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yle’s cup of beer hit me full frontal, soaking my white T-shirt, splattering him, and spraying the two men passing us in the aisle. Laycee stalked toward the escalator, unscathed.
    “Whoa, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you.” Kyle pulled out a napkin while his eyes tracked Laycee through the crowd.
    Pinching the hem of my T-shirt, I pulled the sopping material away from my body before the beer soaked my bra. “I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”
    Nick appeared through the crowd, balancing a tray stacked with beer and hot dogs. “What the…?”
    “We had a collision,” Kyle said.
    “Go find your date, Kyle. Nick and I can handle this,” I said, fanning my shirt.
    Kyle apologized again then shouldered into the streaming crowd and disappeared.
    “Nick, will you ask Robin to meet me in the ladies’ room with the other pink shirt?”
    “What happened?”
    “If I had known a full cup of beer was right behind me, I would have thrown it in Laycee’s face. But the beer had other plans. Get Robin, will you? I’m drenched.”
    Good thing the night air was warm, because the beer and my wet T-shirt were ice-cold. As I wove through the crowd and entered the restroom, I heard a loud cheer come from the stands. I found an empty stall and pulled the soaked fabric over my head. Standing in my bra, a calm fell over me. At least I had the chance to tell Laycee what I thought of her. Cathartic.
    “Liz? Are you in here?” Robin’s voice echoed through the concrete walls and metal stalls.
    “Over here,” I said, opening the door a crack.
    “You missed everything. The Dodgers just scored a run.”
    “Me, too. A deep fly onto my center field.”
    “Huh?”
    “Baseball talk. I crashed into a beer. The shirt, please?”
    Fortunately, my bra was dry enough to keep on. I wiped the residual beer off my skin with the dry side of my white shirt, dropped the wet tee into the plastic bag Robin handed me, and then slid into the new pink T-shirt. I recapped my run-in with Laycee for her on our way back to the seats.
    “My only question is why you ever hung out with someone like her in the first place? She doesn’t sound like the type of women you’re close with,” Robin said.
    “Proximity. Loneliness. I spent a lot of time working, and didn’t make a lot of female friends in Atlanta. Laycee lived right next door to us. I doubt if I’ll ever see her again. At least, I hope not.”
    Nick had saved two hot dogs and beers for us. After enduring a mini-lecture from Mom about missing an inning then getting the play-by-play recap from Dad and Dave, I settled down to watch the game.
    At the top of the seventh inning with the score tied at one, the Cubs loaded the bases with two outs. Their ace left-handed batter came to the plate. The Dodger manager took a time-out and brought Jarret, his ace left-handed specialist, out of the bullpen. After three warm-up pitches from the mound, Jarret easily struck out the batter and retired the side.
    Jarret’s skill as a left-handed reliever extended his career beyond the life of normal pitchers. He usually worked only one or two innings, leaving his arm always rested. At thirty-nine, even his chronic sore shoulder didn’t hamper his performance.
    “Jarret’s in good form today,” Dave said. “There are three lefties batting in the eighth. I bet they leave him in.”
    “If they do, he’ll have to bat. The Dodgers are near the bottom of the batting order.” Nick turned to Dad. “Gee, it would be just awful to see Jarret strike out, wouldn’t it, Walter?”
    Everyone except sports-clueless Robin turned at Nick’s snide remark. Dave leered. Mom sneered. Dad chuckled. I enjoyed Nick’s heresy. Jarret’s shoddy behavior during our marriage got set aside whenever our family came to see him pitch. Dave, who usually ignored my ex, let his Dodgerloyalty soften his feelings toward Jarret only if and when Jarret got in the game. Mom, taken by Jarret’s Midwest boyish charm, liked having a