Sunday Night Spies

The bull in me wanted to march right up to Jordan's front door and demand answers, but the spy in me won out. Instead, I crouched behind the rhododendron bush with Marcus, my knees grinding into dirt that still smelled like Saturday's rain.

"You think she's actually watching baseball?" Marcus whispered, swiping a hand through his hair until it stood up in tufts. "Jordan hates sports. She called baseball 'five hours of dudes standing around' last week."

"Exactly. Something's up." I adjusted my position, accidentally snapping a twig. We both froze.

Jordan's bedroom was on the second floor, curtains drawn. But the flickering blue light behind them told us everything: cable TV. Jordan's parents were super strict about screens — no cable, no streaming, definitely no unsupervised TV. The fact that she was hiding in there watching something secretly meant trouble.

Or opportunity.

"What if she's in trouble?" I whispered. "What if she's watching something crazy illegal?"

Marcus snorted. "It's Jordan, Mia. She probably just wants to watch The Bachelor without her mom judging her life choices."

I bit my lip. Because here's the thing Marcus didn't know: I'd liked Jordan since seventh grade, when she'd dyed a streak of her hair purple and gotten sent to the principal's office, returning with this defiant smirk that made my stomach do backflips. Two years later, she still made me nervous.

A sudden movement at Jordan's window. We both ducked.

The window flew open.

"You know," Jordan's voice floated down, "the rhododendrons haven't been good cover since freshman year."

I nearly died. Marcus groaned.

Jordan leaned out, her hair loose around her shoulders, that familiar smirk playing at her lips. "You wanna tell me why you're spying on me, or should I guess?"

We climbed the trellis — humiliating — and tumbled through her window into a room transformed. Posters covered every inch of wall, but not band posters or movie stars. Baseball posters. Vintage, historic, incredible.

"You collect baseball memorabilia?" Marcus asked, incredulous.

Jordan's face softened. "My grandpa played. Minor leagues. He died before I was born, but my dad saved all his stuff. I'm not supposed to have it out — Mom thinks it's just collecting dust in the attic." She nodded toward a box on her bed. "I stream old games through this sketchy cable hookup my cousin showed me. It's my thing. You gonna tell on me?"

I looked at Jordan — really looked at her — and felt something shift between us. "No," I said. "But I will watch the next game with you, if you want."

Jordan's smile was worth the dirt on my knees. "Deal. But you're explaining the rules to Marcus."