25. Chandler

TWENTY-FIVE

chandler

I clumsily scooped coffee grounds into the coffee maker. Sunlight was just beginning to sneak through the blinds. My eyelids were heavy, but Caroline's early morning emergency text shattered my slow morning plans.

"Willow," I called out, tapping on her door with my knuckles. "Caroline sent a text. She wants us there early today."

I heard a muffled grunt before the door cracked open. Willow emerged, backlit by the soft glow of her room. Her curly hair was wild, almost like she’d had a restless night.

"What kind of psycho wants us to be there so early?" she grumbled, rubbing at her eyes.

Shrugging, I poured the coffee into two mugs. "I'm the last person who understands the ways of Caroline," I admitted, handing her a cup as if it were a peace offering for the awakening.

Willow took a sip, her face scrunching up as the hot coffee kick-started her senses. We exchanged a look that said neither of us were excited for Caroline’s demands.

"Fine," Willow huffed, setting down her coffee mug with a clink. "I'm taking a shower. Give me twenty minutes." And with that, she vanished back into her room.

The drive to the clubhouse was a quiet one, filled with yawns and the occasional sip of lukewarm coffee. Inside the clubhouse, everyone on the committee looked just about as excited as we were. Willow and I found refuge in seats in the back.

"Hey," Willow leaned in, giving me a serious look, "have you talked to Boston in a while?"

I shook my head, stirring the remnants of my coffee aimlessly. "No, I haven't seen him lately. Seems like he’s been busy in the batting cages or at practice." My words trailed off as I thought about the past week. "He was also short with me when I asked him why he didn’t play this week. I’m not sure if something is going on." I glanced at my phone, as if it might reveal some hidden message from him. "He texted me 'good morning' and 'good night,' every day but that's pretty much it."

Willow frowned slightly, twirling a strand of her blonde hair around her finger. "I wonder what’s up. My dad has been off this week too."

"I’m not sure," I added, though a knot tightened in my stomach. Was it just the pressure of the season, or was it something else?

The murmurs in the room silenced as Caroline entered, her presence commanding attention without a word. She cleared her throat, and every pair of eyes locked onto her.

"If I'm not interrupting anything," Caroline lifted her chin, "I'd like to get started."

Caroline continued, her gaze sweeping across us. "The championship game is in three weeks, and we need to be ready for what comes next." She paused for effect, her eyes scanning the room. "Should our team win the championship, we will host an overnight lock-in with the players to decorate the parade float. And then," she drew out the word for emphasis, "The Bayside Ball is the week after."

A collective intake of breath filled the room, the weight of responsibility settled over us like a heavy cloak.

"Which means," Caroline went on, "we have a lot to do to make the end of this season better than it's ever been." She lifted a stack of binders from the table beside her, each one thick and bursting at the seams. "I've compiled a binder for each of you, filled with tasks. I expect them all to be completed."

She began passing out the binders, and when one landed with a thud in front of me, I couldn't help but let out a long sigh. Beside me, Willow did the same, and we exchanged a look.

"Any questions before we dive in?" Caroline asked, her tone suggesting she hoped there wouldn't be any. We stayed quiet, each flipping open our binders to a dizzying array of lists.

"Let's get started, then," Caroline announced.

I flipped through my binder and a page with a detailed timeline for the Bayside Ball caught my eye. My thoughts drifted. I wondered if Boston would ask me this year. It felt like ages ago when I was head over heels for Reese, and it was hard to believe it had been around the same time last year. Now, here I was, hoping to be asked by the boy who used to just be my brother's best friend.

I stepped out of the room and was met with players rushing through the hallways towards practice. Even through the chaos of ball hats and gym bags, I caught sight of Boston.

"Willow," I whispered, my heart doing an anxious little dance. "I'll meet you at the car."

"Okay, see ya in a sec," she nodded and continued walking, giving me a small, encouraging smile.

"Hey, you," Boston's voice reached me first. But the usual warmth that lit up his eyes when he saw me wasn't there today.

"Hey," I said, squeezing the binder tighter to my chest. "Haven't seen you since last week."

"I've been around," he replied shortly, and I found myself searching his face for something more, some hint of what was on his mind.

"Right." A pause stretched, and I decided to take the plunge. "We're starting to plan the Bayside Ball," I said, hoping it would spark something, a sign that he might ask me, anything.

His gaze shifted away then, down the hallway, as if he was trying to avoid the question. "Oh, that's cool," he said, casually. "Wish I could go, but I can't make it this year."

The words hit me harder than expected, a sting of coldness spreading through my chest. I covered the hurt with a half-hearted nod and forced a smile, though I could feel my hopes crumbling.

"O—oh," I stammered. I desperately waited for him to say more, to give me something to help me understand.

The silence stretched, until Boston broke it with a single phrase that caught me off guard. "Chicago."

"Chicago," I echoed, searching his face, confused.

"The Cubs are flying me out." He shifted his weight. "They want to meet, see if I might be a good fit for them to draft."

"Oh, Boston, that's amazing!"

"Yeah," he forced a smile, "but it's the same weekend as the Bayside Ball."

Suddenly I understood why he wasn’t going to the ball. I tried to keep my face neutral, to hide the disappointment of knowing there was no chance we’d be able to go together. Boston's gaze lingered on mine, and I wondered if he was trying to decipher what I was really thinking. "Your future is way more important than some ball. Baseball is the priority. I get it," I managed to say.

"Chandler..." There was a hesitance in his tone.

"No, don’t even think twice about it." I mustered a smile, even though a tiny part of me couldn't help but still feel the sting of disappointment. "It's a big opportunity, Boston. You can't miss it."

"Yeah, you’re right," he nodded, before he glanced over his shoulder, a crease of urgency on his face as he looked toward the locker room. He leaned in swiftly, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

"I gotta get in there before coach notices I’m late and gets pissed,” he said in a hurried whisper.

"Okay," I tried to sound nonchalant, even as my heart raced with disappointment.

He was already turning away when he yelled, "Team's doing karaoke tonight. You coming?"

"Karaoke?" The question came out before I could consider it. "Sure," I whispered.

Then he disappeared down the hall, leaving me rooted to the spot, confused. The warmth of his kiss still lingered on my cheek.

A few hours later Willow and I walked into the bar, arm in arm.

"Karaoke night, huh?" Willow asked as we stepped into the dimly lit bar. The overhead lights cast a warm glow on the small stage where the DJ had just called Parker up next.

"Can't wait to see this," she giggled, her eyes shimmering with excitement.

"Go grab us a spot. I'll grab the drinks," I told her, pushing through the crowd towards the bar.

"Two vodka lemonades, please," I shouted to the bartender. As I reached out to hand over my debit card, a firm hand blocked mine, pressing it gently back towards me.

"Put those on my tab," Reese ordered, his presence suddenly towering over me.

"Thanks, Reese," I said, turning to face him. "You didn't have to do that."

He gave a nonchalant shrug, his green eyes avoiding mine. "All good," he tossed over his shoulder, leaving a trail of moody energy behind. What was going on today? Was everyone in a weird mood?

I shook off the brief encounter and carried our drinks over to where Willow had secured a table, just as Parker took the stage. "I Want You Back" by *NSYNC blared through the speakers, and he belted out the lyrics with more enthusiasm than skill, holding a beer in hand.

"Where are you getting the dollar bills?" I laughed as Willow playfully tossed ones at him.

"Always got to be prepared for a random strip club night. Happens more than you'd think," she quipped, winking.

It was impossible not to snicker at Parker's performance. Off-key and overconfident, he was definitely putting on a show—if you could call it that. Suddenly, a familiar warmth brushed against me from behind, and before I could react, Boston's breath tickled my skin.

"Hi, pretty girl," he whispered, his lips grazing my cheek in a soft kiss.

"Hey, Boston..." I managed, turning to face him, my heart pounding a rhythm as chaotic as Parker's singing.

Bailey walked onto the stage with a swagger that had the crowd cheering before he even reached the microphone. The opening chords of "Wonderwall" filled the room, and to my surprise, his voice was actually pretty good—better than I had expected.

"You’re gonna be the one that saves me," Bailey sang, his eyes locked on some distant point, lost in the music.

I was just about to comment on his surprisingly good performance when he abruptly punctuated the chorus with an unnecessary crotch grab followed by lifting his shirt up to flash his abs. A mix of cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd.

Willow snorted beside me. "Well, guess he had to ruin it somehow."

"He was doing so well," I sighed, rolling my eyes.

As the last note hung in the air, the DJ's voice carried above the applause. "Alright, we got a special request here! All Blue Devil athletes, get your butts on this stage, pronto!"

Groans and chuckles rolled through the group of athletes scattered around the bar. Bailey turned to them, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. "Nope, I don't want to hear it. Get your asses up here, boys!"

One by one, they ambled onto the stage, some more reluctantly than others. As they arranged themselves, I couldn't help but notice the glaring space between Boston and Reese. Their body language spoke volumes—they might as well have been on different planets. Boston leaned against the far end, his arms crossed, a forced smile not quite reaching his eyes. Reese stood on the opposite side, his hands shoved into his pockets, the usual cocky, laid back look on his face was replaced by cold detachment.

"Something's definitely up with Reese and Boston," I whispered to Willow, leaning close to share my thoughts with her.

"Yeah," she agreed, her attention fixed on the stage. "Something's off, and it's more than just bad karaoke."

Their performance was more shouting than singing, and it was bad—really bad. As the final notes were drowned out by the cheers and laughter, Parker hopped off the stage, the confidence in his step suggesting he was proud of that spectacle. He made a beeline to our table, sliding into the seat next to Willow with a wide grin.

"Alright, Will," he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "What did you think of my performance? Did it make you want to jump me on the stage?"

Willow tossed back her blonde curls, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh yeah, you stole the show, Parker. I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants."

"Good to know I still got it," he replied with a wink. Then, leaning closer with a cheeky glint in his eye, he added, "You know, I have one of your dollar bills in my waistband. Feel free to put your hand in my pants and take it back."

She burst into laughter. Just then, Boston pulled up a chair. With a small smile, he nodded towards Parker. "And there's the Parker we all know and love," he joked, but failed to hide the tension that seemed to be weighing heavy on him tonight.

Parker's laughter subsided, and he playfully punched Boston's shoulder. "At your service, baby," he quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

Boston shook his head and took a sip of his drink, his gaze lingering somewhere in the distance.

"Hey, Boston," I ventured, unable to shake the feeling that something was going on. "Do you wanna go somewhere more quiet and talk?"

His eyes met mine for a split second before he responded, "Sure." There was a hint of reluctance in his movement, as if for some reason he wanted to say no, but couldn't.

Boston led the way to the gambling machine area, away from the music and crowd. The dim lights flickered over the less crowded space, casting shadows that seemed to dance all around us.

"Okay, spill it," I urged, swirling my drink with the straw.

He swept his fingers through his hair. "About what?"

"Something is going on," I pressed, as I watched him closely. "You're acting standoffish.

Boston shifted uncomfortably, as the ticking sound of a spinning wheel played on the machines. "It's nothing," he dismissed.

"Does this have anything to do with why you didn't play this week?" I prodded.

He took a sip of his beer, the muscles in his jaw working silently. "Coach made that call," he said, but it felt like he wasn’t telling me something.

I sighed, frustrated. "I just don't understand what's going on," I admitted. "Why you're in a mood… and why Reese is in a mood."

His eyes narrowed, the intensity within them turning dark. "How would you know Reese is in a mood? Why would you care?"

"Because I care about both of you," I breathed out.

He looked at me with those piercing eyes, "Be honest with me, Chandler. Do you still have feelings for him?"

"Boston, I don't know how to answer that.” And I really didn’t. Because when I saw Reese, I still felt a small attachment to him—did that mean I still have feelings? I wasn’t entirely sure.

He nodded and I could see the hurt in his eyes. "That's what I thought."

I stepped closer. "But I know that you two have seemed like maybe you were on the verge of?—"

"Of what?" He cut me off. "Being brothers? That's never going to happen." His hand tightened around the beer bottle. "We're never going to be some happy fucking family."

"Maybe?" I shot back. "Maybe start with actually trying to have a friendship?"

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the warmth of his hand. "He doesn't have to be the enemy anymore," I whispered, my voice barely rising above the sounds from the gambling machines. “He’s not his dad.”

For a moment, Boston's hand lingered in mine. But then, as if burned by the very idea, he pulled back. And that’s when I felt it, and saw it written all over his face. He was pulling away and there was nothing I could do.

"How can you defend him right now? After everything?"

"I'm not trying to defend him," I said, softly. "I'm just trying to understand."

"Understand what?" His tone was sharper now. "Am I some test?" He asked, as he put more space between us. "To see if you like being with me better than him?"

The accusation stung, like a thousand tiny needles shoved right into my heart. It was as if he’d just thrown the thought in my face, the one I had fought so fiercely to keep hidden—even from myself.

"How can you even say that?" I stepped back, shocked in disbelief.

Boston's piercing blue eyes held mine with an intensity that seared. "What are we even doing, Chandler?"

It was the kind of question that demanded honesty, but my emotions were too scattered to be vulnerable. I was hurt by what he’d just said to me. The overthinking portion of my brain took charge, gathering all thoughts into one single, painful realization. Each moment longer I spent with him only tightened the knot in my chest; each laugh, each touch, was only leading me to one place—to him breaking my heart. That thought wasn’t just daunting, but unbearable.

"You're right," I said, finally. "We should probably end whatever this is before it gets too complicated." I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. He didn't respond, but his eyes studied my face intently.

"We were just having fun, anyway." My own voice sounded hollow. But this was what I wanted, wasn’t it? "I never wanted a boyfriend or a relationship, and that's what we did, we had fun." My gaze held his. "Once the summer is over, we can just go back to normal. You focus on baseball, and I'll be fine—like always."

He nodded slowly. "...Okay, but I wasn't just having fun with you," he admitted. "It was more than that to me. But, I agree. That’s probably for the best."

For the best? I thought to myself as I watched him. The look on his face made me think he was carrying more than just the weight of my words—like maybe he had a lot more going on than he was letting on. How had I ended up here again, caught in the gravity of Boston's orbit? So close to him, yet feeling so far apart.

Then, he looked past me over the flashing lights of the gambling machines. "Can we just go back, please? Join the group?"

But the simplicity of his request couldn't erase the complexity of the moment, the depth of emotion that had been stirred up and left unsettled.

"Sure," I responded, more sharp than I intended. I turned on my heel and stomped away from him. I half expected him to reach out, to try and use that pull he so often had on me, but this time he just watched as the space between us grew. There was no gentle tug at my wrist, no whispered apologies against my lips, nothing to soothe the sting of our conversation. Just the sound of my own footsteps echoing my frustration.

I slid back into my seat at the table, still reeling. When I looked up, the sight before me took over. Parker and Willow's faces were contorted into expressions of pure horror, eyes wide, mouths open. Onstage, Crew was belting out a tune that could only be described as torture. It was like witnessing a car crash—you wanted to look away, but you couldn't quite bring yourself to do it.

Parker, ever the comedian even in the face of auditory assault, stood up slowly, his hand theatrically pressed to his chest. "I think I need another shot," he declared, grimacing as if the words pained him as much as Crew's singing.

"Take it easy," I warned, though my attempt at sisterly concern came out more annoyed than intended.

He shot me a mischievous grin and flicked my forehead as he passed by, heading toward the bar. He quickly returned to the table, downing another shot. "Okay, that's better," he sighed, placing the empty glass with a clink on the surface.

"Hey, Hartford!" The DJ approached, slapping Parker on the back with a grin. "You killed it tonight, man."

"Thanks for the assist, J-Bomb," Parker replied, raising an eyebrow at the nickname he'd stowed upon the DJ.

Just then, his gaze shifted to the stage, and he chuckled. "Oh, shit! D-Wagon is about to get on the stage."

Boston appeared behind him, clapping him on the back. "Parker is in the nickname stage of his drinking—that's our fifteen-minute warning before he passes out or pukes. Time to escort this guy home."

My irritation flared at Boston's words even though I knew he was right. "Maybe you should stop telling us all what to do and what's best for us."

"Whoa, calm down," Parker interjected, holding up a hand.

"Bro, don't you know never to tell a woman to calm down?" Boston fired back, shaking his head.

"That's not a woman, that's my sister," Parker quipped.

Willow, who had been quietly sipping her drink, suddenly choked on her laughter, spewing liquid across the table.

My eyes remained narrowed on Boston, unwilling to let go of the hurt I was feeling. I knew that I was the one who had made the decision, but I hadn’t expected him to agree—not for a second. "You know what? You two should get out of here," I said, bitterly.

Boston reached out, his hand hovering near my arm, but I jerked away. "No, Boston. Please just go." I deliberately turned my body away from him, directing my attention to the next performer on stage, signaling the end of the conversation.

"Let me know if you guys need anything," Boston said to Willow.

"We'll be fine," she assured him, giving me a sympathetic glance.

As Boston steered Parker towards the exit, Parker called out to Willow, "Good night, sunshine!"

"Get out of here before I throw you out myself!" Willow retorted with a laugh.

"You're a mad woman, and I love it!" Parker's declaration echoed as they disappeared into the crowd, leaving me sitting there, arms still crossed, frustration lingering.

The sounds of karaoke night faded into the background, the off-key notes blurring into the distance. I sat at the table, laughter and cheering feeling like they belonged to another world—one where hearts didn't break and disappointment wasn't so familiar. I convinced myself that I wouldn't—couldn't—fall for someone this summer, I wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, and here I was feeling like my heart was hardly even beating.