The Boyfriend League by Rachel Hawthorne Page B

bag, looked at the display, mouthed it’s him , and answered.
    â€œHey…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?
    â€œThat sounds great,” I heard Bird say. “I’ll let Dani know.”
    I turned around as Bird hung up.
    â€œThey’ve officially announced that tonight’s game’s been rained out,” she said.
    â€œWhat’s so great about that?”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œBrandon’s taking me. He said Jason would give you a lift.”
    â€œSo now you’re arranging my car service? I could take myself, you know.”
    â€œThat hit on the head has made you grumpy.”
    Not the hit so much as the bruising afterward. It was tender.
    â€œWhen 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 withyou. 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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œWorking 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.
    â€œIt’s a baseball game,” I said.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI can’t believe how much effort you put into it,” I said.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œLike 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.
    â€œThe game’s been rained out, and the team’s going to Dave and Bubba’s. Do you want to come?”
    â€œI can’t. Wednesday night I deliver cheer tothe hospital—as Miss Teen Ragland.”
    She made it sound like the “cheer” was prepackaged.
    â€œGee, do you ever do anything as Tiffany Runyon?”
    She laughed. “Of course I do.”
    But she didn’t