The Boyfriend League (6 page)

N
eedless 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?”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“Just what the doctor ordered,” I said, taking the bag from him and removing a whole pint of ice cream and the plastic spoon.

He sat beside me, and his portion of the love seat rocked. “The other night you said movies were your thing, so I made a quick stop by Blockbuster, too, and got a couple. Don't know if you're interested….”

“That was so sweet of you,” I said, deeply touched.

“I got conked on the head once, had to stay awake for a few hours…it was pretty boring. An aching head makes it hard to concentrate on anything important.”

“So what did you get?”

“
Fever Pitch
—”

“A chick flick?” I asked, astounded.

“It's got baseball. Then
The Princess Bride.
It's one of my faves.”

“I've never seen it.”

“You're kidding?”

“Isn't it, like, old?”

“Yeah, but it's a classic.”

I wrinkled my brow, which made my forehead hurt. “Isn't it a chick flick, too?”

“It's got pirates and sword fights.”

“Let's watch it, then. I think I've had enough baseball for one night.” Words I never thought I'd speak.

“I didn't even think to ask if you had a DVD player.”

“Does a bear growl in the woods? It's on the shelf above the TiVo.”

Eating my ice cream—oh, it tasted
good
!—I watched as he walked to the shelf and put the DVD into the player. He'd made it sound like the stops were on his way home. They weren't. Between Bird's house and mine was nothing except other houses. He'd made special trips to get the ice cream and movies.

“Where's the remote for the DVD player?” he asked.

I stuck the spoon in the carton, grabbed the
remote, and held it up. “Dad has a universal remote. This controls everything.”

“Your dad is into gadgets.”

“Oh, you bet.”

He returned to the love seat, sat down, took the remote, directed it at the TV, but didn't push any buttons. Then he leaned forward, planted his elbows on his thighs, and studied the controls. I thought I might have to explain them.

“What did you think of the little bit of the game you saw?” he asked, his voice low.

“I didn't really see much of it. I was working in the concession stand until the bottom of the fourth.”

“Not my best inning. I let them get some hits, score two runs—”

“You know, there's no
I
in team.”

He chuckled low, looked over his shoulder at me. “Who are you? Leon?”

I knew he was referring to a commercial featuring a football player named Leon. I'd seen enough of the commercials watching football with Dad.

“I'm just saying, baseball is a team sport.”

“Not as much as some.” He shrugged. “I don't mean to be a downer. I just hate having a bad night.”

“Trust me. Your night wasn't as bad as mine.”

“I guess it wasn't.” He winked at me. “But it's about to get a lot better.”

He settled back, raised the footrest, and clicked the remote. Funny thing was, I'd felt like my night had gotten a lot better simply because he'd walked into the room.

L
ate the next morning I woke up with a thundering in my head that had nothing to do with the hit I took the night before. It was raining. Storming, actually. The kind of downpour that, if it continued throughout the day, would have the local meteorologists interrupting regularly scheduled programming to warn about area flash flooding.

Also, if it continued, the Rattlers wouldn't play tonight.

In frustration, I pulled my pillow out from beneath my head and dropped it on my face, regretting it as soon as the pressure shot pain across my skull. How could I forget about my—
wound
didn't sound right—my traumatized forehead?

I got out of bed, walked to the dresser, and peered into the mirror. Ohmigod! I had a black eye! An honest-to-gosh black eye!

The door connecting my room to the bathroom opened, and Tiffany walked in. “You okay? I thought I heard you squeal, and Mom told me to keep an eye…omigod!”

She approached cautiously, like maybe she thought black eyes were contagious. “Mom told me you got hit by a ball last night, but I didn't think it would be that nasty looking. Does it hurt?”

“It's tender,” I admitted.

“I have some makeup that will cover it right up. No one will know.”

“Maybe I want people to know. Maybe I see it as a badge of honor.”

“Please. It looks like the first stage of turning into a zombie.”

It may seem strange, because of her whole attitude toward orphans, but Miss Teen Ragland was a big fan of horror movies. Last year for Christmas, I'd given her a zombie survival guide, which she'd thought was hilarious.

I don't think she would have enjoyed
watching
The Princess Bride
with Jason last night. Correction: She might not have enjoyed the movie, but she would have enjoyed being with him. Even though he'd seen the movie before, it still made him laugh, and he had such a great laugh. In spite of it making my head hurt worse, I'd found myself laughing with him. I couldn't remember the last time I'd enjoyed watching a movie so much. Not the actual movie, just the act of watching it with someone else.

I turned away from the mirror.

“That is really hideous,” Tiffany said, stepping back.

“Thanks, Tiff. Your attitude will help me go out into the world with confidence.”

I sat on my bed and put my pillow behind my back. Maybe I'd just spend the day listening to the rain. Or maybe I'd work on my column, but change the focus to the dangers of being hit by a foul ball. Speaking of the foul ball…it was on my nightstand. I picked it up and began studying the autographs.

“Do you want me to fix you some lunch or something? I could call Jason and have him
bring you some takeout when he gets off from work.”

I looked at my alarm clock. It was almost one. I couldn't believe I'd slept so late, but between staying up to watch the movies and the rain…

Then I realized what Tiffany had said. “Calling for takeout is not
fixing
someone something to eat.”

“According to Mom it is.”

Too true.

“So Jason's at work already?”

“Yep.”

I started tossing the ball back and forth, between one hand and the other. Jason had to be exhausted, although he'd fallen asleep on the love seat during
Fever Pitch
. I don't think that actually counted as his sleeping with me, though.

I'd ended up watching him more than I'd watched the movie. I wasn't exactly sure why I'd found him so intriguing, or why I took such pleasure in just looking at him. It was much easier to do when he wasn't awake and looking at me, too. Giving him a hottie score of six continued to haunt me. Maybe I'd give him a
special score: ten point five. Just for being so considerate last night.

I looked up. Tiffany was hovering.

I waved my hand at her. “Go on. I'm fine. I can order my own takeout.”

“You know, the real problem is going to come in a few days when it begins yellowing. Then it'll seriously clash with your reddish hair.”

Only Tiffany would worry about properly accessorizing a black eye.

“But it'll go great with my eyes,” I said. “Because yellow and green go together.”

“Mmm. Might work. Still, come see me if you want it to go away.”

And what was she going to do? Wave a magic wand?

 

“That thing could seriously affect your boyfriend plans,” Bird said later when she stopped by to check out my shiner.

“Cheer me up, why don't you?”

“Sorry. I'm just saying…it's not what I'd call attractive.”

“Whatever. It's not permanent. So tell me about the
kiss
.”

She was sitting on my bed, totally loose, legs folded beneath her, shoulders kinda rounded, her smile one of complete happiness.

“Well…it happened at the party. I think the whole team was there. Dad was grilling hot dogs.” She stuck out her tongue. “I'll never eat another hot dog. Anyway, Brandon and I were in the pool, talking, moving around just a little, and it was getting dark, dark, darker…and I didn't realize we'd gotten to the deep end, and suddenly there was no floor beneath me and I went under.

“Brandon's taller, so he was fine. He grabbed me, and I just glided back to him, and when I came up for air, he kissed me. It was so good…then all the lights came on. The ones around the pool, the ones in the pool. Dad had flipped the switch.”

“Did he see y'all?”

“I don't think so. We broke apart so fast I almost drowned again.”

I laughed, imagining Bird spluttering when she really wanted to be kissing.

“Glad you find it humorous,” she said.

“He's not living with you, so it's okay to date him, right?”

“Do you want your dad to see you kissing a guy? It's just too…weird.”

“I can't believe you got a boyfriend so quickly.”

“Well, I don't know that he's technically my boyfriend”—she made quote marks in the air—“we've talked, we've kissed…” She leaned forward and grinned broadly. “I like him a lot. A whole lot.”

“That's great, Bird.”

Her cell phone rang. She plucked it out of her tote bag, looked at the display, mouthed
it's him
, and answered.

“Hey…yeah.”

I felt uncomfortable looking on while she talked, so I got up, walked to the window, and watched the rain fall. The game would be rained out. No way it wouldn't be.

I tried not to wonder what Bird was doing right that I obviously wasn't. I mean, she and Brandon had connected almost immediately. Where was the guy I was supposed to connect with?

“That sounds great,” I heard Bird say. “I'll let Dani know.”

I turned around as Bird hung up.

“They've officially announced that tonight's game's been rained out,” she said.

“What's so great about that?”

“The team's going to Dave and Bubba's, and we're invited. Apparently, the manager, expecting the game to be canceled, called the team owners to let them know anyone wearing a Rattlers cap tonight gets food for half price. Plus they have the pool tables and video games, so it's cheap entertainment on a rainy night.”

And a chance to maybe, finally, at last, connect with someone.

“Brandon's taking me. He said Jason would give you a lift.”

“So now you're arranging my car service? I could take myself, you know.”

“That hit on the head has made you grumpy.”

Not the hit so much as the bruising afterward. It was tender.

“When was the last time Tiffany didn't need the car? It's ninety-nine percent hers,” Bird continued. “Besides, it's much cooler to go with a player.”

If he was a player who wasn't living with
you. I felt like a charity case.

After Bird left, I couldn't stop thinking about her comment regarding my black eye affecting my love life. Since it was pretty much nonexistent at this point, I thought some serious intervention might be needed.

Going to Tiffany for help wasn't something I was really comfortable doing. Our interests were so vastly different that, sadly, our lives seldom intersected. I knocked on the door to her room.

“Come in,” she sang out.

She was sitting with her legs crossed beneath her in the middle of her bed, all sorts of magazines and catalogs spread out around her, a notebook in her lap, pen in hand, glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Working to determine what would be the perfect outfit to wear when I sing the national anthem.”

She said “working” like she was doing manual labor.

“It's a baseball game,” I said.

“I'll be wearing my Miss Teen Ragland crown. I have to project a certain image.
People just don't understand everything that's involved in looking your best.”

She gave me a once-over that said I was definitely one of those people with a low looking-your-best IQ.

“I can't believe how much effort you put into it,” I said.

“You have no clue. For each appearance I do, I have to consider the lighting, what's in style, what colors go best with my hair, my complexion, how much should I tan, what style accentuates my entire figure.”

I stared at her. “I had no idea.”

“Like I said, most people don't. So what do you want? I'm sure you didn't come in here to talk about my wardrobe.”

I felt kinda bad I'd taken so little interest in her life as a beauty contestant, especially now that I might benefit from her experiences. I decided a little generosity on my part might be in order.

“The game's been rained out, and the team's going to Dave and Bubba's. Do you want to come?”

“I can't. Wednesday night I deliver cheer to
the hospital—as Miss Teen Ragland.”

She made it sound like the “cheer” was prepackaged.

“Gee, do you ever do anything as Tiffany Runyon?”

She laughed. “Of course I do.”

But she didn't offer examples.

I stepped farther into the room. “Listen, you'd mentioned earlier about having special makeup.” I pointed to my eye. “You said you could make it go away.”

“Oh, sure. Sit down at my vanity.”

As I sat on the bench in front of the vanity table, I avoided looking in the mirror. I flinched every time I saw the reminder of last night's mishap. The vanity's top was covered in bottles, tubes, and containers in all shapes and sizes.

Tiffany approached. “Turn around.”

I slid around on the bench. She slipped her finger beneath my chin, tipped my head back, and sighed as though she'd just been asked to single-handedly rebuild New Orleans.

An eternity later, after countless “close your eyes,” “open your eyes,” “look up,” “look down,” “tilt your head this way,” “tilt your head
that way,” and applying one thing after another, she stepped back and studied me.

“I'm going to have to do something with your hair. It just doesn't belong with that face.”

“How can it not belong with this face?” I asked. “It's attached to the scalp that goes to the face.”

She rolled her eyes, put her hands on my shoulders, and turned me around.

“Oh…wow,” I whispered as I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Not only had Tiffany removed almost any evidence of my accident—the lump was still slightly visible—but she'd removed any evidence of me.

“We'll bring your hair down in front to cover the bump. There's no way I can make that go away,” she said.

“Gosh, I look almost…pretty.”

“Well, duh?! We share the same genes, you know.”

“What can you do with my hair?” I asked.

“I don't know. That's going to be a real challenge. It's not even professionally straightened.”

“Is yours?”

She creased her brow. “Yeah. How could you not know that?”

“I just never really paid much attention.”

“I'm going to warm up the heating irons.”

“Irons, as in more than one?”

“You're hopeless. It's not like the hideous nightshirts you wear. One iron doesn't fit all.”

Shaking her head, she walked in to the bathroom.

I looked back into the mirror. Finding something to wear with this face was going to be a real challenge, too.

In the end, Tiffany helped me with the clothes as well: jeans, a lacy camisole, and a sheer green shirt that she provided. Because it was unbuttoned and tied at the waist, it wasn't evident that it was actually a size too big for me.

Tiffany worked a miracle with my hair. She fluffed, volumized, moussed, gelled, and sprayed it into obedience.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I hardly recognized myself. “Thanks, Tiff. Really, I just wanted you to cover up the black eye.”

“Once I got started, it was hard to stop.
Kinda like painting a room. Once you touch the brush to the wall, you have to keep going until you've covered every inch.”

As Miss Teen Ragland, she'd been involved in Habitat for Humanity. I don't think she actually worked on the house—although they did have a film clip on the local news showing her wearing a tool belt and a hard hat—but she'd confessed to me later they'd been props to make the story more interesting. She'd actually just gone to the site to “deliver encouragement.”

I reached for the baseball cap hanging from a rack near my bedroom door.

“What are you doing?” Tiffany asked.

Holding the cap, I faced her. “I have to wear the cap to get a discounted price on the barbecue.”

She snatched the cap from between my fingers. “You're not ruining my creation with a baseball hat. Pay full price. Beauty isn't cheap.”

I looked in the mirror again. I wasn't even sure I could get the cap on over the fluff. “Maybe we went a little overboard.”