by Emilia Finn
“So don’t annoy me, and I won’t hit anymore.”
“Oh look.” Avoiding my dismissal, she nods toward the game that is—sort of, I guess—already happening.
I don’t recall a kick-off, or the equivalent. I didn’t see a coin toss. There was no “Go team, go!”. There was just… stuff happening, and Nadia nagging, and Arlo racing to chat to Drake while she thinks I can’t see. Everything is a blur, and Max is less than interested in the goings on of the field, but now Nixon steps forward with his bat in hand and dirty handprints on his ass.
He wears a dark blue helmet—a bicycle helmet, that is—and regular sneakers, when I’m certain there are special running shoes for baseball players. He looks like a goofball in his mismatched outfit, but he’s not the only one; there isn’t a single player on the field wearing anything remotely professional looking.
I don’t know the majority of those in attendance today, but when a large group of people sitting on the far end of the bleachers cheer for ‘Deputy Dawg,’ I go ahead and assume they’re rooting for the pitcher and not Nixon.
“Is he gonna miss?” Nadia’s eyes stay glued to the game, her elbows on her knees, her posture long forgotten now that she personally knows someone who’s going to run around for no reason at all. “I think he’ll do alright. Right?”
“I have no clue! How does one even win this game?”
“They hit the ball, duh.” She watches closely as the pitcher readies himself.
He reseats his hat and studies his target with the narrowed eyes of a cop. In the field, other players prepare to run, to catch, to do whatever the hell they do to stop the hitter from becoming a runner. Drake stands on second base, smirking as he rearranges his junk and assumes no one notices—or doesn’t care.
Drake is the epitome of relaxed, while Nixon’s shoulders are up, his hands flexed around the handle of the bat. He’s ready to go, ready to win.
The cop in the middle of the diamond throws with surprising speed, and when the ball sails past Nixon’s head, I find myself much too invested in how close it came to hitting him.
“Hey!” I jump to my feet and hold Max against my stomach as I rise. “Yellow card, ref!”
“That’s soccer,” Nadia giggles and tugs on my arm. “Sit down.”
“He threw it at his face!”
“First of all, this is baseball, so you’re gonna get hit sometimes. And two, you’re asking to foul the police chief.” She shows her teeth in a snarl. “Be cool, homie. We can’t take that much heat.”
“He threw it at Nixon’s face!”
“And Nixon ducked. Now shut up.” She points toward the field once more, to Nixon preparing to hit again, and to the police chief getting ready to throw.
Deputy Dawg digs his shoes into the grass, rolls his shoulders, and smirks when a blonde bombshell hoots from the cheering group at the end.
“That’s his wife,” Nadia answers my unspoken question. “She’s the law too. So if you shit on the chief and need legal representation later, she’s gonna bury you.”
“Not at all prejudiced or unfair.” I study the woman as she sits among a dozen more. Children and infants roll around and play at their feet, or they sit and watch on as dad, or uncle, or friend plays a game for all to see. The women are a family unto themselves, supportive, silly, attractive—as a collective, and individually. And now Nadia is saying the blonde is smart too. “So you’re saying they’ve got a monopoly on the law around here?”
“In a way,” she shrugs. “But Jules, the wife, isn’t always on her man’s side. At least half the time, she takes a case where she’ll argue with him in court. I think they consider it foreplay and a way to keep their marriage fresh.”
“I mean…” A nervous snicker makes its way through my chest. “Whatever makes them happy, I guess.”
“Let’s go, batter.” Drake stands on second base and taunts Nixon with a smirk. “We wanna see you swing that bat, Boots.”
Frowning, I ask, “Why does he call him Boots?”
Nadia only shrugs. “Maybe the same reason the firemen call the cops the fuzz? I dunno. I don’t get it.”
The chief draws a deep breath, fills his chest, then he throws again. Lightning speed, and terrible accuracy—or perfect accuracy, depending on one’s point of view.
I rush back to my feet in the same moment Nixon swizzles down to duck the speeding missile. “Ref! That’s not allowed!”
“That’s strike two!” the referee announces.
“Strike two?!” I shout. “That’s foul two! Che cazzo stai pensando?”
“Pretty sure you just cussed,” Nadia cackles. “And the ref is the chief’s best friend, so you’re gonna need to chill.”
“The referee is the chief’s best friend?” I demand, so loud that spectators begin to pay attention to me. “How is that fair?”
“It’s not,” she snickers. “It doesn’t actually matter. It’s a charity ballgame, Idalia. Not the world effing series.”
“A game is a game,” I snap. “If it weren’t a competition, then they should have made it a bird-watching fundraiser.” I swing back around to the referee. “Fai di meglio, arbitro, o vai a casa!”
“I heard ‘casa’,” Nadia inserts. “You told him to go home?”
“I told him to get a lobotomy.”
“Not a smart move,” she laughs.
“Everyone knows who you’re crushing on right now!” the referee shouts right back, but he does it in… is it Spanish? I think so.
There are enough words for me to understand, and when that understanding comes, my face flames hot, and my ass touches the seat once more.
“What did he just say?” Nadia taps my shoulder like an impatient five-year-old. “Idalia? What did he say?”
“He said nothing.” I press my face to the back of Max’s hair and pray no one else understood. “He told me to sit down and shut up.”
“Yeah?” I peek over to find her grinning. “So why are you blushing?”
“Mind your own business and watch the game.”
“But it’s so much more entertaining to watch you,” she teases. “Deputy Oz said somethin’ dirty to you… or maybe he called you out for standing up for Nixon. Either way, it got you to sit down and zip it.”
“Yep, you solved the puzzle. Now taci.”
Not at all bothered by my cutting tone, Nadia only smirks and makes room for Arlo to drop back down with us.
“Problem solved,” Arlo announces the second she sits.
“And so subtle, too,” Nadia huffs. “I swear, if I ever need actual sleuth help, I’ll know to never ask the chick who wears pink boots.”
“At first, the boots are shocking to the eye. But after that, they’re actually quite exquisite.”
“Uh, no they’re not.” Nadia goes back to watching the game. “You think Alex will throw a proper ball this time or what?”
“No,” I grumble. “The game is truccato. It’s, uh…” I search for the word. “Set up.”
“She means rigged,” Arlo inserts. “She’s calling the local PD dirty, Nadia.”
“Fools die for less around here,” she joins in. “Missing bodies, falsified dental records, John Does washing up in the lake.”
“Where the hell have I moved to?” I groan. I go to turn, to look into Nadia’s eyes, but then the pitcher throws his ball, and my gaze zeroes in on the flash of white.
It’s as fast as ever and once more arrowing straight for Nixon’s face, but this time, Nixon pivots. He buys himself just enough space to swing, wild and loud, so the bat and the ball connect with a crack, then he’s off, sprinting away from his place and heading toward first base.
“Over there!” The referee—the one who is supposed to be unbiased and fair—coaches the police team and tells them which way to run.
But Drake doesn’t move. He remains on second and plants his feet as Nixon rounds first and sprints straight for him.
Most of the people on the field run like headless chickens, chasing the ball and shouting
about a game they have no clue how to play, but Nixon and Drake are in their own world. Their own war. And when Nixon comes closer, closer, and Drake doesn’t move, the entire crowd watches on.
Gritted teeth and a racing heart, I watch as Nixon’s powerful legs propel him forward. His arms pump and push him faster, his helmet, more aerodynamic than a standard baseball helmet, only aids in him gaining speed.
“Oh shit,” Nadia murmurs. “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit!”
The men crash with a thud, a meeting of lightning and earth, and then the crowd roars as Nixon and Drake slam to the ground together amid swinging fists and taunting laughter—from Drake.
The entire game stops, players from both teams race toward the dueling duo, and dozens of spectators swarm in to be a part of it too. Men from that original cheering group push through the deluge like bowling balls through a set of pins. Luckily, these men are big, they’re all business, but none of them seem to be fearful of getting hurt; most of them work with a grin and seem to find pleasure in today’s festivities.
“Nix is gonna be so sore later.” Arlo’s entire body bounces with laughter. “Abby will kill him.”
“Why do you find this funny?” Disgusted, I drop Max in her lap, then I turn toward the fight and jog away from the bleachers.
My heart thuds in my chest, my nerves shot to shit, but I push through the crush of people and fight my way to the middle to find Nixon and Drake still rolling around. Still exchanging fists.
“What the hell is going on?” I shove one guy aside. Then another. “There are children here watching this game. You’re supposed to be heroes!” I push another aside. “Cops and firemen. Eroi! But you act like mongrel dogs.”
I grab Drake by the ear, since he’s closest, and yank until he cries out and stops hitting. “You’re a police officer, committing a crime in front of a hundred witnesses. And you!” I toss Drake away and burn Nixon with my heated glare. “You’re supposed to help people, not hurt them!”
“He wouldn’t move!”
“And you don’t know how to regulate your own damn self so that you could change directions and not clash?”
“Uhh… that’s not how this game is played,” the referee speaks, but in English this time. “The fighting is half the fun.”
“And you’re a crooked referee!” I chide everyone who dares speak up. I step toward the man, who’s at least six and a half feet of muscle and arrogance. “This was promised to be a family-friendly event at the park, but all I see is toxic masculinity and immaturity.”
“Yeah,” Drake inserts. “All of y’all are immature.”
“You taunt him!” I point from Drake to Nixon. “You do the smirky smirk and goad him to get mad. And you,” I look to Nixon. “You fall for it.”
“He was talking about you!”
“So what?” I shout right back. “People talk. Most often, talkers are never doers. The guy is hot air and nil intentions.”
“Well, that was unkind,” Drake rumbles.
“You swear you’ve got your merda on lock,” I snap at the man who already has the power to make me care. “You say you’re cool and collected on the job, and that your team has your back.” I look around in search of any evidence to support that. “Your team is eating cotton candy and watching you make a dick of yourself! And if you can’t ignore a dude high on testosterone who is clearly trying to get you to react, then how the hell can anyone expect you to work under pressure with fire breathing down your neck?”
I look to the cops—the referee and the pitcher—and shake my head. “How this town hasn’t burned to the ground yet, I’ll never know. You’re all children.”
“She says mean things when she’s mad,” the referee mumbles.
“She’s not too mad,” Arlo assesses helpfully, somehow now in the huddle with my son on her hip. “She’s still speaking English, so you’re good for a bit.”
“You’re fired. Again.” I grab Max and plop him on my hip. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
She snorts and moves aside to let me pass. “Catch you Monday, Max. I love you, kiddo.”
“Come on, bello.” I swing him around to my front so his arms wrap around my neck and his legs around my hips, then I head… I don’t even know. Somewhere away from this stupid ballgame.
“This is why we don’t care about baseball in Italy. It’s stupid, for stupid people with stupid rules. It’s no more evolved than the caveman swinging a club to get a woman’s attention.”
I step off the sidewalk and onto the road, then checking for traffic—there is none—I make my way along Main Street.
“Let’s get milkshakes. Then maybe we can climb to our roof garden and hang out. Does that sound okay?” I pull back and try to catch his eye. “Maximo? Bello. Are you listening to me?”
He watches over my shoulder, entranced and engrossed in something behind me.
“Maximo?”
I turn just my head at first, an attempt to see what my son sees, but then I catch movement, a shape, a shadow, and I spin to face whatever is coming.
“Nixon?” I choke out, swallowing down the momentary fear that bubbles in my chest.
I have no true reason to be afraid; no dark, horrible past to make me jumpy around men.
I let my eyes scour him—his helmet is gone, but his nose bleeds and his pants are dirty with grass stains… and possibly blood. “You scared the crap out of me!”
He stands still, now that I’ve stopped, and plops his hands on his hips. “I’m good at my job, Idalia. The calmest person onsite.” His eyes are dark, penetrating, but sad. “My team was eating cotton candy and laughing because no one was actually in danger. Your implication that they can’t and won’t do their job was insulting.” He shakes his head. “You can talk bad about me, but you don’t get to shit on my crew.”
“You’re bleeding,” I exclaim. “Your face is bruised, your knuckles are cracked, and no one could finish the damn game because you were more interested in a pissing match.”
“The pissing match was nothing more than fun rivalry. The game was being played by people who barely know the rules, and the point of today was to have fun and raise cash.” He points back toward the park. “There isn’t a person there who would say they were bored with what happened today.”
“Okay, but we agreed to be friends. The moment another man steps forward and shows interest, you decide I’m yours to fight for?”
“So I like you!” He throws a hand in the air. “I already told you I did. What do you want me to do? Hand the guy a rubber?”
I snarl. “I want you to understand that what you just said wasn’t appropriate for my son’s ears.”
“Which is why I said rubber instead of what’s actually written on the box,” he counters. “I’m not your enemy, Idalia. I’m just a guy who wants your attention for a minute.”
“And I’m a girl who maybe wants your attention,” I cry. “I’m married, but I haven’t been touched in two years. I was never not in love with my husband, but I look forward to you watching me. I want to spend time with you, but every time I consider it—like today,” I add. “Dinner, fun—you prove you can’t regulate your emotions. And if you can’t regulate yourself on a baseball field, then how the hell can you regulate yourself in a fire?”
“Because they’re two completely separate situations!” he shouts. “That’s the damn point. I have fun and shoot the shit when I’m off-shift so that when I’m on, I can focus. My team is allowed to eat cotton candy on their day off! They’re allowed to laugh at immature shit. They’re allowed to screw around, and hell, if one of them wants to toss firecrackers in the police chief’s mailbox, I’m not gonna stop ‘em. If Turner arrests them for doing that, then that’s got nothing to do with me or whether I trust them in a fire. And if it has nothing to do with me, then how the hell do you think it has anything to do with you?”
“Because I care! Because I’m terrified of caring and then you getting hurt. I can’t even become friends with your crew beca
use then I’ll be afraid for them too.”
“So you turn into the ice queen and insult people?” he snaps. “You’re new to town, so I’ll forgive you for not understanding the dynamics of who all you just shouted at. But I’ll happily give you the skinny. Alex Turner is police chief. Best damn chief this town has had in a long time. The referee you were so mad at? Officer Oz Franks. He’s the shit too. Those men, and the others on their team, they’re on our asses every single time we go out on a job. So maybe we have a friendly rivalry on a baseball field, but on the job, we watch each other’s backs and make sure everyone goes home to their family. Libby Tate? She was the chick on the cop team. She’s got everyone’s back, and she just so happens to be married to Griffin. Ya know the lion logo on your phone? Yeah, that Griffin,” he growls. “And because of him, the money, and the tech he brings to this town, we’re all safer than we have ever been. Griffin is family to Bishops, and Bishops are who secure your hotel. Kane Bishop is one of the guys you shoved through so you could have your public spat. Want me to go on?”
“Oh god.” My stomach aches, and my throat feels blocked—by my damn foot. “No.”
“You just told off most of your new town. And why? Because you’re mad that I rumbled on the grass with another guy?”
“I’m not mad because— it wasn’t the fighting. I just…” I stop and draw a deep breath. “It would be best if I just leave.”
“Leave?” Nixon jolts like I just punched him in the face. “Just like that? You and Max would go away and never return, all because of one public meltdown?”
“I meant… What? No.” I shake my head. “Leave, like go home and hide out for a few days. What did you—” I frown and feel the flutter of a butterfly’s wings in my stomach. “You thought I meant leave town?”
“Well…” He steps forward, looking at the ground, no longer mad. No longer shouting. “I thought you meant you would move away. I thought you meant…” His eyes come up and drill into mine. “You scared me for a sec. Because I thought it was all over.”
And then those butterfly’s wings turn into something much more frantic. Much more nerve-wracking. “I don’t think this is good for either of us. You’re already so much more invested than you should be. I’m just—”