1. Jordan

ONE

At first,I think the ripping sound is Boyle letting one rip—no pun intended. It's kind of his thing, which is how he got the nickname Farty Boyle. Though it probably helped that his actual name is Marty.

But there's no stink invading my nostrils or outcry from the guys closest to him. In fact, when I look up, everyone's staring at me.

"It wasn't me," I protest immediately, even though I know that's the dumbest thing I could say. Nobody ever believes that. I mean… he who denied it, supplied it, right?

"Dude," Polly—also known as Brad Polling, our pitcher—grabs my head and turns it toward my arm, "if you're going to deny shit, at least destroy the evidence first."

My confusion lasts for about three seconds before my eyes land on the mega-fucking-huge rip in the sleeve of my suit jacket. "Shit. How'd that happen?" And is Coach going to make me wait here until the area around the stadium is abandoned so nobody can see me leave? The season hasn't even started yet—today's preseason friendly barely got any turnout—so maybe he'll relax the stupid suits-must-be-worn-on-game-day rule. The athletics department must have been eating shrooms when they came up with that piece of bullshit.

"Did you snag it on something?" Laringo asks, and I shrug, then wince when I feel the gap widen.

"Don't think so, but I'm gonna take this off before I make it worse." They all watch while I wrestle my way out of the jacket, unfortunately making the hole bigger even though I'm trying to be careful.

"Why is it so tight?" Boyle shakes his head. "You trying to prove something?"

I roll my eyes. "I've got nothing to prove. Just ask your mom."

The guys jeer and laugh—including Boyle—and I turn my jacket to look at the rip in the sleeve. Polly bends his head closer, blocking the light. "Pol, you mind?"

"Sorry." He straightens. "Good news, that's just the seam ripping. It can be repaired." His dad's a tailor, so he's become our resident expert on things like this. Every year, he does a thirty-minute how-to-sew-on-buttons session for incoming freshmen players. Coach hates for us to look sloppy.

"Great." I don't sound enthusiastic. "Thanks, man. I'll get that done."

He claps me on the shoulder and grabs his duffle, following some of the other guys out. "Don't forget, Shenanigans tonight," he calls over his shoulder. That's the local bar, not an invitation to get up to no good. Though there's a chance we'll do that too.

I flip him a wave of acknowledgment, then go back to getting my stuff together and wondering if I could just sneak past Coach's office without him?—

"Marks? Did I hear someone say you ripped your suit?" Coach's bellow precedes him, and I mentally curse my gossiping teammates. There goes that idea.

"Just the sleeve." I turn to face him as he stomps over. He's not that big of a guy, so fuck knows why he's got such a heavy walk. "I'm going to get it repaired."

He studies it with narrowed eyes. "Make sure it's done before next week," he orders. "And go out the side door."

I resist the urge to pump my fist in victory. "Yes, Coach. Thanks!"

He leaves without giving me another glance, and I yank on a hoodie and grab my shit before he can change his mind. Coach Penney is decent enough, but he doesn't like to show it. I kind of get why—we're middle of the road in the league. We win a few more than we lose, but it's been a long, long time since FU Baseball won any pennants. His career is kind of stagnant.

That's not to say we're not a good team. It's Division 1 baseball, after all. But we're not setting the world on fire, and with the exception of maybe Polly, who gets scouted sometimes, none of us are going to the majors, though I know a few of the guys have plans for the minors and hopes to work their way up from the farm teams. Not me.

I make my way as quietly as possible past Coach's office, in case he changes his mind, then out the side door. Nobody ever waits here, because the dumpsters smell like they haven't been washed since the beginning of time. Also, the middle-rank team thing. Girlfriends, family, and friends are usually the only ones who wait for players after our games. Sometimes the occasional little kid whose parents brought them to the game for a day out. I like that it's low-key. As much as I love playing ball, I don't want it to take over my whole life. During the season, my weekends aren't my own, and I know the big leagues would only be worse. I'm going to enjoy it while I'm at school, and then when I graduate I'll find a rec league or something. Baseball is going to be my hobby and something I love for my whole life—not the thing my whole life revolves around.

But that's a few years off yet, and in the meantime, I have to follow the school's rules—and Coach's—or I'm off the team, and that's something I don't want.

Back at the dorm, I dump my bag and collapse onto my bed, then dig out my phone. I need to find a tailor to repair my jacket, and I need them fast. It's after four on a Saturday, which means I'm probably shit outta luck, but I can at least find one to call tomorrow. Or… will they even be open tomorrow? Do I have to wait until Monday? How am I supposed to know all this stuff?

Faced with unanswerable questions, I do what any self-respecting nineteen-year-old does: I call my dads.

Uncle Luke—my adoptive dad—picks up on the first ring. "Are you in jail or on fire?"

Rolling my eyes, I reply, "I know you think that's funny, but I do call you. A lot. More than most of my friends call their parents."

He snorts. "Jordan, I've met most of your friends, and that's not the flex you think it is. Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker so Grant can hear us."

I wait, smiling a little. Ever since I can remember, Uncle Luke has been a constant in my life. I was eleven when he met—or re-met—Grant, but since then, there've been two men in my life I can rely on no matter what.

"Hey, Jordan," Grant calls a second later. "Do you need money?"

I open my mouth to indignantly deny it, then pause. Do I? No, my bank account is still good. "Why are you both like this?" I whine.

"You love us. So what's up?"

"What do you mean, what's up? Can't a guy just call his dads to check in, see how things are?" I'd feel guilty that I'm not actually doing that, but… nah.

"Sure he can. You're not, though," Uncle Luke says. His voice sounds like he's laughing, and I try to picture them. At this time on a Saturday, they're probably not doing much, or getting ready to go out for dinner. They're both workaholics, but they agreed years ago that if they were going to work weekends, it would be mornings only. Afternoons and nights are family time. They might be on the couch with the TV on, Grant's head in Uncle Luke's lap.

They still live in the house we rented when we first moved to Joyville, but I don't think they'll be there much longer. I get the feeling they're waiting for me to finish college and get settled, and then they'll leave Joyville. The new CEO at Joy Inc. has been grumbling a lot lately about Uncle Luke not being based out of head office in LA, and Grant's hit the ceiling in his career unless he moves someplace bigger. Neither of them wanted to uproot me—or Mila, before she left for college—so they've made it work, but now that we're both adults, they need to put themselves first.

I don't say any of that, though. "This isn't encouraging me to call you more often," I warn. "If I'm gonna be treated like this every time, maybe I'll start calling you less."

They both laugh, damn them, but I can't hold back my grin.

"It's a parent's job to make their kid feel bad about not calling enough," Uncle Luke reminds me. "Just like it's your job to call as infrequently as possible."

"Why aren't you busy, anyway?" Grant adds. "It's still afternoon there—don't you have a preseason game today?" Grant played ball in college, and when I showed skill and love for the game, he helped foster that. Even though he and Uncle Luke were barely dating at the time, he used to show up to all my Little League games and spent hours practicing with me in the backyard.

"That's done. We won." There's an edge of pride in my voice. We were playing Long Beach today, and they've got a pretty good team.

"Congratulations!" Uncle Luke sounds thrilled, even though the game doesn't really count. My childhood was messy at times, but he kept me and Mila grounded.

"Are your stats up online yet?" Grant asks, and even though he can't see me, I shrug.

"Maybe. But anyway, the thing is, I ripped my suit and now I need a tailor." I pause. Do I need a tailor? I know tailors make clothes, but do they repair them? "Or a repair place."

"How did you rip your suit?" Uncle Luke asks.

"Dunno. I put the jacket on, and it just ripped. Polly says it's on the seam and can be fixed," I parrot.

Uncle Luke makes a little hmm noise, and Grant says, "Told you he'd bulked up."

"What?"

"When you came home for Christmas, Grant thought you'd put on some muscle," Uncle Luke explains. "Is the jacket tight? What about your shirts?"

I think about it. "Uh, I guess? It's a lot harder to get on and off now, anyway. I just thought it'd shrunk or something." This makes more sense, though. I have been working out more since Nina, my girlfriend, broke up with me last November. A guy's gotta work off that excess energy somehow, and casual hookups only go so far.

"You thought it'd shrunk," Grant repeats. "Have you been washing your suit?"

"No," I scoff. Shit, was I supposed to? My dads get their suits dry cleaned, so I just assumed I wasn't supposed to wash it.

"Then how would it have shrunk?"

Uh. "Good question," I mutter, and they laugh again. "So anyway, do I need a tailor for this, and how do I find one? Because if it's not fixed before the next game, Coach is going to give birth to unicorns."

"Why unicorns?" Uncle Luke asks curiously.

"Eh, he can't be giving birth to kittens when he gets all ragey. They're too little and cute. Unicorns have those big pointy horns, though, and that would make a guy scream like Coach does."

"Oh my god, you had to ask," Grant mutters.

"If your jacket and shirts are tight, you're better off just getting a new suit," Uncle Luke advises, ignoring the pointy-horned birth. "There's no point repairing it if you're not planning to lose muscle. Which you won't, with the season starting soon."

That's true. Even if I stop the extra workouts, I tend to bulk up a little during the season. The extra muscle helps build stamina. "So I don't need a tailor, then?"

"Nope. How long have you had that suit, anyway? I can't remember when you bought it."

"Sure you do. You took me to buy it."

There's a stunned little pause, then Uncle Luke demands, "Are you telling me that's the same suit I got you for Homecoming your junior year?"

"Yep." When would I have bought another? And why?

"I just assumed you bought a new one when you went to college and needed one for dress code. How does it still fit you?" he exclaims.

"It doesn't," Grant deadpans.

"Hey, it was fine until now," I defend my poor suit. It's been through some tough times and deserves some respect. Though… this last year or so, it's been a little short at the wrists and ankles. But it was fine.

"I doubt that very much," Uncle Luke says dryly. "You need a new one. And some shirts, if you're still wearing the ones we bought with the suit." He sighs. "A couple of ties, too. Don't wear the same one every time, Jordan."

This is starting to sound complicated. "Okay, so… do you think you can get them to me before Saturday?"

Another little silence.

"Excuse me?"

"Like, I know you've gotta work, but if you call the store and tell them what you need, can they ship it express?"

Grant snickers. "I'm going to let you handle this and go crack open the whiskey."

"Make mine a double," Uncle Luke tells him. "Yes, Jordan, I'm sure they can, but that's not what's going to happen."

I don't get it. Why not?

"What if we pay them extra?"

"Oh boy," he mutters. "Kid, listen carefully. This is what we're going to do."

I smile in relief. Uncle Luke has a plan. I knew he would.

"I'm going to tell you how much I love and miss you, then go enjoy a drink with my husband while we wait for Jason and Dimi to come over for dinner. You are going to find somewhere near you that sells suits, and then you're going to go there and ask a salesperson for help buying a suit, shirts, ties—are you still wearing the same dress shoes?"

"Uh…"

"Okay, so get new shoes too. Put the whole lot on the emergency credit card. Got it?"

Panic wells up in me. "What places sell suits? Like, am I looking for a suit shop? A designer? Those fancy places where you need an appointment intimidate me, Uncle Luke."

"Then don't go there," he says patiently. "In fact, I'd prefer you didn't. That credit card has a limit. You'll be able to find suits at a good menswear store."

"And where do I find one of those?"

He sighs. "Did someone hit you in the head with a bat today? Should you be following concussion protocol?"

What? "No, of course?—"

"The mall, Jordan. Go to the mall. Find a menswear store. Ask the salesperson for help. If you get lost at the mall, find an information desk and get directions. Understood?"

Ohhhhh. "There's no need to make it sound like I'm an idiot."

"Uh-huh. I love you and miss you, kid. Call more often, okay?"

Warm feelings rush through me. "Love you, too, Uncle Luke. Hugs to you and Grant, and say hi to Jason and Dimi for me."

I end the call and toss my phone aside. Okay, new plan. Tonight, Shenanigans with the team. Tomorrow, sleep off my hangover and go to the mall.

I've so got this.