by Amy Matayo
Olivia leans toward me and drops her voice. “She’s at least fifty, but maybe you’re into the whole cougar thing.”
“The older the better. Seventy is more my style, gray hair and all,” I say, and for a long moment we just stare at each other. Olivia opens her mouth like she wants to say something but seems to think the better of it. She bites her lip—that perfect lower lip—and fidgets in place. For one fleeting moment I wonder if she has ever dated anyone seriously before, but then dismiss the idea. Of course she has. Every twenty-nine-year-old woman has had at least a few relationships. Haven’t they?
“Will, I really think someone else would do a better job than me. And really, I don’t even know why you would want me in the first place.” She reaches for her silverware and rearranges it next to the plate, tallest to shortest, spoon on the outside.
It’s a good question. Why do I want her? I scramble for an explanation that sounds halfway believable and take a deep breath.
“I’ve lived here two months, and the only women I know are the girlfriends and wives of my fellow teammates. Asking any of them would make me look like even more of a jerk than I already do. No offense.” Her face falls; there seems to be no end to my douche-baggery. Unable to take back the words, I keep going. “Also, you’re innocent. No one would ever suspect you of acting.” Two plates are delivered and placed in front of us. I pick up my fork and watch while Olivia butters a roll and breaks it into small pieces. “And I promise it will only be for a few days. Once the controversy dies down . . .”
She stops, takes a moment to swallow, and looks at me. “You were caught drinking and driving with the team owner’s stepdaughter in your car. I hate to break it to you, but there’s a tiny chance the controversy won’t die down.”
Olivia is smarter than I thought. She’s right. I’m in more trouble than anyone knows, even myself. But right now it’s all speculation—Lexi’s word against mine, and she’s the one who decided to talk.
“I wasn’t exactly caught; she’s just telling everyone about it. Right now the only strike against me is her claim.”
“Except for the fact that she has pictures of the two of you kissing in the car and at her apartment, none of which are attractive, by the way. I’ve seen them online. She looks sick and slobbery and you look like a stupid, overeager teenager.”
I shift positions. “First of all, those pictures don’t tell the whole story. Second of all, she was sick. She threw up about ten minutes after we got to her apartment. And as for me . . . the fact that we’re having this conversation at all kind of validates that opinion.”
She tries to hold back a smile but isn’t quite successful. I reach for my wineglass again. Olivia has a way of pointing out my flaws, and I don’t like it. But she has a point, and I have a problem. One I haven’t quite figured out how to remedy. That’s where she comes in. I’m hoping that Olivia will have a solution I haven’t yet thought of. She’s a teacher, after all. Somewhere inside of all the neuroses that make up her quirky personality, she has a fully functioning brain. And considering the fact that she doesn’t drink, her brain cells are probably much more active than mine.
I take a deep breath and look around the restaurant, then settle my gaze on Olivia once again. I decide to turn on the charm and force a little innuendo into my tone. It’s worked well for me in the past. “Maybe we could come up with an explanation for that. Maybe if people think it wasn’t just me and Lexi there that night . . .”
I should have known it wouldn’t work with Olivia. She practically rolls her eyes and looks at me with disgust.
“The little pathway that your thoughts are traveling down right now? I don’t walk that way.” She leans forward to make sure I’m really getting it. “Here’s the deal. I’ll help you, but the minute you start implying I’ve done something sleazy just to clean up your own reputation, I’m out. And if it comes to that, you’ll have two girls ready to tell stories about you.” Her lip trembles from anger, and I wish I could take that idea back. She isn’t used to being so direct, but I’ve forced her hand with my arrogant attitude. “Do right by me, Will. All the time. Okay?”
Right then I would agree to anything just to keep her from being upset.
“You have my word.”
With a sigh, she picks up her fork and stabs at her salad. When she shoves a bite in her mouth and begins to chew, I grow a little calmer. Until I see—
“What’s on your wrist?”
Olivia drops her arm into her lap.
“None of your business. Now, when do we start?”
Chapter 11
Olivia
My palms start sweating before I climb out of my car. Despite the preferred parking pass that Will forced me to hang from my rearview mirror, which would have given me front row access, I park in the back of the lot, farthest from the gate. That way I don’t have to worry about someone knocking into my car and putting an obnoxious ding in the side. I used a wipe on the white finish this morning to erase all the smudge marks caused by last night’s rain; now it shines. The last thing I need is a dent I’m unable to remove. I hate being powerless to fix things. This way, that possibility can be avoided.
Plus, the long walk to the stadium will do me good. I want the extra time to make sure my mind is in control and my breathing in order, and to keep the rising panic attack currently stuck in my chest from completely overtaking me and making me look like a fool in front of a box full of people I’m supposed to impress. I press a hand to my stomach and stop between a red sports car and a blue Town & Country.
What am I doing?
I have no idea what I’m doing.
I mean, I know what I’m doing because I’ve been here before, but what am I doing here now?
I have no idea how to impress people. No idea how to engage in meaningful conversation. The graduation ceremony is a painful reminder of that cold reality. I’m a bore. Entertainment at its worst. A marginally decent alternative to counting sheep for the sleep deprived.
I brace myself on the hood of the red car and count to ten, aware that I’m causing an entire handprint’s worth of smudge marks on this poor person’s vehicle, but it can’t be helped. This is going to be awful. If I don’t trip over my own two feet on my way to the suite, I’ll most certainly blurt out some random boring fact I remember from my childhood and get Will into more trouble than he’s already in. No one cares that there are ninety feet between the bases on a major-league field. Or that to hit a home run, the average player needs to both hit the ball a minimum of four hundred feet and clear the center field wall, which itself is an average of seven feet tall. Or that Tropicana Field, home of the Tampa Bay Rays, is the smallest major-league field in America and that Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles is the largest—seating forty thousand and fifty-six thousand respectively. Or that this particular ballpark—Globe Life Field in Arlington—seats forty-eight thousand if you don’t count the grassy area.
These are the facts I entertained myself with while I watched from the stands as my brother played the game—reading them in brochures that my father carried around in his briefcase, listening as my grandfather recounted all the fields he had been to as a boy, asking to be told again and again and again because that’s what girls with attention deficits do, even when it drives everyone around them crazy. These are the things I remember most. These are the things I could talk about at endless length to anyone who might want to listen.
But I can’t.
Because these are the things that no one cares about.
It’s the story of my life, magnified and getting ready to unfold in front of very important people, and I’m the idiot who agreed to participate. And for what?
For what?
That’s when I remember. It’s funny how sometimes it only takes a fleeting mental image of hair color or a remembered piece of worn fabric to bring everything into alignment . . . to make panic subside and purpose slide into the empty space. And just like that, mine does. I’m doing this for a reason.
A very valid and important one. One that I’ll likely remember for the rest of my life if all goes according to plan.
Clutching the VIP lanyard that dangles from my neck, I walk toward Will Call to retrieve my ticket, then check the name of the suite that I’m expected to be at in the next five minutes, not that the name Coca-Cola means anything to me. Who names a suite after a soda, anyway? That’s not very classy. Spotting an usher to my right, I smooth out the lines on my royal-blue cotton top and head toward him. Even though I love the color blue, I feel a little odd wearing it in a shade this bright, but today called for it.
Hearing a low hum that has nothing to do with the field, I stop walking and glance to my left. There it is, Six Flags, only one short mile away. If I were smarter I would walk over there and hop on a water ride, then let it soak me to the point that I’m too unpresentable to show up tonight. And then with dripping hair and a new outlook on life, I could get myself a funnel cake. I love funnel cake. Love it. But I hate being wet. And I’m not that smart. It’s a trait often falsely attributed to schoolteachers.
With a sigh, I tear my eyes away and head for the gate.
A few seconds later I’m inside an elevator, riding upward with two women and a man who look like they belong here. All are dressed a little too high-class for a ball game—the man in jeans and dress shoes, both women in red heels and hair extensions, all three wearing custom-made Rangers shirts—I know fashion when I see it. When the doors open and they walk purposefully down a hallway of gray steel doors with titles over the top—titles like the Hank Aaron Suite and the Walter Johnson Suite—my hunch is confirmed. They know what they’re doing.
That makes everyone but me.
It isn’t until I open the door to The Coca-Cola Suite and step over the threshold that I realize just how much in the dark I actually am. A woman with the brightest red hair I’ve ever seen walks toward me with a Julia Roberts smile on her face and what looks like a glass of brandy in her hand.
“You must be Olivia. We’ve all been expecting you.”
When half the heads in the room swivel toward me, I swallow the desire to bolt and force down a new wave of panic.
Will has talked about me.
A million awful scenarios flash through my mind. Cats. Screwdrivers. Graduation speeches. Sitting alone on an abandoned road. More images hit me full force and then dissolve into a plume of overwhelming confusion. Although the lady smiles at me, I’m not sure whether it’s genuine or polite.
Because I have no idea what he told them.
Will
Everything about this game feels different, and not only because we’re finally winning. It’s the bottom of the sixth, and I haven’t made a single mistake. No walks, no stolen bases despite four real attempts so far, and the Detroit Tigers haven’t scored a single run—unusual for them. Blake has played impeccably the entire game, and anyone who has managed to make it to third has been tagged out by him before their feet hit home. This isn’t normal. Still, the feeling has me riding an elusive wave of euphoria, and the change feels good. Something I could easily become addicted to if given the opportunity.
I just wish I could pinpoint the cause.
For a brief second, I wonder how Olivia is handling things up in the suite. Hopefully she’s doing a decent job of acting like she adores me. Shouldn’t be too hard, considering it’s only one game and I’m . . . you know . . . me.
Shaking my head, I put my overthinking ways aside for now, pull my cap low over my forehead, get into position, and acknowledge the signal for a fastball—something we haven’t used much tonight. I’m glad for it; we’re ahead by five and I want to see the margin increase. Nothing gives a team more confidence than getting so far in the lead there’s almost no chance to lose. The opportunity doesn’t arise often and certainly hasn’t for us lately, but when it does, the best thing to do is grab onto it and let it carry you through to the end. Our season is nearly halfway over; despite our recent losing streak we still have a decent chance of coming out ahead. If we play things right, we could see ourselves in first place soon. Not a bad way to wind up, considering how the season started.
The batter gets set, but then Blake shakes his head and points two fingers, changing signals. My eyebrows go up. It isn’t like him to change mid-play, and I don’t want a curveball. I want a fastball and shake my head in a silent argument, convinced the fastball is the way to go. He points two fingers again—he’s stubborn like that—then points away from the batter. I’ve been straying a bit to the outside; I get the message. I think about arguing more but relent, then wind up and sail the ball right into the center of his glove. I resist an eye roll. Blake was right. He’ll drop a few I told you so’s after the game because that’s what he does, and I’ll suck it up and deal with it.
“Strike!” The umpire’s shout is music to my ears.
When that same word consistently flies out of his mouth, when I’m replaced in the seventh and our backup pitcher continues the same flawless streak, when runners continue to make it home for the remainder of the game, it’s all like a platinum-selling album playing from the overhead sound system. I’ve never heard a more beautiful word said so many times in one night.
Before I know it, the ninth inning is over and I’m yanking off my hat and running toward my teammates. We’re celebrating on the field, shouting in the dugout, and all I can think is I’m back. I’m on my game. I’m not going anywhere. Not even with this stupid accusation following me around.
And that’s when the euphoria fades. And that’s when it dawns on me in the same way an oil spill might slowly ruin a picturesque fishing hole. A few hours ago I jumped in the water, swam around for a while, and now I’m covered in sludge and surrounded by dead fish.
Way to go, idiot.
I’m screwed.
Screwed.
So incredibly screwed.
Because Olivia.
Olivia is the one thing that was different about tonight. The only change I’ve made in a long string of sketchy playing.
And just like my teammates and almost everyone else I know who makes a career out of this game, I’m a bit of a superstitious sort. Before every game, my socks go on first the left foot, then the right—Nike symbol facing out and slightly toward the back of my calf. I eat a turkey sandwich on rye with Swiss in the mornings, then chase it with two cups of black coffee. Normally I like the drink loaded with sugar and cream, but not on game days. And I take three showers—one the second I wake up, another right before practice, and another right after the game. I love the feel of dirt on my hands and dust in my mouth during a game, but all of it has to come off immediately after. It’s just the way I’ve always been. But all of this poses a problem.
For Olivia.
Because something tells me that crazy chick just turned into my good-luck charm.
And because of that unfortunate fact, starting tonight . . .
She’s not going anywhere.
Chapter 12
Olivia
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
Seriously, I feel like we’re in preschool, engaging in a battle of four-year-old wills.
For nearly an hour I sat alone in the stands, waiting for him after the game like he asked me to. Had I known this conversation awaited, I would have run every stop sign and traffic light in an effort to get home quickly. Now I’m fast walking to my car with Will trailing behind me, asking me the same senseless question over and over. Men and their inability to listen.
He pushes against my car door before I reach the handle, preventing me from opening it. I shoot him a look.
“Move your hand, Will.”
“Come on, Olivia. What could possibly be so bad about one more game? Were the women mean to you or something?”
I roll my eyes at his stupid question and yank on the handle. It won’t budge. “Yes, they really hurt my feelings and wouldn’t let me play with them at recess. Not sure I’ll ever get over the
trauma.”
Will misses the sarcasm. “Who was it? I’ll make them apologize.”
I sigh. As though my biggest fear is not fitting in with the popular crowd. The women were perfectly nice, save for one brunette named Candy who kept pointing out that I’m a schoolteacher, and it wasn’t a compliment. She repeatedly said the word in a long, drawn-out, pitying tone.
So you’re a schoolteacher. Does that pay much?
So you’re a schoolteacher. Do you find it hard to deal with kids?
So you’re a schoolteacher. It must be nice not to have to work all summer.
That last one left my fingers itching with the desire to flick her on the nose, especially considering she’d just finished a long monologue about the painful aspects of Botox and not being able to find a good housekeeper, and then a list of complaints about a decorator who had the gall to take a twelve-week maternity leave in the middle of birthday season. To that I wondered, There’s such a thing as birthday season? Not exactly the problems your average American woman faces. But I said nothing. I just kept talking to the woman who opened the door for me and whose name I forgot the moment she introduced herself.
Now I’m stuck in a parking lot with a belligerent Will, though I can’t deny his willingness to defend me touches a pleasant little part of my mind. The part that also enjoys ice cream and a shoe sale at Dillard’s, neither of which I entertain often and both of which I find completely unnecessary.
I shake my head to clear it, determined to stand my ground.
“Will, they weren’t mean. But I’m not going back again.”
“It’s just for one game.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“But this time I mean it.”
And that’s when he gives himself away with a little eye flick to the side. It wouldn’t be just one game. It would be another and another and another, except it makes no sense. Why in the world would he want me here at all? I’m not self-assured or beautiful or every guy’s dream date, so what’s the appeal? It takes all my self-control not to come out and ask him. I hardly want to seem unsure of myself.