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It’s 8:52 PM on a Tuesday in January at the brutalist Sears on the outskirts of Kansas City and Boyfriend Monreal is working the closing shift. Again.
They pull this shift more often than not these days, due to being one of the few people who could be trusted to do it right. It’s not even that difficult of a duty: walk around the store to shoo out any lingering customers, turn out the main lights, lock up all the doors. But last time Tiara Xidoufen had the job, she sprinted through the entire store to “check on things” and then somehow managed to drop her keyring down an elevator shaft. On the other hand, when they gave the task to Lorcan Smaht, ey obsessively checked and rechecked the same aisle in the hardware section and never got around to actually locking up.
So the responsibility fell on Boyfriend’s shoulders. Which was fine. Wasn’t as if they had anything else to do, these days.
They’re a bit slower than usual tonight as they walk through the Appliances section on the third floor, something they can’t quite put into words weighing on their mind. The store is already empty--Tuesday isn’t a particularly busy day to begin with, and besides, hardly any customers visit outside of on game days. Unfortunately, that means plenty of time for reflection, jumbled half-thoughts tumbling around in Boyfriend’s mind like clothes in one of the cheap washer-dryer combos they’re walking past.
They got assigned to closing shifts because they did things right. Max had even offered them a promotion to Assistant Manager a few weeks back--”No increase in pay,” he had said, “but more responsibilities. And exposure!” Boyfriend had smiled politely and pointed out that Hewitt would never forgive them if he found out they were in management. When Max had responded by growling out, “Who’s Hewitt?”, Boyfriend’s smile had grown strained. That’s when Boyfriend remarked out that they hadn’t been seeing the cost-of-living-adjustments that Max had promised on their most recent paycheck, and they really should raise that issue with the union, and Max had faked a heart attack to try to get out of the conversation.
Some things change, and some things stay the same. It is just unfortunate, Boyfriend thought, which particular things are which.
They move out of Appliances and pass into the Home Office section, where Plums Blather is crouched down, a line of staplers on display at eye level, organized neatly by color, size, and gauge.
“About time to call it quits!” Boyfriend calls out, trying to be friendly.
Plums mutters something inaudible in response, but quickly straightens up, shoving the smallest of the staplers into their pocket before hurrying off.
It kind of hurts. Not the casual workplace theft--Boyfriend knows Max doesn’t pay them anywhere near enough, particularly the active players. But… the invisibility. Sure, they don’t exactly go out of their way to make friends with anyone. They kind of figure that the new team needed to form its own identity, not be held back by ghosts of the past. Yet…
The thing about Blaseball is it’s hard as hell to get out of the game. It’s even harder for the game to get out of you. From what Boyfriend has heard, a couple of old friends have managed it, through a combination of luck and a loophole; Boyfriend isn’t exactly sure where they both are these days, but they regularly check in on Rod.Net’s bandcamp, where he drops new hot singles every week or two in his attempt to rebrand as a glitchy hyperpop music producer. And Leach? Wherever Leach is, she’s raising hell and living it up.
Boyfriend, on the other hand, hasn’t been able to let go. They tried for a bit, after they were first Released, but… they never quite figured out where to go after that. In the end, they found themselves drawn back to Kansas City once again, even if just to work the ticket counter at the Meadow and spend their breaks in the now-awkwardly-named Boyfriend Monreal Memorial Butterfly Garden.
…They really miss the Meadow.
But they miss a lot of things. In a weird way they appreciate the brutalist Sears, too. If nothing else, it holds less reminders of friends that are now gone. Boyfriend doesn’t have to walk past the dugout, wishing they could hear Marq’s affected accent and not hear Grey’s animated hand motions. They don’t have to see the big hole in the outfield where Lenny Spruce had once been rooted, or the scorch mark at second base where Whit had been the first of them to go out in flames. They don’t have to pick up balls at the horsepen, where Winnie Hess spent hours honing her craft until she was the very best in the league.
Boyfriend’s teammates are all gone now. Yes, Boyfriend had seen the player for the Worms who called themselves Winnie Hess, but that is not the horse they once knew.
In a way, Boyfriend is gone too. At least, they’re not the person they once were, which everyone else somehow picks up on, on a subconscious level.
It’s not just the fact that the nametag they wear is one that they grabbed at random out of a bucket in the back--obviously Max wouldn’t bother springing for new ones, instead relying on whatever he had scrounged up whenever he got control of this abandoned Sears under dubious pretenses.
But once upon a time, everyone knew Boyfriend. Everyone. Now, if they’re remembered at all, it’s as a legend, not a real person. More often than they want to admit, Boyfriend has rung up a customer obliviously purchasing a replica jersey, or a glassy-eyed bobblehead, or some other kitschy piece of the Boyfriend Monreal Memorial Memorabilia Collection, without them ever giving Boyfriend a second glance.
It was amusing the first time it happened. It steadily grew less funny over time.
Boyfriend keeps walking, making their way to the center of the store. There’s still no sign of any patrons, and the store is quiet, with nothing but the white noise of the HVAC system and the hum of the fluorescent lights.
Then, something breaks the silence. There’s a ‘pop’ sound that immediately makes Boyfriend’s ears perk up, years of ingrained reflexes suddenly jolting them into alert. It’s the sound of a blaseball against a bat. Their footsteps pick up speed, and as they hurry through the Audio/Visual section, they hear voices, too.
Soon enough, they’re standing at the rail of the third floor balcony. The sight always brings up complicated feelings in Boyfriend, but they have to admit: it’s an impressive view. The brutalist Sears is huge--far bigger than it has any reason to be--and though Boyfriend has no idea what the vast center of the store originally was used for, now it holds an entire Blaseball field. Four floors of the store ring the diamond, a vast array of departments all with an excellent view of the games when they’re in progress. Overhead, a vast plate-glass skylight stretches across the expanse; if not for the mass of dark clouds and snow slowly accumulating on the glass, Boyfriend knows that the ominous black hole would be visible, high up above.
It’s a tiny park, smaller than the Meadow, but it works surprisingly well at least as far as Boyfriend has seen, and draws in crowds to the store that often wind up doing their shopping while they’re visiting. The only headaches are cleaning up the wreckage after Stretch Sutton hits a dinger over the left field wall into the Lights & Lighting department. Or when Stretch knocks one in over the right field wall into the Fine China & Tableware department. Or when Stretch blasts a homer over the center field wall into the Remarkably Delicate and Fragile Crystal Figurine department.
For a while, Boyfriend had been confused about why they put all those departments on that side of the store, but they quickly realized it was simply the same rationale that Max Betmint had for most of his more arbitrary decisions: insurance fraud.
At the moment, however, they are surprised to see that the field isn’t empty after all. Someone has liberated a pitching machine--not the Pitching Machine, of course--from the sporting goods section and set it up on top of the center mound. Standing slouched at home plate, blaseball bat in hand, stands Jesse Tredwell, distinctive from their denim vest and the glint off of the beads they wear threaded over their greasy rattail. And positioned at left midfield, wearing a backwards blaseball cap and an expression of intimidating intensity that belies her short stature, is Brooklyn Nottingham.
As Boyfriend watches, the pitching machine spits out a pitch, straight and slow, right over home plate. Jesse Tredwell flinches at the movement, following through with a truly pathetic swing a full second too late.
“Jesus Christ,” Brooklyn snarls, straightening up from her expectant crouch. “Jesse, I need you to hit the ball.”
“I wasn’t ready,” Jesse replies. “That was just a practice swing anyways.” Their reedy voice is petulant--Boyfriend knows for a fact that they’re twenty-two but somehow they still manage to exemplify the energy of a high-school sophomore.
The next pitch comes, and Jesse is apparently better prepared this time. Their bat connects with the ball, but awkwardly, and it dribbles out towards the left field. In a flash, Brooklyn is there, scooping the ball and firing it towards first base. It passes directly over, with no first baseman to catch it and get the out, and then thuds against the side wall of the field.
“Again,” Brooklyn says, already standing back at her original position.
Jesse heaves out a sigh, and rests the end of their bat on the ground, awkwardly trying to lean on it. “Do I have to? C’mon, we’ve been doing this for hours.”
“It’s been forty-five minutes,” Brooklyn says sharply. “And gods know you need the practice.”
“But I was gonna make the tail end of Conrad’s birthday party…”
Brooklyn shoots them a disbelieving glance. “You’re kidding, right?”
“C’mon Brook!” Jesse whines. “He’s just a lil guy! He’s just a lil guy and it’s his birthday.”
“That was your excuse for not practicing last night.”
“Yeah, well, I hear Noah’s gonna bring astronaut ice cream this time. C’mon…”
Brooklyn heaves out a huge sigh, the heel of her palm thunking into her forehead as she drags her hand down across her entire face in frustration.
“We’re about to close,” Boyfriend speaks up. They’ve moved from their initial position, and stand on one of the escalators surrounding the field, heading down towards home plate.
Jesse looks up, relief in their eyes. “Okay, great. Maybe if I leave now I can get there before Stretch eats all the nachos again.”
Brooklyn looks absolutely furious. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she spits out. “I spend all day trying to get one of you losers to actually practice, and you’re going to immediately bail?”
Jesse wilts. “I, uh.”
“I am going to feed you to the thing in the parking lot, I swear to gods, Jesse.”
At that, Jesse Tredwell goes completely pale. “I--I guess… I could… put in a little overtime?”
“Let me,” Boyfriend offers. They walk up to home plate, a slight smile on their lips. “I can hit a few.”
Jesse looks relieved as they hand Boyfriend their bat. “Thanks a million,” they murmur, and their eyes cut down towards the nametag that Boyfriend wears. “...Kenjamin? I really owe you for this one, you’re a lifesaver. Literally.”
“I wouldn’t mention hard candies around here.” Boyfriend grins. “Might be bad luck.”
Jesse’s eyes widen again.
“I’m kidding.”
“Yeah, well, um…” Jesse shoots one last look over their shoulder at Brooklyn, and then they flee, hastily scurrying off the field and towards one of the store exits.
Boyfriend looks up. Brooklyn isn’t in her ready stance. Instead, she stands with her hands planted on her hips, a frown etched across her face.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, the question more of an accusation.
Boyfriend shrugs. “I’ve got closing shift.”
“Not in the store. I mean out on the field. You never come out here.”
Boyfriend feels momentarily off-balance. As much as they resent their current anonymity, they’re used to it, too. No one ever pays Boyfriend much attention--except Brooklyn, apparently?
A pitch sails past them, the pitching machine still blithely chucking balls in their direction.
“What’s your game?” Brooklyn continues, her voice sharp. “Trying to show me up? Put the rookie in her place? It’s not going to happen. I’m better than some prehistoric fuckin’ fossil of Blaseball. You got that?”
One of Boyfriend’s eyebrows floats up. They suppose they should be insulted; that’s clearly her goal. Yet instead they find themselves oddly amused. It’s been a while since Boyfriend has been properly recognized by anyone, and… Well, Boyfriend can’t recall any time at all where the other person had reacted in this sort of way. It’s… refreshing. And also a little annoying. But mostly refreshing.
“Well then,” Boyfriend says. “Let’s just see about that, shall we?”
They step up to the plate properly, twirling the bat in their hands. They show a secretive smile laced with confidence and tip their non-existent cap towards the machine standing on the pitcher’s mound. It’s not likely to earn them any favors against an inanimate object, but it doesn’t hurt to try, either, and the familiar motions are ingrained in Boyfriend through a thousand previous plate appearances.
They plant their feet, knees bent, eyes steady, waiting for the pitch.
When it comes, they’re actually thrown off by how slow it is, just a fat ball hanging right at the center of their strike zone. They swing a little too early, and the ball pops up into the air, dragging over to the left.
Brooklyn barely has to move. They make the simplest of catches and then toss the ball aside, shooting Boyfriend a look of utter disdain.
Boyfriend’s grin deepens. They nod in Brooklyn’s direction, and then repeat the process all over again. Twirl of the bat, tip of the cap, sinking into an easy batting stance.
The next pitch spits out, and this time, Boyfriend is ready. It’s such an easy pitch that it’s a trivial matter to be more judicious with their swing, and this time they deliberately knock a line drive barely inside the right foul line, about as far from Brooklyn as anywhere on the field could be.
It’s the kind of hit that should be patently impossible for anyone in left field to manage. Yet Brooklyn was apparently ready for something like that. Boyfriend doesn’t even see her move, but suddenly she’s in right field, diving with her arm outstretched. She lands heavily, but when she springs back to her feet, the ball is in her glove.
“Is that all?” Brooklyn says smugly. She tosses the ball aside carelessly and takes her time strolling back to her midfield position. “I told you. I’m better than you. I can field anything you hit with my eyes closed, easy.”
Boyfriend yawns theatrically, then raises the bat above their head, arching their back in a stretch. “Would you like to make a bet about that?”
Brooklyn crosses her arms. “What?”
“I still need to close up,” Boyfriend says. “Probably only have time for one more hit. So let’s make it interesting: if I get a hit and end up on base, then you swap to cover my closing shifts for the next two weeks.”
“Mm.” Brooklyn’s face is neutral as she gives Boyfriend a calculating look. “And what do I get if I win? You don’t have anything I want.”
Boyfriend shrugs. “You prove that you’re better than me,” they say. “I mean, you said this was easy, right?”
Brooklyn’s eyes glitter. “Fine. One more. After all, you should be plenty familiar with sudden death, huh?”
Boyfriend grins, unfazed by the remark. They step up. This time there’s no bat twirl or hat tip. They immediately dip into a batting stance. For a moment, they let their eyes flicker up, past the pitching machine, up towards deep center field and the wall at the back of it.
They know what Brooklyn’s thinking: the obvious move here is to go for a home run. It’s cheap, but you can’t exactly field a ball that’s sailing twenty feet over the back wall. Boyfriend’s lips curl.
The pitch comes, slow and straight as always.
Boyfriend waits for the right moment.
And bunts. The ball pops straight up and lands back in the dirt, hardly two feet in front of home plate.
Brooklyn is three steps before the back wall before she realizes and has to hastily reverse her course. By that time, Boyfriend is already flying down the base path, legs burning with effort.
Brooklyn Nottingham is fast out on the field, unnervingly so, but when she makes it to scoop up the ball and turns towards first base, Boyfriend is already standing there, hands on their knees as they pant for breath.
They must be out of shape after all, Boyfriend thinks, because it usually took two or three stolen bases in a row for them to get even slightly winded.
Brooklyn’s face is frozen in a snarl, her teeth clearly clenched. She drops the ball again.
“Looks like I win,” Boyfriend says lightly, once they’ve gotten enough of their breath back.
Brooklyn doesn’t respond. She turns away. She takes her glove off. She drops it onto the ground. Then she kicks it, sending it flying off.
There’s a clunk from the pitching machine. “Watch out!” Boyfriend says, suddenly alert as they realize Brooklyn is standing directly in the path of the ball, her back turned.
Brooklyn doesn’t flinch. She simply reaches back, snatching the ball out of the air with no glove and no glance in that direction. She throws the ball, too, slamming it into the back wall behind the catcher’s box.
“Tell Max to make the change on the schedule,” Brooklyn says. And then she stalks off of the field.
***
It’s nine thirty by the time Boyfriend finishes locking up the rest of the store. They don’t catch any further sign of Brooklyn, or anyone else for that matter. Everyone has better places to be on a Tuesday night, it seems, whether that’s Conrad Twelve’s twenty-fourth birthday party this month or just a quiet night at home.
Boyfriend hates quiet nights at home. But they don’t get invited to birthday parties. It’s not even been half an hour and they’re already starting to regret their wager--at least closing up the Sears is something to do, a way they can still be useful to the team.
As Boyfriend wanders through the store in no particular direction, they still hold one of the blaseballs, rolling it around in their hands. When they try to hold it correctly, as if primed to throw to Eizabeth at first for an inning’s final out, they find their pinky finger aches, twitching slightly.
The rush of being back on the field has left as quickly as it had come, and Boyfriend finds themself feeling even emptier than before. Their legs twinge with the slight beginnings of soreness, complaining about being pushed to their very limit, if only for a moment. Ever since they were incinerated and brought back once again, the skin they wear has felt a size too small, and that discomfort has never been greater than this moment.
But what are you going to do? Boyfriend has existed, and Boyfriend has not existed, and they know they prefer the former by a large margin. But it doesn’t make nights like tonight particularly easy.
The store is a little unsettling with the main lights off, the few backups that always remain lit casting long shadows across the departments. Boyfriend passes through Audio/Visual, ignoring their reflection in the eerie line of TV screens that are all dark and silent. They keep going through Women’s Apparel, faceless mannequins looking on without a comment. It’s times like these that Boyfriend feels like they’re slowly fading away from a person into one more similarly blank and empty piece of the huge store. They wish they could decide whether this idle thought is terrifying or relieving.
They’re walking through the Bedroom and Bedding department, when they hear something: the slightest scraping sound, barely rising above the store’s quiet hum. It’s there and then gone in an instant.
Does the store have mice? Given the mysterious origins of the creature in the parking lot, could it be something more ominous?
Boyfriend pauses. They think for a moment about when they glanced outside each of the doors when they locked up. There’s a light snow falling in Kansas City tonight, and Boyfriend recalls seeing footprints outside of the main entrance slowly being covered up by new snowflakes. Two pairs: one would have belonged to Plums, and one would be Jesse’s…
But that left…?
Boyfriend rolls the blaseball around in their hand, contemplating it for a moment. Then they heft it thoughtfully, and make a popping sound with their lips, tossing it up in the air and right down the center line between the rows of beds on display.
Brooklyn Nottingham dives out from underneath a bed out of pure instinct, catching the ball easily, then rolling to land in a crouch. Her head snaps up to look in Boyfriend’s direction, and for a moment her eyes are wide and unexpectedly vulnerable in how startled she looks. But then she schools her face back into a cold glare.
“Very funny,” she says, through gritted teeth.
Boyfriend looks at her for a long moment. Their glance flicks to the beds, then back to Brooklyn again. A faint pink glows in her cheeks, and Boyfriend immediately knows what’s going on.
Boyfriend sighs. “You can’t say here.”
“Oh fuck off,” Brooklyn responds instantly. “Fuck you and fuck Max Betmint too. Are you really gonna snitch on me, just because--”
“No,” Boyfriend says, holding up a hand. “I mean you can’t stay here because sometimes the Spearmint breaks in through one of the doors and wanders around the store at night.”
At that, Brooklyn goes silent, a hint of legitimate fear flickering in her eyes. She glances away. “I’ll be fine,” she mutters. “And… I don’t have anywhere else to go. Okay?”
Boyfriend blinks. “Really?”
“Yes,” Brooklyn turns back, her glare in full force. “Everyone else fell out of the black hole into a world that already had room for them. Or else they were like Tiara or Stretch, and instantly got to be ‘best buds’ with someone who had a spare room. Not me, okay? No one gives a shit about me, and the feeling is mutual.”
Boyfriend takes that in, remaining silent for a long moment. “You know,” they finally say. “My place is small, but the couch is pretty comfortable. If you wanted…”
Brooklyn is already vigorously shaking her head. “No fucking way. Is this what you do? Is this one of those tricks to get girls to go home with you?”
Boyfriend lets out a laugh that’s so sudden that Brooklyn startles. When they speak, the smug charm from a lifetime ago settles around them like a glove. “Babe, I don’t need tricks,” they say, their voice rich and low. “There’s plenty of people who’d kill for the chance to spend a night with the Boyfriend Monreal.”
“Whatever,” Brooklyn sneers.
Boyfriend’s expression fades back into neutrality. When they speak again, the charismatic artifice is gone. The only thing in their voice is a hint of the weariness they’ve been carrying. “Look. I get it. Okay?”
“Like hell you do.”
“No, I--” Boyfriend cuts themself off with a sigh. They pause to walk over to one of the beds, and then hop up to sit down on it.
Brooklyn’s arms are crossed tightly around her chest, but she draws a little closer, still watching suspiciously.
For a moment, Boyfriend remains silent, chewing on their lip. “I’ve been here for a long time,” they finall say. “I’ve seen a lot of Breath Mints come and go.”
Brooklyn’s eyebrows knit together, clearly perplexed by the abrupt change of topic.
“Everyone’s got a different reason for doing what they do, y’know? I mean, we kind of have to, there’s not much choice once you’re in the league, but… We all have something that’s driving us to play. For Marco, it was the pure joy of being on the field. You should have seen that bug go! For Hewitt, bless him, it was all about the team. He wanted to take care of everyone. Winnie, on the other hand? She wanted to win, more than anything. In the end, she got her ring, and I’m confident she could have gotten a dozen more if given the opportunity. And Leach?” Boyfriend paused. “I don’t think any of us truly know why Leach does the things Leach does, but I suspect it’s just because she thinks it’s funny.”
“I don’t care about ancient history,” Brooklyn said, frowning.
Boyfriend shrugs. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen it all, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.”
Boyfriend looks her over. She’s right. Brooklyn’s no York Silk, pulled into Blaseball at too young of an age. She’s an adult in her own right. Yet for all her sharp edges, there’s something about her that hints at a vulnerability beneath the armor on her surface. Boyfriend knows from seeing it happen a million times that Blaseball does bad things to people--it sharpens those edges until they draw blood, it hardens your armor until all that’s left is for you to snap in two.
Boyfriend sighs.
“...You remind me of someone,” they say.
Brooklyn looks sour. “I’m not like Winnie, okay? Yes, I want to win, but this isn’t a zero-to-hero story. I’m already good. In fact--”
“No,” Boyfriend says. “I mean, I agree, you're not like Winnie at all. Because I don’t think you care that much about winning at all, at least comparatively.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I want to win.”
Boyfriend smiles. “Winning is nice, but it's incidental."
"So tell me," Brooklyn says, her voice dripping with disdain. "What do I want, since you know me so well?"
"What you really want is to be a star,
" Boyfriend says. "The person you remind me of is… well. Me.”
Boyfriend can tell that Brooklyn wants to respond, wants to shoot back some harsh rejection, but she remains silent instead.
“But here's the thing about stars,” Boyfriend says. “The best of them burn the brightest… but in time, they all do burn.”
“So what? You want to tell me to quit instead?”
Boyfriend shakes their head slowly. “You and I both know that’s not how it works.”
“Then what is this? You want to take me under your wing?” Brooklyn asks, sarcasm thick in her voice. “You want to give me life advice?”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Boyfriend responds. “I gave everything to this splort. It took everything away, too. I wouldn’t wish my career on my worst enemy, and I’d also do it all over again exactly the same way in a heartbeat if given the chance. I don’t have any answers. I’m just saying that I get it. I understand." Boyfriend lets out a long sigh. "And you seem like you could use someone who understands.”
Brooklyn hesitates, but she still looks skeptical. “I don’t need a boyfriend,” she insists sharply.
Boyfriend just nods. “How about a regular friend instead?" They smile ruefully, and mutter, "Gods know I could use one.”
Brooklyn is quiet for a long time, and Boyfriend can see her cold facade cracking. She looks uncharacteristically uncertain, her eyes flicking back and forth and her lips pressing together in a firm line as she weighs the thought in her head.
Boyfriend waits patiently, giving her time.
“Maybe…” Brooklyn finally mutters. “Maybe that would be okay.” She suddenly looks up, challenge in her eyes. “But if so, you’re going to have to help me with practice when all of the rest of these losers ditch.”
Boyfriend grins. “Sure. Hey, if you ask nicely, maybe I’ll even teach you how to steal bases.”
“That’s illegal.”
“I mean, it is called stealing.”
Brooklyn shakes her head firmly. “No, I mean, it’s not allowed at all. It’s in the rule book and everything.”
Boyfriend’s grin stretches even wider. “Well, it’s only a problem if you get caught.” With that, they hop down off of the bed, a bit more pep suddenly in their step. “Now come on, it’s time to get home before it gets too late and the Spearmint starts getting more active.”
They turn and walk, and make it down to the end of the aisle before realizing Brooklyn isn’t with them. When they turn back, she’s still standing there, a strange expression on her face.
“Home,” Brooklyn says under her breath, so quietly that Boyfriend isn’t certain that they heard it correctly. But then she shakes herself, and hurries over to grab a backpack from underneath another bed. She starts walking in Boyfriend’s direction.
“So,” Brooklyn says. “What if we make another bet, and the loser is the one who has to sleep on the couch?”
Boyfriend’s eyebrows raise. They decide not to mention that they were going to offer her the bed anyways. “Sure,” they say instead. “Have anything in particular in mind?”
“Nope,” Brooklyn replies. “But I’m still better at you than everything, so take your pick in terms of contests.”
Boyfriend lets out a laugh, slinging one arm around Brooklyn’s shoulders. “Oh my, this is going to be fun,” they say, and for the first time in a long time, they believe it.