THE BRO-MAGNET by Lauren Baratz-Logsted Page B

of blue-green. I also notice that she looks bored out of her skull.
    I’m thinking about how pretty and bored she looks, thinking about how eventually every seat in every stadium in the land will one day be filled strictly with bored people who are only there because their companies have season tickets but who have no real love of the game, when my attention is pulled away by the sound of my own name. Problem is, I realize almost immediately, no one’s talking to me; they’re talking about me. 
    “Really?” JJ Trey pops a sushi roll into his mouth, follows it down with a delicate sip of his ice-cold Stoli. “You invited your house painter to the game?”
    “What’s next,” Monte Carlo says, swirling the swizzle stick in his Rob Roy, “you going to ask your garbage man to the opera?”
    I don’t know what I expect when I hear this – that Steve will laugh with them, sell me down the river? That he’ll say inviting me was just some big joke?
    But he doesn’t do any of this.
    “Come on, guys,” he says, “Johnny’s amazing. He’s really funny.”
    “Right.” Monte Carlo snorts. “Like him laughing at my name. The guy’s a real laugh riot.”
    “I’m serious,” Steve says. “Not only that, he’s really smart too.”
    Now it’s JJ Trey’s turn to snort.
    “I’m telling you,” Steve says, “the guy’s like some kind of legal savant.” He casts his eyes to the right, to the two women sitting next to our box, and lowers his voice. “He’s the one who gave me the idea of how to get my last client off. My client was facing some serious time, the prosecutor had a solid case and – ”
    Enough of this. It’s nice of Steve to defend me this way, but he shouldn’t have to sell me to these two guys.
    I “ahem” loudly, as I pass Monte Carlo and JJ Trey’s seats, resume my seat beside Steve, hot dogs and beer in hand.
    “Hey, Johnny.” Monte Carlo taps me on the shoulder. “Steve here says – ”
    But he doesn’t get a chance to finish, because just then my cell phone rings. I’m going to ignore it – I’m at a ballgame, after all, even if it is the Yankees – but then I notice people all around us yakking on their cells, and I figure what the hell.
    But my hands are full of hot dogs and beer. I look around me for a place to put them as the cell keeps ringing, notice the two women in the box beside ours staring at me.
    “You want one?” I say, indicating the hot dogs. The one in the rumpled suit shakes her head like I might be a pervert or something, but Blue-Green Eyes smiles politely as she says, “No, thank you.” There’s something about her voice that’s instantly familiar, but I can’t place it and anyway the phone’s still ringing. I have the longest ring in the world before it’ll switch to voicemail; the long ring is because sometimes when I’m working an exterior and I’m up high on the ladder, I prefer to get down to terra firma before picking up. As I set the hot dogs and beer on the ground, however, I do think about how politely Blue-Green Eyes responded to me. I always think it says a lot about a person, how they treat strangers and people who are dressed inferiorly to them in a social setting.
    “Could be work,” I say apologetically to Steve as I flip open the phone.
    “Hello?” I say, listen as the caller identifies himself.
    Steve nudges me. “Is it work?”
    I shush him, speak into the phone, making my voice go all excited. “Are you kidding me? I finally made the team?”
    “What team?” Steve says, and I can feel Monte Carlo and JJ Trey lean forward, interested.
    “The Mets,” I say, covering the mouthpiece with my hand as I listen to the voice in my ear.
    I respond to the voice, “This is fantastic! When do you want me to show up for practice? This may surprise you to hear it, but playing shortstop for the Mets has been my lifelong dream!”
    The voice in my ear and I go on for a time, before I finally end the call with, “Looking forward to