10. Jordan

TEN

Of all thepeople for Xera to befriend at a game, she had to find Blaise and Calla. Mostly I don't believe in fate, but then when people meet in weird coincidences like this, I wonder if there might be something there after all.

I wasn't that surprised to see Blaise in the crowd. Okay, I was surprised, because he never mentioned it and doesn't really seem to be into ball. But I wasn't shocked, because I know he's friends with Calla and she comes to our games all the time. It makes sense that now that she knows I know Blaise, she'd drag him along. I don't know who all those other people were, but knowing Xera as I do, they'll all be at Shenanigans.

Usually those of us who are going straight there instead of heading home to change first leave the stadium together, go to Laringo's car, and dump our jackets and ties on the back seat. Coach and the athletics department say we have to arrive and depart in our suits—nobody says we need to still be wearing all the pieces when we leave the parking lot. Or at least, if we do, nobody's pulled us up on it yet. Today, though, the parking lot has journalists in it, hoping to take advantage of our good mood after winning and sneak in some questions about Hannaway, maybe get something quotable. I know, because they've been outside practice all week, and the only difference today is that there are more of them.

So instead of walking to the bar from the stadium, we pile into cars, leave the press behind us, and drive to Reiner's place. His cousin's a professor at FU, so he's living in the apartment over the garage at her house, and they have off-street parking where the cars will be fine overnight… plus it's easy walking distance to Shenanigans.

Even with that win stacked on top of the game win, the mood is a little low as we walk. Nobody likes having to walk past reporters who don't even want to talk about our game, and the stadium was a little sparse today, even for one of our preseason games. I was hoping people would turn up out of morbid curiosity, see how fun it is, and decide to buy season tickets.

I've always been an optimist.

Laringo breaks the silence. "Tonight's the night I'm gonna score with Boyle's hot sister."

We all jeer in response, even though we know he's not serious. Xera's too cool for any of us to talk about her that way, and even if she wasn't, she'd rip his nuts off if she found out. Besides, Laringo's hit on her about thirty times already with no luck.

"I'm staying out of Xera's way, but I hope she brings her friends with her," Reiner adds. "Anybody know who they are?"

"The blond is Calla," I say immediately. "She's got a thing for Polly."

"She doesn't! She's into girls," he argues, and I sigh.

"Pol, trust me. She's got a thing for you."

"But—"

"Xera's into girls and guys and nonbinary people… basically, she's attracted to people, not their genders," Boyle says, and it has the rhythm of something he's memorized. I'd know, since I'm the one who explained it to him. "Unless your girl Calla says she's only into girls, you shouldn't assume. Or she might pinch you," he adds under his breath, and I snort.

"What about the rest? The girl with pink hair?" Reiner presses.

I shake my head. "Don't know. The tall guy next to Xera is Calla's friend Blaise, but I've never met the others. Boyle?"

He shrugs. "I bet Xera brings them all along. They looked like they were having fun."

Polly shakes off his confusion and laughs, slinging his arm around Boyle's shoulders. "You mean because they think your homer means you're going to ‘go far'?"

"Obvs they're super smart as well." Boyle smirks as he pushes open the door to the bar, and we follow him in.

It's still early, so it's not that busy, but it's also Saturday, so there are already people here getting a start on the night. We head toward our favorite table in the back, and after only a few steps, shrieks break out.

"Xera's here," Laringo says happily.

"Dude, you've got, like, zero chance with her," I tell him in a low voice. He's a nice guy, and nobody wants to see the balance of the group thrown off.

He shrugs. "I know. But a guy can dream. Plus she's hot, so it's nice looking at her."

I guess my sister was right when she said college guys aren't complicated. Jamie and I got kind of offended, but…

We get to the table, and Xera throws herself into Boyle's arms, jumping up and down and yelling, "You're on the way!" If I didn't already know what their mom promised, I'd think she was getting a little too excited over a preseason game. "Only two more," she tells him. "Do not fuck this up."

I look past them and see that she did bring the others, though Blaise isn't with them. I hope he didn't skip because of me. We're friends, after all, and drinks in a group is totally something we can do.

Calla winks at me, then tells Polling, "That last pitch was a disgrace. Did you check out early or something?"

He sputters, face going red, even though he said the same thing in the locker room earlier. "It was one bad pitch!"

She pats his arm and leads him to a chair. "One's all it takes."

"But we won!"

"Next time, you might not. Do you need life coaching? I can help you get in the right mindset, you know."

He looks hopelessly over at me, but I just grin.

"You were right about Polly," Reiner says. "Pink hair is mine."

I look closer at the woman with short pink hair talking to the blond guy. She's… butch. It looks good on her, but I didn't think Reiner went for that. His last girlfriend was the princess type. I blink as she lifts a hand to swipe her bangs back and I catch sight of the small lesbian flag tattooed on her inner forearm. "Uh, Reiner?—"

But he's already sliding into the empty chair beside her. I grab a seat on the other side of the table and fold my arms, ready for the entertainment.

"Hi, I'm Ben and I think you're?—"

"Butch?" she interrupts. "Because I am. Also a lesbian."

I resist the urge to applaud as Reiner's mouth opens and closes like a fish's. "Cool," he says weakly. To give him credit, he doesn't walk away. "Uh… baseball fan?"

She rolls her eyes but then smiles. "I wasn't before, but today was fun."

Someone sits beside me, and I glance over to see Baise's now-familiar smile. "What's got you so enthralled?" he asks, and I nod across the table.

"Watching your friend shoot down my teammate."

"Always a good time," he agrees. "This happens all the time. We can't work out why the straight guys go nuts for Butch. It's not like she encourages them."

I blink. Did he…? "Did you call her Butch? As in, name, not adjective."

He smirks. "Introduce yourself to her."

I'm totally being set up, but I lean across the table and wait for Reiner to stop talking. "Hey, sorry to interrupt. Blaise is going to go up and order a round on me—you're both drinking, right?"

"You bet," Reiner says.

"Yeah, me too. Thanks," the woman adds.

"No problem. I'm Jordan, by the way."

"Calla and Blaise's friend? Nice to meet you. I'm Butch."

It's only the fact that I knew something was coming that lets me keep a straight face. Reiner, on the other hand, isn't so lucky. "That's your name?" he asks. "No way."

Yeah, I'm going to leave them to it. Turning to Blaise, I say, "So, wanna order a round? I'm paying." I got cash at the ATM this morning just for this purpose. The bartenders here are cool, but if you're underage, you don't get a wristband, and they do not sell alcohol to anyone under twenty-one. I can't even use a fake ID, since the staff knows I'm on the ball team and check the players' ages. It's a fucking conspiracy.

But as long as we don't get obviously drunk in the bar, they look the other way when we're at a table crowded with beer pitchers.

Blaise stands. "Come on. You can help me carry." He raises his voice slightly, enough for our group to hear but not for the bar staff. "First round's on Jordan!"

There's a low cheer, and we make our way toward the bar. With it being so early, we don't have to wait long.

"What'll it be?" Perry asks. He smirks at me like he thinks I'm going to try to order a beer.

Please. I'm not stupid.

"Three pitchers of beer," Blaise says.

I put on my innocent face and add, "And two of soda. And…" I turn around to count heads. Huh, I didn't see that red-haired guy before. "…thirteen glasses." The others can get their own when they arrive.

As soon as he turns away to start getting our order, I slip Blaise the cash.

When we get back to our table, we get a hero's welcome. Beer does that.

"Calla mentioned you were one of her besties, but she didn't say you were coming today." I sip my drink. I won't be having a lot tonight—with so many eyes still on us, getting plastered would be a stupid thing to do. I can just imagine Coach's reaction if there are pictures of us sloppy drunk online tomorrow. "Neither did you." I just saw him yesterday, when he introduced me to the fine art of frottage. Never did I think dry-humping could be so hot… or so wet.

A sheepish expression crosses his face as he drinks from his glass. "To be honest, I was kind of hoping Calla would let me out of it. Sports aren't usually my thing."

I push aside the pang of disappointment. Sure, it'd be cool if he liked the same stuff I do, but not all my friends are into baseball. Different hobbies and personalities make groups interesting. "At least the weather was good today," I offer, looking for a silver lining. "Sometimes it's not, especially in the preseason."

"Yeah, that probably helped, but I had fun," he says, surprising me. "I'm not gonna be a rabid fan, but the occasional game wouldn't be too bad. Well," he adds, "if I can work out the difference between a ball and a strike."

"Yes!" Xera shouts, surprising everyone. We turn to look at her and see she's pointing at us. "Marty, you and Jordan have to show Blaise how a strike and a ball are different."

Boyle screws up his face. "What, in here? They'll kick us out. And I don't have a ball."

She smacks the back of his head. "Why are you so stupid? Use a napkin. He doesn't have to actually hit it."

Rubbing his head, Boyle says, "Sometimes you make me wish I'd picked an East Coast school." But he obediently gets up and grabs a couple of napkins, crumpling them into a ball.

"Hang on, I should do this," Polly objects. "I'm the pitcher."

"Before we start throwing things," I interject, "does Blaise know what the strike zone is?" I'm asking Xera, and Blaise clears his throat.

"I'm right here."

"I told him, but…" She shrugs.

"It's between shoulders and hips, right?" Blaise asks.

Every single ball player at the table groans.

"Not right, then," he mutters.

I stand up. "Let's start with that. The strike zone starts halfway between a player's shoulders and the top of our pants"—I put my hand at the correct point on me—"and goes all the way down to just below our kneecaps."

"But then what stops a pitcher from aiming at your nads and taking you out of the game?"

Polly chokes on his beer. Turning Blaise into a baseball expert is going to take a while.