The Baseball Pool Bet

The humidity hit me like a physical thing as I stepped onto the patio, where the pool shimmered with that too-perfect blue that only money can buy. Connor's house, of course. Connor, whose dad played in the majors and whose parties were always The Thing to be at if you were anybody.

I wasn't anybody. But I was here, thanks to Jordan, my friend slash situation slash person I'd been avoiding since The Incident.

"You're in the pool, right?" Jordan materialized beside me, holding a red Solo cup. Their grin was too wide, too careful. "The betting pool. For who's hooking up with who."

I rolled my eyes. "We're not doing this again."

"Ten bucks says Connor and Sophie end up together by midnight."

"You're playing baseball with your money, Jordan. Literally throwing it around like—"

"Like you did at the game last week?" They raised an eyebrow. "When you bet twenty bucks that the Tigers would win and lost?"

My face burned. That had been stupid. Drunk stupid. The kind of stupid that felt good in the moment but left you hollow after.

"That's different."

"Is it?" Jordan stepped closer. Their eyes held mine, and I saw it again—that thing I'd been pretending wasn't there since seventh grade. "Because I'm pretty sure you're still playing. Just with different stakes."

The pool laughter roared behind us. Someone cannonballed. Water splashed over the edge, glittering like diamonds in the fairy lights.

"What stakes?" I whispered, even though I knew.

"Us." Jordan's voice dropped. "You keep betting I'll disappear. You keep hedging your bets, waiting for—what? For me to get tired? For it to get weird?"

I looked at them, really looked. The Jordan I'd grown up with, who knew every secret, who'd held my hair when I puked after homecoming, who'd watched me figure out who I was, slowly and painfully.

"I'm scared," I said, the truth finally loud enough to hear. "That if we—change things—I'll lose my best friend."

Jordan smiled, soft and real. "You won't lose me. You'll just—gain more of me."

They held out their hand. "Wanna fold? Or do you want to see what happens if you go all in?"

The pool, the friend, the baseball metaphors I'd been hiding behind for months. All of it crashed together at once.

I took their hand.

"All in," I said.

And somewhere in the distance, I could've sworn I heard the crack of a bat connecting with a ball—a perfect hit, finally.