“She’s a little green.” His eyes danced, obviously enjoying our conversation. "They are good."
“She's from the Yukon or something?"
He cracked up.
"Or something." He was still laughing as he answered.
Well that conversation went nowhere. What else can I ask him?
“So according to the press guide, you went to college at the University of Arizona?”
“Yep."
"What did you major in?"
"I had a full athletic scholarship for baseball and a partial for mathematics. I have degrees in economics and history.”
“Wow! You’re a genius?”
“Just passionate about what I want, Ms. Young.”
“That’s . . . damn, how would your girlfriend ever keep up with you? No wonder you’re working on her! She must feel like she’ll never measure up!”
An athlete who doesn’t drink, is accomplished in baseball and he’s a brain? He’s a boy after my own heart.
“I’m confident she doesn’t compare herself to me or anyone else. Besides, in college I had nothing to do but study, so . . .”
“Uh-huh.” Okay, this is baloney. I know your reputation.
“What does your ‘uh-huh’ mean?” He folded his arms against his chest.
“Nothing, go on, Mr. Tilton.”
“I was just shy of twenty-two when I was drafted by the Goliaths. They sent me to their semi-professional club in Fresno. Just as I was called up I got hurt. Turned out I needed Tommy John surgery. You follow baseball. You know what that is?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “And I know it’s serious. Some guys don’t ever recover.”
“They replaced the damaged ligament in my elbow with another tendon in my body.”
“From where?”
“My left forearm.” He pointed to it. “They gave me one year to recover. You can imagine the doubts from both the Goliaths and myself. Every time I had a checkup with their doctors, my anxiety went through the roof. I was so afraid I’d hear it wasn't healing right and there would be nothing they could do.”
“Thank God you never heard those words. You have a strong constitution. I really, well . . .” I cleared my throat. “So many people admire you . . . you should hear the kids when you come into the game.”
“What do they say?” He leaned forward and was wide-eyed as if he were still a kid.
“They say you’re their favorite player, and they want to grow up strong and throw 100 mph like you.”
It's warm in here. I need some air.
“I’m honored to hear that.” He leaned back in his seat.
“I guess the rest is history because you obviously recovered. You're one of the best relief pitchers they've ever had. The Goliaths wouldn't be having such a good year if you weren't shutting down the games so well.”
“Thank you. In college I was a starter, but because of my surgery I converted to a reliever. That was a total shift in mindset.”
“How come?” I was curious to know everything about him.
“I trained all my life to start. But once I thought it over, I figured being a reliever might give me a longer career. Of course, it also goes with my personality and the way my adrenaline pumps. Do you think I made the right choice? Especially considering how my, uh, body works?”
“I think you made a really good choice.” I stirred my ice tea. "Sugar?"
"No thanks."
“What about your tattoos?" I pointed to his arm.
“What does a young lady of seventeen think about them? Are they too rebellious for you?”
"Hardly. I love tattoos. I'd never get one, but what are yours about?” His mouth . . . why am I suddenly noticing . . . it looks so . . . “Never mind. I asked too personal a question. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not offended.” He pointed to the U.S. Marine insignia on his lower left arm. “I got this one for my dad, and the other is because of my spiritual beliefs.” He pointed to his wonderful chest. Some of it was peeking out of the V-neck cut of his shirt. “Do you know what it says?”
“No. I can’t read it.”
He pulled his T-shirt away from his neck. “See the lettering?”
“Yeah, I see now—BLESSED.” God, your neck is thick.
“And this one . . .” He pulled his sleeve up on his left arm so that the muscles flexed and pointed to a tattoo of a large bird. “This one is—"
“It’s a Phoenix.” I forced the words, not certain of how much longer I'd be able to talk without turning to mush. Oh my God, I’d love to touch that thing.
“That’s right. I’ll ask you again, what do you think of my tattoos?”
His arm was beautiful, his body was beautiful, and I felt guilty looking at him. All I wanted to do was squeeze his arms, his chest, and everything else I could see.
“Fine.”
He laughed his one-syllable laugh again. “Don’t you think the Phoenix"—he pointed to his bicep—"makes my arm look bigger? See, Nicky?”
I can’t or I’ll go into a trance again like I did at my front door. Good lord. It’s like those bulges in his arm are talking to me. I wonder if I just touch one . . . just one.
“I don’t know, I guess so, Ryan. Anyway, you’re a reliever now instead of a starter, that’s good. I can’t imagine you as anything else for some reason.”
A fire truck roared down Main Street and took our attention.
“What about you?” he asked as soon as the siren faded, and simultaneously rolled down his sleeve.
“About me? What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you take a shot at singing? Isn’t that your adrenaline? You could make business marketing your backup. With a voice like yours, why not?"
“I’m afraid to take that chance, I guess. All I’ve focused on is the marketing concept. Singing is more of a release, not a goal.”
“Hard to understand why you wouldn’t try it, but . . . it’s also hard to believe you don’t have a boyfriend. You sure march to a different beat.”
“I know."
“I didn't mean that in a negative way. You’re smart, friendly, and you’re . . . well you're not exactly . . . you’re a woman who's got a lot going for her; let’s put it like that.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a lot of confidence in my smarts. Not the dating stuff."
“What dating stuff?” He voice, smile, flex of a muscle, look in his eyes—they all teased feelings that moved in my belly.
“I’m pretty much a dork.” I tried to lighten the conversation. “But I have nice hair. I’ve got lots of confidence in that. It's the one physical feature that never lets me down.”
Too much information, but he's so easy to talk to. Well, as long as I don’t look at his body, that wry grin, the warm look, his chest, the sexy laugh, and just about everything else.
“Your hair, huh?” He chuckled. “Maybe you are a dork, but I love dorks. I’m a dork.”
“Oh, come on.” I rolled my eyes.
“I just told you what a nerd I was in school with two degrees,” he said vehemently. “You don’t think I got hell from the jocks?”
“But you were, you know, one of the jocks.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Don't worry, I like dorks too,” I giggled.
“Oh, thank God.” We laughed at each other’s silliness. “Tell me more about growing up in San Francisco.”
Another hour of exchanging stories and Ryan looked at his watch. He announced he needed to leave.
“I hope I haven't kept you from your plans." I took the last spoonful of soup. "Your call earlier . . .”
“That call was from someone who made a mistake in my schedule. The reason I have to get back is because I still need to get in a workout at the stadium. If it was only plans with someone, I’d change them for you.”
You’d change them for me? Oh damn!
Chapter 11
Is He Listening?
When we drove through the Twin Peaks tunnel, I was sad my day with Ryan had come
to an end. As usual, the whispers of “another good thing is over,” filled me with anxiety.
“I’d like to introduce myself to your family if they’re home,” he suggested and then turned off the car.
“They’d enjoy that." I was beyond excited that he'd asked. "My parents love baseball, especially my dad. I know he’d be thrilled to actually meet a member of the team he’s cheered for since forever.”
“I remember. You told me your dad introduced you to baseball.”
“Yes!” I couldn't hide the thrill I felt hearing how he'd remembered the details of our first conversation. To be validated in a personal way, something that seldom happened in my house, felt amazing. "You remembered!"
“Of course.” He answered as if he couldn't understand my doubt—and why would he.
I was so excited with the possibility of having a new friend, I momentarily forgot about the probable “condition” of my father. Instantly I regretted my decision to let Ryan into my world.
What was I thinking? I let my guard down. Damn it, Nick. We stayed so long at the Bistro, Dad might be sitting in his recliner passed out in his underwear.
“You know, maybe, um, well maybe you shouldn’t come in after all,” I stumbled over my words.
“What is it?” He put his hand on my shoulder as if sensing my worry.
“My dad, he’s . . .” Should I reveal anything more? Won't I spill our family secrets if I talk about it? We shared so much from our first meeting in the outfield and now during our day together, I'm going to take a chance. “He hasn't been feeling too good.”
I looked away and then lifted my eyes to his. The way his face went soft, I knew he understood what I really meant. That afternoon I was convinced he understood my challenges.
Maybe this boy won’t expect me to be so strong all the time.
Was it really possible that I could open up and be vulnerable with someone? Could he care enough to stay my friend once he knew about my dad and the dark stuff that I carried in my heart?
“I know how to handle myself. I’ll be all right.” He gave me a hug. “I’m sorry you’ve got that burden to carry, but now I understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your depth. It makes sense now.”
“Well, I love him, but you know, no, you don’t know,” I started to scatter and the doubts of sharing myself so honestly poked at me. “When he drinks, he can say things, do things . . . I don’t want to lose your friendship. You seem . . .”
“How do I seem?”
“Like you could be a friend I might know forever.” My throat is tight. Did I really just say that?
“You won’t lose me.” He reached for me and touched my arm.
If only I could believe you.
“Okay." I closed my eyes. "Here we go." Take a breath, Nick. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I put my hand on the doorknob, but then stopped and turned to face Ryan. “I can’t get over you.”
“What can't you get over?”
“You’re a big surprise.” I shook my head. “In fact, you’re a really big surprise. I thought you might be an ass at first because you didn’t say a word to me or my team for so long.” Once again I judged someone too quickly.
“Glad you think so. Listen," he held my hand. "Don’t worry about me. However your dad is, he is."
My hand just disappeared in his. Wow!
Once again, as I had dozens of times, I held my breath.
My hand shook as I gripped the doorknob.
I never knew what I’d face walking into our house.
Rage.
Threatening silence.
A delicate balance and false sense of calm.
The oversupply of drunken hugs and talks—love that should have come without alcohol.
My house was like two worlds: one in which I could breathe freely, and the other where I tiptoed quietly. In the second world, I looked for a place to hide away for the night.
Each world could flip in an instant.
Ryan and I walked through the door and into an empty living room.
“Anyone home?” I yelled.
In only seconds I’d know by the sound of my father’s voice whether or not he was drunk. Anyone who’s ever lived with an alcoholic knows the signs. We can read them in seconds: the slur in his voice, the pause of reaction, the way their feet shuffle—we don't have to see their face to know.
“In here!” Dad yelled.
He’s sober! Oh, thank God!
The dark oak stairway and thick wooden bannister were immediately to the right of the entry and went up to our three bedrooms and bathrooms. To the left was a formal living room, which had a television, Dad’s recliner, and the sofa my mother slept on when she resisted going upstairs to her and my father’s bedroom. There was a white marble coffee table in front of it and on top were bowls previously filled with ice cream or other comfort foods that sat empty. They'd been there for days.
The kitchen was down the hallway at the back of the house. It opened to a family room with two small sofas, a desk, and TV. Just before it and on the right was our dining room. The walls were decorated with red velvet-flocked wallpaper, which my mother had put up years ago. The dining table, the same one under which I hid from my father, belonged to my great-grandparents. It seated twelve and was made from mahogany wood. Family gatherings that were once common were now rare. Instead, holiday dishes were stacked on top of a dusty tablecloth.
My parents were at the kitchen table.
It sat in the middle of the room and had replaced the blue vinyl booth I'd sliced into a few years earlier.
Mom seemed buried in a romance novel.
Dad read the paper.
The morning dishes were still in the sink; the coffee, still hot, looked thick, dark and old.
Ryan introduced himself and shook their hands. Perhaps because of the things I’d told him, or maybe because he'd lost his own father, he showed a special interest in Dad. Ryan took the seat next to him and talked about our day in Yountville. “We’d love for you to accompany us one day, Mr. Young."
Captured by the way Ryan engaged with my parents, I wondered how they felt, their daughter bringing home this sophisticated man—a man who was now her friend. They seemed speechless. Maybe they were on their best behavior.
“Nicky bragged about how you took her to baseball games when she was little, Mr. Young.”
“She naturally took to it, so we used to go a lot,” Dad said.
I’d still go with you if I could depend on you to be sober.
“Then it seems she owes the beginnings of her cheer team idea to you,” Ryan praised. “Thank you, sir. I’m privileged to know your daughter. Let her know whenever you want tickets. You have my number now, right Nicky?"
I nodded.
"You can call me anytime you and your dad want to go.”
“Yes.” I didn’t look at my parents, nor did I want to see the questions I knew would be in their eyes and on their faces.
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you both.” Ryan got up to leave. “I hope to talk with you again soon. I know your daughter will go far in whatever she decides to do for her future.” After shaking their hands and saying goodbye, Ryan walked with me to the front door.
“You were a hit with them. When we left this morning my mother seemed hesitant, but I can tell she likes you.” Although you probably scare her to death.
“I was counting on that,” he said in his low masculine voice. "Why do you think she was hesitant?”
“I don’t know.” Why did I even open my mouth?
“Why would she be nervous about our date?”
“Stupid stuff, you know, I don’t know.” Did he just refer to our outing today as our date? Is he teasing me, or . . .
“Because she wasn’t sure about my intentions?” His stare was unwavering.
“Probably.”
“And you?”
“Me?” I’m on overload. I'm sure of that.
“What do you think my inte
ntions are?” He stood close to me, holding my hand.
“Good friends.” I patted his hand and then pulled away quickly.
“Very good friends. You’re quite a woman, Ms. Young. I look forward to doing this again. Actually, I look forward to doing a lot more with you.”
“Me too, Ryan.” He gave me a hug that was full. The way his arms encircled my body made goose bumps rise. “You’re a good hugger,” I said as he let go. “Have you ever been told?”
“Not by anyone important—until now.”
There's that grin. I'm going to pass out.
“I know you’re kidding, but I’ll bet in there,” I touched his chest quickly with my finger and then pulled it back, "it’s beautiful. Whoever you’re working on? She’s a lucky lady.”
“I hope she’ll feel that way. See you later, Nicky Young. You’re quite the special woman. A lucky one, in fact.” He waved goodbye and slid into the driver’s seat.
Before he pulled away I turned around and walked inside so I didn't watch him leave me.
Ryan and I went to Yountville together four more times over the next two months. When my senior year of high school began in September, the Goliaths were in the middle of a race for the division title. Just as he’d originally discussed, Ryan let me take on the project without him.
I missed our days traveling through the vineyards, visiting the veterans and having our late lunches together. I tucked away our short relationship through the written words of my journal and held it close as a sweet memory.
Even though I knew he expected me to share my visits to Yountville with the rest of the cheer team, I never did. I kept Johnny Mantle all to myself. I stood on the edge of something sharp and new each time I thought about Ryan. When I was around him I felt like my life could be very different.
When we click with other people, we just know.
I knew.
Chapter 12
Winter Approaches
During the first part of November, a few weeks after the baseball playoffs ended, The Goliaths organization threw a party to show their appreciation to all their employees, vendors, and volunteers. It was held in the Garden Court of the Palace Hotel, a place I'd always thought was made for princes and princesses.
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