Chapter 13 – The First Innings

"What do you mean you're going to see some friends?" his mother asked from the bottom of the stairs as Blake, still in his work uniform, traipsed up them to his room. He had to admit, her surprise stung a little. But she had a point; he spent most Saturday's by himself, or doing homework, or with them as a family. When he had come back and told them he was headed out (omitting the fact it was Alex's house he was headed to - his mother would have had a field day with that piece of information), there had been a spark of interest in the Collins residence. Who was he going to see? What would they be doing? How long would he be gone? Why hadn't he mentioned it sooner? Was it a date? All the questions that had made him keep it from them in the first place. He had managed to be vague, but his mother was more persistent than he gave her credit for.

Blake turned on the stairs with a heavy sigh. "I'm just going round a friend's house," he explained calmly. "There's some kind of big baseball game on and I got invited to go round and watch it." It wasn't exactly a lie, even if he didn't know where he stood with William yet.

"Baseball," his mother repeated, saying it like it was a dirty word.

"It's the World Series final today," said Clive, who had appeared behind her to lead her away, wearing his reading glasses. "It's alright - go get changed."

"Thank you," muttered Blake, frustrated and a little exasperated, turning his back on them and heading up once more to his room.

His room was at the front of the house, overlooking the street and separated from the other bedrooms by his own bathroom, an upstairs study and the family bathroom. His was easily one of the largest rooms but none of the rooms in the Collins house were less than adequately sized. Blake regarded his own as some kind of sanctuary; a place he could come go to when he didn't feel like facing humanity, and somewhere he could shut the door to. It would have been perfect, had it been big enough to dance in, but then again that was why the garage had been converted into a studio space.

Opening the door, he threw his bag down, breathing another sigh. Safe at last. His mother didn't dare bother him there, and only Chase entered when invited to.

Blake's room was painted the same baby blue it had been since his mother decorated it when seven months pregnant, and although the rest of the house had undergone recent redecoration and changes, Blake had demanded his stayed the same. The floor was a carpet of desert beige – neutral at his mother's insistence, as it created an easy palette. There was a desk, overlooking the street out front, and opposite was his double bed with a quilt his grandmother had made draped over the end. The room was bare and without personal affects, apart from a few black and white posters of famous dancers – Mikhail Baryshnikov, Darcey Bussell, a cast ensemble photograph of the Royal Ballet School's performance of the Nutcracker – pinned above his bed. The only personal photograph was of Chase, grinning wildly at his first dance class, and it was the only picture framed, standing proudly on the desk by his books. Everything was neat; not a scrap of clothing out of place or left untidy, and if it had been any other way, Blake would not have liked it so much.

He had a quick shower partly because he couldn't shake the smell of work – a large brand sports store which smelt perpetually of leather – and partly because he wanted to look a little better than a boy who had spent the morning in the stock room being order around by a fat man with a gout problem. Not that Blake supposed you could tell that just by looking at him, but it was psychological, and as soon as he stood under the hot shower stream, he began to feel the stress of work ebb away with the flow of water. He finished quickly, dismissing his thoughts of work, and soon he was standing at his chest of drawers with a confused frown.

He had to be at Alex's in half an hour, and although it wasn't far, there was still the matter of what on earth did someone wear to watch a sports match at someone else's house? He'd never taken an active interest in the sport; he liked baseball to a point and supported a team, but he hardly had time to watch it and he wasn't exactly the sort of guy who had sports jerseys just lying around. No, normal and casual would have to do, he thought, as he pulled a long sleeved navy top from the drawers and pulled it over his wet head. It was only Alex after all.

He paused, midway through tugging his top on, and thought about it. Only Alex? What a stupid thought – and who was he kidding? It was because it was Alex. That girl could have asked him to scale Mount Everest with her just for kicks and he would have considered it. He could sure as hell manage to make himself semi presentable. He yanked off the top, folded it neatly, replaced it and looked again. After all, she only ever saw him at rehearsal, in dance clothes and mostly likely sweating profusely. And while she seemed to carry off the slight glisten upon flesh that had been working hard, he had no doubt it wasn't a fantastic look for him.

Blake shook his head again, as if to shake away the distracting thoughts of them in rehearsal and reached for a dark green long sleeved top – a similar style but newer and a little more acceptable. He tugged on some jeans, and went into the en suite which was still humid from the heat of the shower, and reached for some deodorant. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he frowned once more at the thin pale boy before him. He looked tired, and grave, and so serious. You'd never know he was seventeen. He tried smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes just yet.

There was little he could do with his hair; it had grown a little longer, and most likely needed a cut, but there was nothing he could do about it now, short of picking up some scissors himself. And for a guy who could execute a perfect pirouette, his coordination and steady handedness would fail him when there was a sharp implement around. It was wet, but drying quickly, so he roughed it up a bit, sighed and returned to his room.

He had no idea why he was so nervous; it wasn't a date – her father would be there for Pete's sake. But still he couldn't get rid of the strange knotted sensation in his gut or the way his palms seemed to be sweating. Maybe it was the sheer exhilaration of the idea that he was getting out and doing something different, be it with a girl or not. It didn't matter what he was going to do he concluded, but the fact that for the first time in a long time, he was excited about the prospect of another person's company. Two people, actually, because although they hadn't spoken long, Blake had quite like William's easy charm and good humour. They would be a refreshing change from sitting down with Chase and his parents, not that he didn't love them. And what else would he have done this afternoon? He glanced at the bag hanging on the back of his door that had his dance shoes inside.

Dance wasn't all that made him who he was; he had to be made of something more. He had to start stepping outside of the box, and in turn, letting people in, and to stop being defined by it. He had to be a person outside of his beloved shoes too.

Picking up his bag and turning off the light once he was satisfied it was all tidy (the mirror in the bathroom had been wiped, the towel hung up, and all toiletries returned to their cupboard), he crept down the stairs towards the door. Blake didn't really want another confrontation with his Mom. He had just about managed to get both sneakers on when his mother reappeared and leant against the door frame.

"You're leaving now?" she asked. He nodded.

"Who's playing?" she asked again.

"The...Atlanta Braves, and the Cleveland Indians," he repeated, trying to remember as he tied his shoelace. His mother nodded with a thoughtful expression, as if she had any idea what he was talking about.

"Will you be home late?" she asked, with genuine concern flooding her features. Blake sighed, adjusting his bag strap across his chest as he stood up straight and shrugged.

"I don't know – I'm not sure how long these things usually last. If I will be, I'll let you know ok?" he offered with a weak smile. Frances nodded and went to kiss his cheek. Nothing more was said by her, and she moved through to the lounge again, where Blake could hear classical music coming from. Stepping out the door, he breathed a sigh of relief. His parents had never stopped him doing anything like this before, simply because he'd never asked, and at the back of his mind had been the concern that his mother would put her foot down. She would have done, had she considered it a threat to his future career.

But here he was, strolling to his Mustang with a smile that threatened to split across his face from ear to ear if he didn't contain it better. He'd noticed that the idea of being with Alex had been having that effect on him lately; he'd never been deeply unhappy, but she certainly made his usually temperamental character a little more...easy going. Perhaps it was because she was that way. It didn't take a genius to realise they were quite alike in personality and determination, but it was their attitudes towards life that were different. And she was certainly changing his perspective on things.

Perhaps, Blake wondered as he sat in the driver's seat for a moment, their similarities were why they had begun to gotten on so well – after they'd gotten past the bickering and stubborn tempers of course. Both his and hers. Slamming the door and starting the engine, he pulled out into the street and headed to Alex's, with the nervous feeling ebbing away to make for one of excitement.

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"Nice attire," Blake smirked as Alex opened the door, greeting him with a wide beaming grin. She glanced down at her baseball shirt, and her hat – which was worn slightly askew, with her ponytail sticking out the back – and her baseball sneakers. She cocked an eyebrow.

"It's baseball, Collins," she said stepping aside, inviting him in. "There's a dress code."

"Well, then I'm not suitably dressed," he said, trying to smile but feeling very stupid. She shook her head, and closed the door behind him.

"I'm only teasing," she smiled. "It's kind of a tradition in our house." She wanted to add and I wasn't going to change just for you but it wouldn't have come out of her mouth in the way she'd meant it, and Blake might have taken offense. What she meant was, she had no objections to Blake seeing her and her Dad the way they were. She was past pretending where he was concerned. He could either take her in her ratty baseball top or he could leave. But since he was already removing his shoes, and looking around the foyer with a faint smile, Alex couldn't see the latter happening.

Alex's house was exactly what he had expected, Blake observed, looking around. There were pictures of Alex everywhere; from the large foyer which seemingly led to every room on the ground floor and all the wall up the stairs, there was evidence of a proud father. Unlike his own home, the neutrality of the decor – cream walls and again, a beige carpet – didn't spell distance and coldness, it made it seem neat and homely. There were various potted plants around, he noticed - in bloom too.

"Is that Blake?" a voice called from the lounge area, where Blake could hear the television. It was clearly William, but he hadn't risen to say hello. Alex gestured for Blake to put his bag by the door, which he did, and led him through to the lounge.

"Yeah," Alex said behind Blake. "Here he is."

The older man turned to him sharply. "Alex tells me that your folks are Orioles fans," William said curtly, frowning at him.

"Well, hardly...I mean they are but I..." Blake started to say quickly, and nervously, remembering that William was an avid Red Sox fan. But William chuckled and cut him off.

"Relax. I'm just winding you up. Besides, I plan to make a Sox fan out of you yet." Blake smiled at the prospect of it and quirked an eyebrow.

"I doubt my father, as weak a supporter as he is, would appreciate that. He's Baltimore through and through."

"All the more reason to try," William quipped, staring at the TV. "You drink beer?" Alex's father asked with a serious face, lifting a bottle of Budweiser from his lap.

Blake laughed nervously. "Er...no, sir. I'm a minor, but er...dancing kind of demands a lifestyle without it," he answered quietly with a small smile. William paused, and grinned.

"I was just testing you."

"I know, sir."

"Ah, drop the sir thing, and call me William," Alex's father said. "Otherwise I'll take offense. I have no idea what you're used to, or how you've been raised, but I only ever get called sir when I go to the bank."

"Can I...get you a drink?" Alex asked, and for a second Blake thought he could hear a trace of the same nervousness in her voice as he had felt. But looking at her confident and assured face, he couldn't quite believe it. "A Coke?"

Blake nodded and said his thanks before quietly shuffling into the living room and taking a seat in an arm chair. The room, unlike the hallway, was a little more cluttered, but only because there were several bowls of snacks on the coffee table and as promised, a plate of carrot sticks. The house seemed to be, throughout, a clever combination of the two habitant's personalities; the world of dance and youthful homeliness from Alex, and the grownup sport enthusiast William. There were old ballet show posters, classical music lined on the shelf, right alongside posters of teams, and some country and western albums. He'd never thought of it until now, but with Alex's mother dead, she must have an active role in running the home. Far more active than anyone else he knew. It showed; the room was well dusted hovered, and it had certainly been decorated and furnished with a woman's eye, not the man sat to his left.

"The game's not started yet; there'll be about forty minutes of pre-match analysis," William explained, looking at Blake. Blake didn't speak, he just nodded, unsure what to say. He realised quite quickly he'd forgotten all the rules to the game – it had been that long since he'd sat down and watched – the commentator was talking about...pitching rotation and clutch hitting...but apart from the familiar diamond pitch and the jerseys, he suddenly felt out of his depth.

"Have you watched or played before?" William asked, as if sensing his discomfort.

"Not...for a while," Blake admitted, examining his watch strap. "And I never played."

"Basically," William began, leaning on the arm of his chair to get a little closer, and putting the TV on mute, "There are two teams – nine players each – and the goal is to get more runs than the other team, by using the four bases on the diamond. You with me so far?" the older man asked with a kind smile.

Blake nodded, listening intently. "Yeah I remember that."

"Right. The defence team pitches to the batting team, who have to try and hit it – out of the park preferably – in order to run to the bases. Home runs are ideal, because they equal four runs. You can get four by stopping at each base though. Anyways, you miss the ball, and it was a perfectly good pitch or in the 'strike zone', that leads to a strike. Three strikes and you're out."

Blake smiled. It was coming back, slowly but surely. "And you can be caught 'out' right?"

"Yup, you're safe at a base but when you're running..."

"That's when the batter becomes the runner..."

"Yeah," William responded with a smile at Blake's interruption. "Then you're game to be caught out. Either by getting the ball to the base before the runner gets there, or by catching it in the baseball mitt. Now this game," he said, pointing to the TV, "is the last in a series of six games between the finalists. Best of six, that's the idea. You know, the British stole Baseball and called it 'Rounders' – can you believe that?"

"Yeah, I can," Blake smirked.

"Anyway, have you got all that?" William said leaning back in his seat. Blake nodded, feeling much more relaxed. William's laidback nature was infectious, and so was his smile. Blake had to feel more at ease as the man pointed at the announcer and described him as a "washed out bigot with less sense than a Jersey Cow".

Alex wandered back in with two glass bottles; both filled with Coke, and placed them on the table. When she didn't sit down, Blake turned his head to look at her. She was gazing at the television with a serene smile, hands on hips and balancing her weight on one leg.

"You heading off?" William remarked, glancing at her also. Heading off? Blake felt a frown begin on his face. To his surprise, Alex nodded.

"Yeah, I'll go now and then I won't miss the bulk of the game, or any if I'm lucky," she sighed. She felt Blake's eyes on her and smiled. "Sorry – I didn't mention. My pointe shoes snapped this morning, so gotta go get some more. The store's shut tomorrow and I obviously need them for Monday..." Alex trailed off as a look exchanged between her and Blake that her father missed; she supposed it wasn't exactly fair to leave him along with her Dad when they'd not known each other long, but William had sworn to be on his best behaviour, and she knew Blake could have a good time. If he allowed himself that was, she thought, as she watched him straighten up and seemingly drawn into himself with a tense expression.

"Well hurry up then," William said, shuffling in his chair. "I want to see the look on your face when your team loses and mine win."

Blake smiled weakly. "I thought you were a Red Sox fan?"

"Yeah well," William said bitterly. "They didn't make it to the final," he sniffed. "So, the way we do it is whoever's in the final, Alex and I pick a team, and the loser has to give the other fifty dollars and do a chore the other doesn't want to do."

Blake had to laugh at the idea of it, though he was a little jealous that his parents could never do anything so...well...fun.

"I got the Cleveland Indians this year," William continued.

"Go Atlanta Braves," Alex said, punching her fist into the air, before turning her attention to her father. "Anyway, the series is 3-2 at the minute. We're already ahead. If the Braves win this final, we win the World Series. And we're on form," she added with a wink at Blake that made him clear his throat.

"Just go..." William sighed in a dramatic voice. "We'll be fine."

"Shall I...take your card...and draw fifty dollars out?" she asked with a teasing, but inquisitive face.

"No, but you can think long and hard about how you're going to get the oil stains off of my barbeque," William grinned, blinking.

Alex raised an eyebrow, waved, and grabbed some keys from the dresser. Blake couldn't help but follow her form as she left the room, and until he heard the door slam, and when he finally turned back to the screen, he realised William's eyes were on him and they were filled with a strange, knowing expression that made Blake's knotted stomach and sweaty palms return. The man didn't speak for a moment, leaving them in an air thick with anticipation until William took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

"You've not seen any of this season?"

Blake shook his head guiltily.

"Did Alex mention she was a baseball fan?"

"She mentioned you were," said Blake. William smiled fondly.

"How have you two been getting on? She's something huh?" William remarked, looking at the television and taking a sip from the Coke his daughter had bought him, having abandoned his empty beer bottle. Blake swallowed hard.

"She...certainly is a...really great person." He managed to quell his smile this time.

"Well, that's because she's a lot like her Mom, to her credit."

"I don't know," Blake noted, with a friendly smirk. "I see a lot of you in her. But then I didn't know her mother." William nodded and rose towards the mantelpiece, and picked up a photograph that rested there.

"This is Nina – my wife." Blake took it from him and looked at the woman in the picture; she was bent over in the garden, squinting at the camera from the flower beds, with an expression that implied she was surprised to find a camera pointing at her. He could see Alex in her immediately – in her face and frame, and they had the same dark brown hair. Only the eyes were remarkably different – Alex had William's bright eyes, and Nina's were a deep chocolate.

Blake handed it back. "Well, in looks, perhaps not, but Alex has always said you share the same temper."

William seemed to laugh to himself as he replaced the frame to its home. "Yeah, that's true enough." He paused, and sighed. "I'm proud of her – I guess she told you about her Mom right? Well, she was only young, and the only thing I could do at the time was to hold myself together for her, but as soon as she was old enough, she started to take care of us both. And of course she's balanced her schoolwork and the dancing."

Blake kept quiet and just listened.

"I don't exploit it or anything, but as I'm sure Alex has told you...I'm not the greatest housekeeper."

"She hadn't mentioned it."

"Well," William said with a raised eyebrow. "That's probably because she's modest. She doesn't get that from me – if I've got a talent, I'm gonna brag about it. Never once heard her boast about her dancing, and I'm sure you'll agree, she has something to boast about. Now I don't pretend to know anything about it...but when I watch her dance...it doesn't seem to matter, because she's doing something beautiful."

Blake sipped his drink and nursed the glass in his hands, cocking his head. "She's a very talented dancer. I enjoy working with her a lot."

"You do?"

"Yes, we dance well together." Blake paused, and before he could stop himself. "I enjoy her company. She's one of the few people I spend time with outside of school." The only, was what he meant, but he didn't want to come across as the pathetic loner he was.

William looked thoughtful as he looked at Blake's face. "I know she enjoys yours. She's certainly changed since you started dancing together. From what she's told me, and from what I can see myself, you're a good person Blake. I think you're a good influence on each other too; her technique's coming on and she's far more grounded. You've been a good friend to her."

Blake swallowed hard again, unsure what was coming. He was almost blushing under the man's flattery but it was slightly marred by an impending but.

"I've raised her to be wise, and savvy enough to see people for what they are. But she's still young and impressionable." William paused. "I just want her to be happy, and not to get hurt by...well, life, I guess. She's a good kid, and a 'really great person' just as you said," William said quietly focusing on the screen. "She's more special than people understand sometimes. And as a father, I couldn't sit and watch as she got hurt."

"I understand," Blake found himself saying. The meaning behind what he was saying was clear enough and it frightened him; if William could see it, if he was giving him a warning not to hurt his daughter, then it must be real. He'd managed to ignore his crush up until now. But he was almost being given the approval by her father, if he honoured Alex and treated her well. That was serious. Blake levelled his breathing, and looked at the man with a smile. "She won't be."

William looked to him sharply. "I just thought I'd...set you straight on a few things. Set the record and tone at the beginning before it all got...serious," he said quietly. "You seem like a decent guy, so I'd hate to have to hunt you down and kill you."

Blake paled considerably and stiffened where he sat. "Kill me?"

"Oh yeah," William assured him before giving him a wry smile. "I'm just kidding. You're far easy to mess with."

Both men sat in silence for some time until William banged his glass down. "Come on, I cut carrot sticks for you – sliced my thumb doing it too - aren't you going to try some of the snacks?" Blake felt his concern fade away once more as he smiled weakly and leant forward to grab something to eat.

"Aren't you going to have something?" Blake asked politely. William's eyes darted towards what he was holding – a carrot stick – and the man grimaced.

"I'm allergic to vegetables," he insisted. "But thanks all the same." His attention went back to the screen as a whistle sounded.

"Great! That's typical. The game's started," William sighed, rising from his seat. "And now I need the bathroom."

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