The Boyfriend League by Rachel Hawthorne

carton, grabbed theremote, and held it up. “Dad has a universal remote. This controls everything.”
    â€œYour dad is into gadgets.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œWhat did you think of the little bit of the game you saw?” he asked, his voice low.
    â€œI didn’t really see much of it. I was working in the concession stand until the bottom of the fourth.”
    â€œNot my best inning. I let them get some hits, score two runs—”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI’m just saying, baseball is a team sport.”
    â€œNot as much as some.” He shrugged. “I don’t mean to be a downer. I just hate having a bad night.”
    â€œTrust me. Your night wasn’t as bad as mine.”
    â€œI 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.

Chapter 11
    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?”
    â€œIt’s tender,” I admitted.
    â€œI have some makeup that will cover it right up. No one will know.”
    â€œMaybe I want people to know. Maybe I see it as a badge of honor.”
    â€œPlease. 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 enjoyedwatching 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.
    â€œThat is really hideous,” Tiffany said, stepping back.
    â€œThanks, 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