by Lulu Wright
Instead I see my hot tub, my bed. Rose, naked beneath me. Her face in my hands. The way she moans my name when she comes, the way she rolls over in bed to smile up at me in the mornings.
Fuck Halcyon and fuck the Yankees for bringing her back into my life.
I am going to strike out today if I can’t get my shit together.
There’s a tap at the door and I check my watch. It ain’t time yet. Who could that be? “What!” I shout at the door.
The knob jiggles and the door slowly opens. “Hi, kid.” Stanley enters the room.
For a second, I’m too shocked to move. I just stare at him from my position on the floor. “Stanley.” I bring myself to a standing position and stare at him, not believing my eyes.
He looks good, like really good. By good I mean healthy as ever. He’s not wearing his usual suit, but khakis and a Hawaiian shirt. I just gape, not trusting my mouth to speak. He opens his arms to me and I go into to them like a little kid and rest my chin on his head. He must be feeling great, because he gives me a bear hug, strong enough to bruise my ribs. Gosh, that feels good from him.
“How ya doing, kid?” He slaps my back. “They told me I could find you back here. Being antisocial.”
Something’s in my eye, so I turn away. “I’m good,” I say. Stanley obviously ain’t buying that bullshit, ‘cause I hear him exhale a chuckle.
“That’s not what I hear. I hear you got a bad case of heartache.”
I shrug. “It’s been tough, I guess. But I’ll be okay. Good to see you.”
Stanley crosses his arms. “Tell me about it, kid.”
So I do. I mean, I really give it to him with both barrels. All that work with Todd has turned me into a mushy, emotive dude. By the end of our talk, I’m a mess, having gone over the way I felt about his heart attack, the shit with my mom, the Rose stuff. There’s no way can I walk out onto the field and hit a ball tonight. Hell, I don’t think I can even walk, period.
Stanley grabs my arm and eases me down into a chair. He grabs another chair and sits across from me. Just as I am detailing Rose’s live apology, it hits me. Guilt becomes the only emotion I feel.
What the fuck am I doing?
Dude just had a major heart attack and a quadruple bypass a couple of weeks ago and here I am making everything in the world about me, my shitty love life and my childhood emotions. God, I’m a prick. I stifle it and wipe my face with my hands. “I’m sorry for dumping all this shit on you. How are you doing?”
Stanley draws a breath, looks around the room, and then back at me. “These last several weeks have given me a new perspective on things. A unique one. When you almost die…” he leans in. “I almost died, kid.”
Pressing my lips together, I nod. I know that and it kills me.
“Anyway, my life is divided in two now. There is before, and there is after.”
He is silent as he looks around the room, at the formica table, the concrete blocks, until his eyes finally settle on mine. “You know what I learned, kid?”
I shake my head. “Tell me.”
“Life is short. And I’ve got this second chance at it. With Bev. To enjoy things. For years, I worked like a dog and didn’t give her the attention I should have. Never took time to stop and smell the roses. Now I am.
“Bill’s handling more things, so Bev and I can do little getaways and catch some theater in the city. Have dinner.” His eyes crinkle in a smile. “I’ve been having lunch with her every day.” He points to his chest. “That’s my journey. That’s my path.” He points to me. “You need to figure out what you want to do. With this Rose situation especially. You have to find your path.”
My eyes dart to the side. “She said all those awful things…”
Stanley nods. “Shitty things. That were true, by the by. And it sucked, but you’re a big boy now, and you have to deal with it. But we all make mistakes. Like how you hit Tommy Pizza. That was a mistake, right?”
I nod. “But…”
“But nothing.” He shifts in his seat and punches my arm. Wow. There was some strength behind that jab and it makes me smile he’s got that kinda heat in him. “She ain’t the first person to say drunk regrettable things, you know. Besides, she had no idea she was being recorded. She had zero experience in your world at that point. That world of greedy, dishonest fame-chasers and sabotaging rivals who will do anything for a buck.”
Stanley rises and picks my Yankees cap off the table and perches it awkwardly on my head. “Think it over, kid. Life is too short.”
“Too short to be treated like crap by some chick. I ain’t a doormat.”
“Well,” he says, with his hand on the door. “If that’s your path, so be it. But right now, focus on the bat. I’ll see you after the game.”
He leaves me to my thoughts and I get back on the floor. There’s a game out there to play and I have to get my head back into it.
30
Rose
I have never been to a baseball game before. If my heart wasn’t so heavy and I weren’t contractually obligated to sit here, I might feel spoiled. These Halcyon seats are near home plate above the dugout and I am so close to the action, I can see the every speck of dirt scatter in the air as the umpire dusts off home plate. Perfect position to catch Mark’s cold look whenever he comes out of the dugout. Awesome.
“Batter up!” the umpire shouts as he steps back from the newly swept plate.
Sitting pretty on the seat, I take a hit off a water bottle and try to look busy. Mixed messages. On one side I have Tania and Harry trying to tell me that Mark needs me. On the other I have Mark turning cold as ice the second I turned the mic off. So what’s the deal?
Sighing, I text Geo to take my mind off things.
What’s the latest?
She replies fast. We just got our 1000th download.
Wow. Silver lining. Just before I left for Miami, we launched our first episode of the podcast. Already it’s been on the receiving end of some great listener reviews. Also, we got some blogger action that seems to be piquing mainstream media interest. It’s not the kind of success where you quit your day job, but it’s the kind of success that makes you put up with your day job for now, because there’s better on the horizon.
Fantastic.
I drop my phone in my bag and then dig it back out when I hear someone snicker behind me. “Look,” a male voice says. “It’s that bitch Rose Taylor.”
“She’s chubbier than I would have guessed.”
Oh, that’s just great. I feel like all eyes are on me and every laugh and titter is about yours truly. Ugh. I sink lower in my seat. I am alone, surrounded by thousands of snickering strangers who hate me.
“Batting for the Yankees, Mark Carrington!”
The crowd goes nuts as they play his entrance song, the same one we played as his intro music for the show. With a bat in hand, he runs out onto the field. The roar is deafening, but he shows no sign he hears it. He steps up to the plate and the pitcher winds up… I lean forward in my seat, fists clenched. More than anything, I want him to nail this hit. I want his game to go well. I want everything to go well for him.
Boom.
He hits it beyond the rafters, right out of the park. I leap to my feet with the screaming crowd as he jogs around the bases, grinning and waving. My heart throbs with joy for him, but also with pain that I can’t be there to celebrate with him. To tell him how happy I am for him. How proud.
And then he does it twice more that night. Apparently one more would be an opening pre-game record, a number of home runs in the first game of the season that hasn’t been struck in years. I’m on the edge of my seat and the crowd is bursting with energy and excitement.
When he steps out from the dugout for the fourth time, there is a collective gasp and the energy in the stadium shifts. Everyone is nervous for him. Everyone hope he makes it. I am biting my nails down to the quick.
I pull my hand away from my face and sit on it.
Mark’s face is stern
and I can see his jaw is locked in place. As he cracks his knuckles and grabs a bat, the crowd starts to chant.
ONE MORE
ONE MORE
ONE MORE
I joint in, shouting at the top of my lungs.
The pitcher on the mound is sweating and looks kinda pale. He just might fall over. The Mets coach calls a timeout and everyone around me starts cursing.
“Fuck what now!”
“Quit your stalling!”
The tired, sweaty pitcher is pulled from the mound and a younger, fresher pitcher is put in his place.
And oh, fuck. It’s Tommy Pizza.
“Dirty trick,” the man behind me snarls.
“You didn’t think the Mets were going to let Carrington just walk away from that, did you?”
I can’t see Mark’s face from where I’m sitting, but if Tommy Pizza’s face is any indication, it must be intimidating. Tommy squints at Mark, and then, while keeping his eyes on Mark, he turns and spits.
What a total asshole.
Mark is frozen at home plate, bat raised, feet apart. I can see the muscles in his back and legs are tense and ready to spring into action.
Tommy tosses the ball. Mark steps back as it nearly hits him. We all gasp, the whole stadium at once.
“Dirty trick!” someone boos.
“Nah. Pizza Boy is going to walk him instead of letting him get the record.”
I turn to face the guy behind me. “That can’t be true,” I blurt. “Is that allowed?”
“Happens all the time.”
I curse. “That’s dirty as hell.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Mark perches the bat over the mound and Tommy hurls another at him, again almost hitting Mark, making him quickly jump back.
Tommy cracks up laughing as the umpire shouts, “Ball two!” with his fingers in the air.
The crowd around me curses. I don’t understand how this is not cheating. At the very least, it’s bad sportsmanship. Is good sportsmanship even a thing anymore?
Mark gets into position again. If he’s mad, nothing in his demeanor shows it. His face appears on the jumbotron and I can see he’s on emotional lockdown. His jaw is set, his eyes trained on the mound. Did I just see a sparkle in those blue eyes?
Tommy throws and I don’t know, it all happens so fast. The second the ball leaves Tommy’s hand, Mark jumps back about two feet from home plate and swings so fast it’s a blur.
The crack of the bat sounds like a thunderclap and the ball sails into the stands. The crowd collectively loses their shit and I stand and shout with everyone. In the rush of victory, I forget everything but Mark running his final lap around the bases, screaming for joy.
The game ends in victory, Mark’s final home run clinching the win for the Yanks. There is a mad rush of players onto the field and Mark is first doused with champagne and then lifted up on the shoulders of his teammates.
He’s on the jumbotron and he looks so happy that I’m bursting with happiness for him. As he takes his victory lap, I sit back down to collect my things, dropping my phone and empty water bottle into my bag.
Then I hear the crowd’s mood shift from a cheering roar to boos and hisses.
What happened? I look down to the field to see what’s going on. Maybe the umpire has declared the home run invalid? Maybe Mark is punching the shit out of Tommy Pizza?
But no.
People are pointing at the jumbotron and I follow their fingers to see my own image up there, complete with my gaping mouth and wide-eyed look of shock.
The roar of disapproval is deafening. Okay, maybe it’s not that loud, but it’s the only thing I can hear. Shaking and feeling like I am going to puke, I put my purse on my shoulder and rise from my seat.
Shit, I have so many stairs to climb to get out of here. I hear the crowd roar and look over my shoulder. Mark is back on the screen being interviewed; I can hear his voice echo in the stadium. Thank god. A distraction. Maybe I can get out of the stadium without having half-eaten pretzels thrown at me and backwash beer raining down on my head.
I have to climb maybe a hundred stairs. Okay. I can do this, even though my legs are wobbly as fuck. I’ll take it one at a time. I will climb the stairs, exit the stadium and find my Halcyon ride outside. I got this.
100, 99, 98…
“Rose!”
I hear my name and freeze. Am I dreaming or was that Mark’s voice?
“Rose!”
It’s him and he is holding the stadium mic still, but he’s dropped the interview. He’s not that far away from me, standing by home plate, and our eyes connect. For the briefest of moments, I feel like we’re the only ones in the stadium.
His face breaks into a smile and he runs toward me.
Can this be happening?
He tries to jump the dugout, but it’s really high. Then two Yankees give him a boost and he gets to the roof. Me, I’m running the other way, down those steps to the fence, which butts up against the dugout roof. I lean over it, and he cups his hands around my face. “Rose. Come here.” Those blue eyes are setting my whole body on fire.
I climb over the railing and into Mark’s waiting arms.
We’re on the jumbotron again as he folds me into those arms and kisses me deeply. He strokes my face and gazes into my eyes. I open my mouth to apologize, to explain, but he presses his finger to my mouth. “It’s OK,” he whispers. “You’ve done that enough.”
My eyes well up. I take his face in my hands and let my gaze linger before speaking. “I have to tell you this. I am sorry, Mark. I never should have said all of that. It was before I saw the real you. Before I woke up and realized how much I admire you.” I take a breath. “And I love you.”
Mark smiles and kisses me again, slowly and deeply, as the crowd bursts into a roaring cheer. “I love you too,” he whispers against my cheek.
Epilogue
Mark
The water around me is cool and I want to see how long I can hold my breath to stay under. A different world below the waves, I feel the slight pull of the current and gaze peacefully at the coral and the little fish that seem to have no fear of me. Naked in nature, that’s the way to go.
All the stress of the World Series is melting off me. Sure, I’m glad we won, but damn that was a pressure cooker. It wasn’t over until it was over, a nail biter until the last bat. Seven games. Seven!
But we did it and now I’m a World Series champ. I told them this would be our season. Our year. And it has been, in more ways than one.
Things are good. Mom is keeping sober so far, and for that I am thankful. Like her, I’m taking it one day at a time as we repair our relationship. I would love to see her for Christmas, but that’s too many days away to consider. She is sober today, she was sober yesterday, and that’s okay. With prayers and hard work, she will be sober tomorrow too.
I have knocked down my Todd time to biweekly sessions. Still a challenge, but each time with him I feel I’ve gone a little further than the session before. The anger is controllable and I no longer have to battle my emotions at the drop of a hat, but I still have a ways to go. That’s cool. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I almost want to stay floating in this calm forever, but my lungs are bursting for air and better things than this peace wait for me on the beach. I wiggle my eyebrows to a starfish and push off the ocean’s floor.
Getting to the surface, I pull clean, salty air into my lungs. The sun has set behind the bungalow, leaving this world, our world, bathed in the sharp colors of twilight.
There she is. My Rose. I swim toward the shore in anticipation of touching her. Pulling that lithe little body of hers to mine.
Stanley is the best. He delivered, even though I was vague with my vacation ideas. “Somewhere hot,” I said. “A nice beach. But private. Really private. Private is the big thing.” I was already thinking of see-through bikinis and Naked Saturdays, mostly.
“Ah, I know just the place,” he said. “And you can get away from the
Tommy storm too.”
Tania was great on the stand, a star witness, and her celebrity status encouraged more ladies to come forward about that creepfest. Rose included, bless her brave little heart. Tommy got his due. I hope he rots in Rikers.
A messenger delivered the tickets and details to my door within an hour of my call to Stanley, along with a note from him.
Bev and I love this place. Have a great time!
Love, Stan
A little island east of Key West. Gorgeous, the sand clean and white and the water crystal blue. Every day since we got here has been beautiful weather. Food from the mainland gets delivered twice a day and all we have to do is indulge and soak up the sun. Bungalow on a private beach. Our little slice of heaven.
Private heaven. Naked Saturday has been stretched into Naked Week.
I pull toward the shore until I can wade in and stand. My dick gets harder when I see Rose’s glistening naked body on the beach chair, soaking up the afternoon rays. I stand over her to pick up her pina colada and let the sweat from the glass and water from my body drip onto her tits.
“Mark.” She giggles. “Give me that.” I hand it to her and watch her press those hot pouty lips to the glass and take a long, slow sip.
“Do I need to oil you up again?” I stroke her inner thigh.
“Mm, maybe.” She lifts her sunglasses and grins at me. “Geo said the equipment arrived at our studio this morning. Chris and Night Vixen are installing everything now.”
I shake my head and stroke her other leg. “Glad my old barn is getting some use. You wanted to keep the studio in New Jersey, huh?”
She drops the sunglasses back down and shrugs. “I guess I’m still a Jersey girl at heart. Can you deal with that?”
I grab her ankles. “Let me show you exactly how I deal with that.”
I spread her legs as she laughs. Yesterday, I gave her a nice shave and her pussy glistens with suntan oil and wetness. I sit on the beach chair and set her feet on the ground. “Let me lick that pussy.” I spread her lower lips to reveal my most favorite spot in the universe. “Fuck yes,” I growl. “Carrington goes down.”