I waved away the tequila Brandon held in my direction and plopped my ass on the couch. “Man, if a girl like that ever came at you, you’d piss your pants.”
The guys cracked up laughing, and Carlos scoffed. “False.” Then, after thinking about it, said, “Actually, truth. But only because her muscle-head boyfriend would kick my ass. I’m really more of a lover than a fighter.”
Brandon shook his head, holding back a smile. “From where I’m sitting, I’ve got to say… I don’t think you’re much of either.”
“Have you not seen Ashley Walsh all over my junk?” he asked indignantly. “She thinks I’m the shit.”
“You mean your Diamond Doll?” Drew threw his head against the back of the sofa. “Jesus, dude. I bet you’d think strippers like you, too.”
I choked on my beer, and Carlos flipped us all off. “Screw you guys.”
I slapped him on the shoulder and he shoved my hand away. “We’re just fucking with you, man.”
“Yeah, well, what the hell do I care why she’s with me? Have you seen Ashley? Her ass is smoking, and her Rice Krispie treats taste like tiny bits of heaven.” He raised a shot glass full of whiskey in salute. “If she’s with me because I’m on the team, then all I can say is, ‘bring on the games.’”
He downed the shot, Brandon followed, and Drew caught my eye.
I didn’t know much about the dude, other than he played third base and seemed to be a good guy. Didn’t talk a lot of shit, mostly kept to himself. He didn’t even appear all that interested in Bethany, the hot cheerleader that trailed his ass since they’d announced he made the roster.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t y’all think the whole
Diamond Doll thing is a little stupid? I mean, the only thing those girls care about is that we play ball. If I weren’t on the team, I doubt Beth would give me a second look.” Around a mouthful of popcorn he mumbled, “And she’s not exactly my type, either.”
“Ah, okay, so your type isn’t hot blonde.” Carlos nodded seriously. “Gotcha.”
“What I mean is,” Drew said, beaning him with a kernel, “casual isn’t really my thing. I prefer one girl, a sweet, normal, cool girl I can be with, not a bunch of meaningless hookups.”
“And I’m the exact opposite,” I replied, even as a pair of blue-gray eyes and a shock of strawberry blonde hair flashed in my mind. After witnessing my dad and step-monster’s joke of a marriage, I’d learned relationships were a waste of time. “I don’t do commitment.”
“Too bad girls don’t come with some sort of label, huh?” Brandon asked. “A name tag that said if they wanted a relationship or are cool with just hanging out. Nothing serious. Just…” He glanced at Drew. “Casual.”
Onscreen, the first fight of the night began. The guy in the red corner was a huge favorite, not much of a matchup. We watched the fighters size each other up, and Carlos said, “Maybe we should make a list for ourselves.”
“Huh?”
He lifted a shoulder and said, “We’ve been going to school with most of these girls for years, some since kindergarten. Odds are at least one of us has a good read on them, knows what type of relationship they’re looking for. May make it easier on the rest of us, you know?”
Brandon looked at Drew. Drew glanced at me. I turned to Carlos and said, “I’ll be right back.”
In my room, I headed straight for the bookshelf. Although several private schools fed into the high school, mine had been just down the block and was where the majority of the students came from. My eighth grade yearbook would have at least half the girls in our class.
When I snatched it off my shelf, the corner of the book hit the stand holding my baseball. It rolled under my bed and I quickly stooped to get it. Palming it, I stood back up and glanced at Larry Dierker’s name. Everything about that day flooded over me. Dad taking me to the game. Standing beside me in line while we waited to meet his favorite player. Larry signing my ball and showing me a proper grip.
I tossed it in the air, caught it, and put it back on the stand. Then, grabbing a legal pad and a pen, I left the room.
“Back,” I announced, brandishing the yearbook like some sort of answer key. “This should help with that list.”
Cracking open the book, I quickly flipped to the eighth grade photos and tossed the pad to Carlos. He drew a long line down the center and at the top wrote “Casual” on one side and “Commitment” on the other.
“Gabi Avila,” I read, looking at the tough chick from English class. “Huh. You know, I can’t get a read on this girl at all. I’ve gone to school with her for a while but haven’t said like two words to her.”
Carlos glanced over and I held up the book. “Hot,” he announced. “And my luck, a ‘Commitment.’”