9. Blaise

NINE

"How does this work, exactly?"Harold asks Calla as we find our seats and settle in. It's not too bad a day for the end of January, clear skies and only the lightest breeze, so I'm not too mad about sitting out in the fresh air for the afternoon. Plus, it'll be cool to see Jordan in his element.

"Well, Harold," she begins, straight-faced, "we sit in these seats here and watch what the players are doing there." She points to the… field thing. "It's also considered part of the experience to have a hot dog or two."

"I like hot dogs," Butch chimes in. "When do we get the hot dogs?"

I study the… game area. "Hey, all those little path thingies are laid out to form a diamond!"

"Ooh, where? I like diamonds," Harold announces, leaning forward. He pulls a face. "Not so much with the dirt diamonds, though."

Calla ignores all that and tells me, "It's called a baseball diamond, so gold star for noticing."

"I noticed too," Harold whines. "Where's my gold star? Anyway, you never answered my question: How does baseball work?"

A woman in front of us turns around. "Did I just hear one of you ask how baseball works?" She's wearing a team jersey and cap, her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail of loose waves. The jersey has been tailored to fit her body perfectly, and she's paired it with dark jeans embellished down the outside leg with gold and purple diamantes, and gorgeous dark brown heeled boots. Her makeup is flawless, with eyeshadow in FU Kings purple and gold, red lipstick somehow not clashing, and her long nails are done to match in purple with gold decals. If I wanted to design a costume for "fashion influencer who's a baseball super fan," I'd go with something like this.

"Your look is incredible," I tell her, and she grins.

"Thanks. A girl's gotta support the team, but that doesn't mean she can't be fabulous."

"Did you do those jeans yourself?" Because if not, I need to know who did.

"Yup! I looked around for a pair but couldn't find exactly what I needed."

"You're talented," Butch tells her. "These guys are designers, and if they're impressed, that means you're impressive." She gives a little half smile. "I'm Butch."

Our new friend looks her slowly up and down and then smiles back, her lips curling suggestively. "Oh yes, you are. Xera." She holds out a hand to Butch. "You're not a designer, Butch? How do I impress you?"

Butch winks. "I'm an artist, but I'm still impressed. Do you know a lot about baseball? Because aside from Calla, we're all hopeless and could use some help."

Harold leans over to me and whispers, "Is this how lesbians hook up? They talk to each other first?"

Everyone else hears, of course, because "quiet" isn't a setting Harold has. "Don't you talk to your hookups, Harold?" Calla asks. Butch is shooting death rays with her eyes.

He shrugs. "I mean… only if I have to."

"I want to go on record here that Harold isn't representative of all gay men," I put in. I know what he means, though. Sometimes, in the clubs, with the music pounding and so many people pressed up around you, it's easier just to use facial expressions and gestures to get the point across.

"Since we're going on record," Xera says, "I'm not a lesbian. I'm pan."

"Should we go round the group and give names and orientations?" Calla wonders, and I snort.

"I think it's safe to say we're all some kind of queer. Nice to meet you, Xera. Great name, by the way. I'm Blaise, and the rest of them are Harold, Calla, and Phil. You've met Butch." I wait to see if she says something about the fact that so far, Phil's been so quiet, it's like he's not even here, but she just flashes her killer smile at everyone.

"I'm gonna have so much fun helping Calla teach you all baseball. Also, the name thing? My mom got it from a book. Don't call me Xerox and we'll get along fine."

"Was it a good character, at least?" Harold asks, and Xera shrugs.

"Some kind of tree spirit? I don't know. My brother read it once and said it's not embarrassing, so I didn't bother. He got a normal name, though, which is so unfair."

"Rude," Butch agrees. "Do you want to sit with us? Or do you have friends joining you?"

Xera laughs. "My friends would die if I asked them to come here. I go to San Diego State, and they call me a traitor for supporting the Kings." She climbs over the back of her seat, and we make room for her. It's not like the stadium's sold out—not even close.

"Why do you support the Kings, then?" Calla asks.

"My brother's on the team." She half turns to show Calla the name on the back of her jersey. It says BOYLE in big, sparkly gold letters that I'm pretty sure aren't the ones that came with the shirt.

"Marty Boyle's your brother?" Calla exclaims. "Wow, you won the gene lottery in your family." She cringes, but Xera bursts out laughing. "I'm so sorry, my filter died outside of warranty."

Xera waves a hand. "Don't worry about it. I've been telling my baby bro that he's an ugly fucker since we were little."

"He's not ugly, exactly," Calla begins, trying to dig her way out of the hole, but Xera's moved on.

"Anyway, little bro might be a pain and butt-ugly, but he worked damn hard to get on the team, and we're proud of that, so I come every home game to support him. What about you guys? Calla drag you all here?"

"Kind of," Butch says. "We're here because she and Blaise have a friend on the team and we're nosy."

"Nosy's good. Who is it? I bet I know him—I hang out with the guys after games all the time."

"Jordan Marks," Calla announces while I try to look only mildly interested in the conversation. Jordan and I hooked up twice this week—Tuesday night, when he brought me McDonald's, and then again yesterday morning. I had the closing shift at work, and he apparently doesn't have classes Friday morning. It was a great way to start my day.

"Oh, sure. Marks is great. He's the one who explained to Marty what pan means. The guys always ask him when they've got questions around LGBTQIA+ stuff, because they figure having gay dads makes him an expert."

"He's got gay dads?" Butch asks, just as Harold says,

"Say what?"

Even Phil looks interested.

Calla shrugs. "He's mentioned it, but I don't know details. Blaise is more his friend than I am." She shoots me a wicked grin.

"His gay uncle adopted him and his sister when they were orphaned," I say, leaving out the bit about the other uncle who left them. It's complicated, and more than anyone needs to know. "Then he got married, so Jordan has two dads."

"That's sweet." Harold puts a hand on his heart. "If one of my siblings tried to die to escape their monsters, I'd drag them back from the claws of death and reanimate them like zombies if I had to."

That sounds harsh, but I've heard all about Harold's niblings. Monsters is a kind description. Plus, his siblings are so bad that death probably wouldn't want them, anyway.

Xera, unfazed, grins at him. "You're going to be such an amazing parent one day." She sounds completely genuine, and I relax into my seat. She's going to fit in just fine.

"I don't get it, though. It looks the same." I squint at the field, trying to make it all make sense.

It does not.

Calla threw up her hands forty minutes ago and is now watching the game and sulking into her popcorn. Harold, surprisingly, only needed to be told the rules once before he became some kind of baseball expert. Butch and Phil got the hang of it by the end of the first inning. But it seems that I'm a complete and total baseball dummy, because no matter how hard I try, I cannot see the difference between a ball and a strike. It seems completely arbitrary to me.

"You'd see it if we were up close," Xera consoles me. She's got endless patience, and she didn't laugh—much—when I accidentally cheered for a foul. "We'll ask Marty and Jordan to demonstrate later—they'll be thrilled to show off."

Xera's assumed that we're all tagging along with her when she meets the team after the game, and the others have fallen in with the idea with excessive enthusiasm. I'm a little uncomfortable putting Jordan in that situation without warning, so when nobody was paying attention before, I sent him a text with a heads-up and asked him to say the word if he wanted me to beg off. I might need to fake Ebola to escape Calla's clutches, but hey, I'm a costume designer—I can find a way to pull it off on the fly.

Marty steps up to bat. I know it's him because of the very helpful nametag on his back. That's been a godsend, frankly, because they're all wearing caps or helmets, and while our seats are pretty good, it's still tough to see their faces… not that I'd know any of them except Jordan anyway.

"My mom told him if he hits a homerun in the preseason and at least two during the season, she'll pay for him to move off campus next year," Xera says, her eyes glued to the field.

"Has he gotten the preseason one yet?" I ask.

"Nope." She pops the p as Marty settles his shoulders and the pitcher winds up. "So today's pretty much his last chance not to blow it all."

These stakes are interesting, so I watch closer. The ball whizzes past Marty, and the umpire calls a ball.

"It looked like a strike to me," I complain.

"Too high," Xera explains absently. She's in her baseball fan zone now. On her other side, Butch smiles indulgently.

I let my gaze drift over the crowd. I know it's only preseason, but given how nice a day it is, I'm surprised there aren't more people here. Tickets didn't cost that much, and even though I know shit about the game, it's been fun. Maybe?—

A loud thwack fills the air, and Xera is on her feet, screaming and jumping up and down. I look down at the field and see the Kings cheering as Marty jogs slowly around the bases. "He got the homerun?" I guess.

"You bet he did!" Xera shrieks.

What the hell. My friends and I get to our feet and start screaming and jumping too. Calla and Harold come up with a chant.

"Marty hit a homer

?coz he's gonna go far!"

I wince. That's… not good. And definitely doesn't rhyme. But none of us are writers, and I join in anyway, ignoring all the weird looks and snickering aimed our way. We're arts students. Fitting in is for other people.

"Marty hit a homer

?coz he's gonna go far!"

Down on the field, where the Kings are clustered around the dugout, slapping Marty's back and head, one of them glances our way, then does a double take. It's Jordan, and he's clearly not expecting to see me here. I probably should have mentioned it this week, but we were otherwise occupied.

He stares for a second, then breaks out in a slow grin before slapping Marty and pointing our way. Xera's brother waves at her while Jordan grabs another guy and nods toward us.

"Who's that?" Harold asks.

"Polly," Calla says. "Brad Polling. He's in the same class as me and Jordan. I'm wearing him down, a little bit at a time." She blows him a kiss, and even from here I can see the way his face flushes and his eyes widen.

Jordan grins at me, and then the players turn back to the game, but my mind is made up. We're definitely going to Shenanigans tonight.

And I'm going to learn the difference between a ball and a strike if it kills me.