I passed by him. But once I got upstairs, I didn’t feel like going to bed. I was totally bummed that my night had turned out like it had.
I went into the game room and sat on the love seat. It was actually two rocking recliners joined on one side, so two people could sit on it somewhat independently. Recline or rock. Each had a choice. Before reclining, I grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and started flipping through channels.
Five hundred channels, and I couldn’t find anything fictional of interest. Incredible. I settled on ESPN, low volume. Closed my eyes.
Let my thoughts drift.
I imagined Jason on the mound, preparing for the windup. He had pregame and at-bat rituals. He’d have a ritual at the mound. I didn’t think he was a spitter or a jockstrap shifter. His hat. In my mind, I watched as he adjusted his hat, leaned forward, studied the position and stance of the batter, sighted the catcher’s glove—
I heard one of the French doors click open, figured it was Tiffany coming to check out my latest fashion statement, and became a little irritated that she was interrupting my dream, but when I opened my eyes, I discovered Jason standing there.
He’d obviously showered after the game, before going to the party. He was wearing jeans and a Ragland Rattlers souvenir T-shirt. They often tossed them up into the stands for the fans. I guess they gave them to the players, too.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Okay. Just a little headache. The party ended kinda soon, didn’t it?”
“It’s still going on. I’m not really a party animal.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I thought all college students partied.”
He shrugged. He was holding my tote bag and a Ben & Jerry’s paper bag. He set my bag on the coffee table. “Bird asked me to bring that to you. The ball that hit you is inside. All the guys signed it.”
“Really?” I asked, pleased they’d cared enough to do it, even though it was only a small thing. I’d buy a holder for it and put it right next to my treasured Babe Ruth ball.
“Sure. No big deal.”
“And what’s in the paper bag?” I asked in anticipation. I kept a carton of ice cream in the freezer, but it was at its best when it was freshly scooped out, packed down.
Jason held it toward me, somewhat self-consciously. “I stopped by that ice-cream shop on the way home. Thought you might need a little…special medicine.”
Sitting up straighter, I smiled. “Chocolate chip cookie dough?”
The Boyfriend League Page 6