by Ney, Sara
He’s probably out eating tacos.
Or maybe, like me, he has no appetite and can’t eat at all.
I wish I had the nerve to call him, but after almost an entire week, is he likely to give a shit? Women chase after this man—he isn’t going to wait around for one who doesn’t.
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t see the man lurking next to my car, fiddling with the door handle. Lost in my thoughts, I don’t see him startle when he sees me approach.
One second I’m carrying my laptop bag, the next second it’s being yanked out of my grip.
“Hey!” I shout, caught off guard, barely registering what’s happening.
But I’m in his way, blocking his exit, so he has to shove me to get by.
The mace—the mace! You have mace, Hollis.
I fumble for my keychain and the pink canister hanging there, a gift from Madison after I got my first apartment. Three years old and never been deployed, I pray something shoots out when I push down the little trigger.
My aim is terrible.
The man tries hitting me, still latched onto my bag.
“Let go of the bag you fucking bitch!”
Let go of the bag, Hollis—it’s not worth it.
But wouldn’t he have shot me already if he had a gun? Wouldn’t he have stabbed me if he had a knife? A million thoughts enter my brain, none of them to flee.
“Fuck you,” I tell him, spraying, pointing the pink mace at his face. I squeeze the button and squeeze my eyes shut at the same time.
Open them and press the red button on my key fob.
The car alarm blaring is barely loud enough to attract attention, but the mace on my keychain is enough to make him lose his damn mind—and his eyesight.
The man falls to the ground, screaming in pain, hands cupping his eyes, begging me to throw water on his face.
“Give me some damn water, you fucking bitch!” he screams. “I know you have some bitch.” He calls me bitch over and over—not that I blame him. “I’m blind, you whore!”
Shouldn’t have tried to steal my stuff motherfucker.
Shaking uncontrollably, I somehow manage to dial 911 on my cell phone while holding the mace in his direction—in case I have to spray him again while I’m waiting for the police.
It takes them eight minutes to get here.
Another few for the officers to peel him off the ground and arrest him. Cuff him, put him in the back of their squad car. It’s unpleasant business—the man is cursing at them now too, worse obscenities than he called me and he’s spitting.
I’m trembling still and don’t think I can drive. Not in the city, not like this. In any case, they need me down at the station, so I can release a statement and file a report.
They give me a ride, and on the way there, I shoot my best friend a text to let her know what’s going on.
Madison calls (like I figured she would), but I send her to voicemail; I’m in no mood to chat, especially not in a squad car with a police officer. Maddie would inevitably ask if he was good-looking and single and I’d have to disappoint her and tell her the officer I’m riding with is female.
She makes chitchat with me, trying to bring down my stress level and calm me down.
“I’m fine now. I’m fine.” Keep saying it—maybe it will come true.
And I am, for the most part. The odds of getting robbed or mugged are low—I was just the unlucky one who interrupted Alvin Butterfield while he was trying to break into cars and steal loose change from the cup holders.
Parts of me are sympathetic; resorting to crime to feed yourself is a reality I’ve never had to face. The other part of me is angry—he could have hurt me and I could have hurt him, all over some spare change.
I don’t even keep money in my car. It was a bad investment on his end to waste so much time trying to get inside, considering the outcome.
Still.
Here I am, sitting at the police station in Precinct Five. It’s an old college campus they converted into law enforcement offices, and I follow the officer into the lobby. Plop down in a chair straight out of the eighties—they obviously didn’t have the budget to redecorate when they bought the building, comfort being the least of their priorities.
Hookers and pimps have sat in these chairs…
I squirm.
Stand, rooting through my bag for hand sanitizer. Douse myself.
Before long, I’m seated across from the arresting officer and she begins taking my statement. I describe how I left work and had my head down walking into the parking structure (a mistake). I told her I had my hands full, but my keys ready. I told her about how I didn’t notice Alvin Butterfield trying to break into my car until I was upon him—how we both startled each other. How he lost his mind when I sprayed him in the eyes.
Thank god I had that pepper spray.
The officer types everything I say, word for word, asking me if I want to press charges and explaining what happens if I do. The steps to take, what comes next.
Then.
A loud commotion sounds from the far side of the room.
“Sir, you can’t just bust in here like this. Sir!”
The voices have my head turning toward the door, toward the looming, imposing figure that’s suddenly appeared there.
“Would someone stop him, please?” another voice calls out. “He can’t just be in here.”
“I’m confused,” someone else says. “Is that Buzz Wallace or am I hallucinating?”
He is most certainly not hallucinating and what the hell is Buzz doing at the cop shop?
“Hollis?” He’s speed walking toward me, weaving through desks, massive body seemingly taking up the entire place.
He is larger than life and he’s here.
At the police station.
It makes zero sense.
“Trace?” My mouth is hanging open; I can feel it. “What are you doing here?”
“Madison called me.”
How the hell would she have accomplished that? “How did she get your number?”
He shrugs his wide shoulders. “Must have gotten it the same way I got yours.” His hands clasp my upper arms and he crouches, so he can look me straight in the eyes. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
I glance at his body, up and down, then up at his face. “Why are you wearing a uniform?”
His head cocks to the side. “It’s a game day.”
He says it so matter-of-factly. As if it’s no big deal that he’s standing in a police station dressed in a uniform to play in a Major League Baseball game.
“Why are you here?” I’m horrified, actually. Panicked. Why is he here when he has a game—is he insane? “Are you nuts? You cannot be here!”
“Madison said you were robbed and that you were at the police station,” Buzz explains, as if his presence is the most normal thing about this situation.
“But why are you here? You. Have. A. Game.” Why do I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall? He isn’t listening—doesn’t seem to care that I’m frantically trying to reason this away. He cannot be here. This isn’t normal.
“They won’t miss me until the last few innings. Don’t worry about it.”
Oh my god. “When does the game start?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“When…” I swallow. “When did Madison call you?”
“’Bout half an hour ago,” he replies distractedly, checking me up and down for bruises. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? It was a he, yeah?”
He left a professional baseball game before they even sang the national anthem because I got mugged at work in a parking garage?
He left. A Major. League. Baseball game…because I got mugged at work.
And he hasn’t even taken me on an actual date yet. And he’s acting like him showing up is no big deal.
He dropped everything to be here.
Tears well in my eyes as his continue scanning my body, officers looking on, giving us our space. I notice, out of the corner of my
eye, one or two of them taking pictures on the sly.
“Oh my god, Hollis, what’s wrong?” His hands are cradling my face now and the concern in his eyes has wet wells streaming down my face.
I wish he would stop.
I hate when I ugly cry.
“Babe. Talk to me.”
That makes it worse, and I cry harder, sniffling when he pulls me into his chest, face now pressed against his Steam jersey. The one with the Under Armour sponsorship logo. The one with his name plastered on the back side of it. The one that earns him millions of dollars per year.
This sweet, ridiculous man who thinks I’m crying because I was accosted today.
Even with my face pressed against his massive chest, I see another figure out of the corner of my eye. Think I’ve officially lost my mind, because—is that my dad? It can’t be. Why would he be here, too?
Perhaps Madison also called him.
She would call him—not only out of concern for me, but because she thinks he’s hot and will use any opportunity to hit on him. Ew.
The man isn’t approaching us, just watching from the lobby. I can see him through the glass which could use a good scrubbing, and realize…
It’s not my dad at all.
It’s another officer—probably a detective—wearing a suit and a badge and my shoulders sag.
It figures my father couldn’t trouble himself to come see about my welfare. Not on a game day.
But here is Buzz, squishing my face into his jersey, running a large palm down my spine to comfort me. Patting my head and muttering, “Shhh, shh…” into my hair.
I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. Bury my nose deeper into his shirt and give him a sniff. He smells like fresh shower, laundered sports apparel, and cologne. And old gym socks.
He must be superstitious.
A deep voice clears its throat, and I peel myself out of Buzz’s embrace to find the detaining officer and her colleague watching us with raised brows.
“Um…this is my friend Trace. Sorry, my other friend called him to tell him I was here—he didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I’m her boyfriend.” His smile is huge and affectionate. “The little scamp will deny it, of course, since we haven’t been on a date yet, but it’s inevitable.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Oh my god, he needs to tone it down a notch. “Now is not the time for your shenanigans.”
“Pfft. It’s always a good time for shenanigans, am I right, officers?” He shoots them a wink.
They’re speechless. I mean, what the hell are they supposed to say to that? To him? A god among mortal men, standing in their precinct.
“Ms. Westbrooke, if you wouldn’t mind having a seat so we can finish up here? Then you can be on your way.” They’re still staring at Trace.
“They called you Ms. Westbrooke—that’s so cute! You know what’s cuter? Hollis Wallace.” He pulls my chair back out, so I can sit, then pulls out the one next to it. “Holly Wolly.”
“If I threaten to murder him in front of you, does that lead to an automatic conviction?” I’m asking the officer in front of me. I can’t decide if she’s amused or not, but I’m certainly not, and he NEEDS TO GO. Away. Now.
“There she goes, role-playing the Lifetime Movie Network. Love it when she does that.” He presses a soft noogie to the top of my head.
My hand covers the seat, so he cannot sit. “You need to go,” I tell him.
“But I’m here.”
I roll my eyes. “No, Buzz—go back to work.”
He rolls his eyes back at me. “They can wait.”
They. The people. The fans. The team owners and investors. The millions of people watching from their homes, on television.
The entire statement, delivered so calmly, makes me laugh. Makes the female officer’s eyes widen—fortunately she doesn’t interject or ask questions because the last thing I need is someone encouraging his obstinate behavior.
The team can wait? A stadium filled with fifty thousand people can wait? Has he lost his damn mind?
“You can go. I’ll be fine.” I look to the officer. “I’m in good hands, trust me. You can call me when you’re done.”
Like we’re discussing him going back to work at an office. Or at a restaurant. Or as if he works retail. Yeah, sure, give me a shout when you’re off work! No big deal!
The reality: give me a shout when you’re done playing baseball in front of a crowd of nearly fifty thousand. A crowd that will generate millions upon millions of dollars in a single evening, with music and cheering and billionaires looking down on you from boxes in the sky.
Yeah. No big deal.
Go do that then give me a shout, but thanks for stopping by.
Once again, everyone is staring at us—more Buzz than me. I’m just some random girl who experienced an attempted robbery. All in a day’s work for the police, but it’s not every day a professional athlete comes busting through their doors, dressed in his complete uniform, straight from the stadium a few blocks up.
“How did you even get here so fast?” I can’t help asking.
“I took a cab.” Of course he did. “They’re everywhere around the stadium today—only had a little trouble getting through the fans who recognized me, but most of them just thought I was some freak dressed like me.”
Again. Super casual, no big deal.
He is really something else…
And growing on me with every passing second. My heart flutters and contracts. I hope I’m not watching him with doe eyes. Ugh.
He relents to my nudging, hesitating. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” His hand is on my shoulder now, because I’m sitting down, and he’s looking down at me like I’m looking up at him. “I feel horrible just leaving you here.”
He showed up, though, because he wanted to see that I was okay.
And I am.
In fact, I’ve never been more okay than I am tonight.
* * *
Me: Did Madison call you today by any chance?
Dad: She did.
Me: And did you hear about what happened…?
Dad: She mentioned something about you being robbed in the parking structure at your office.
Me: I half expected you to come walking into the police station.
Dad: There was a game today, Hollis—you know I cannot miss a home game.
Me: Right. You had to work. While I was in the police station because I was almost robbed.
Dad: But you were not.
Me: But I could have been.
Dad: Well I will say this, Hollis—if you were working for me, alongside your brother and sister, this wouldn’t have happened. We have secure parking at the stadium.
Me: I can’t believe you just said that.
Dad: Forgive me if I’m still—pardon the pun—a little steaming mad that one of my star players left the game before it even started to hold the hand of my grown daughter.
Me: I did not call him to come. And how can you judge him for wanting to be by my side?
Dad: I told you not to be a distraction. We discussed this.
Me: I can’t control what he does—I had no idea a man I’m not even dating would show up when my own FAMILY wouldn’t. So now I know whom I can depend on.
Dad: You know the rules about game days. There are to be no events planned on days I have to travel or work.
Me: Events? You call my being mugged an EVENT? LOL omg Dad.
Dad: There’s no need to be churlish.
Me: There’s no need to be an uncaring, selfish ass, but here we are.
Me: This is the reason
I almost say, This is the reason Mom left, but I can’t bring myself to send it. It’s cruel and uncalled for. I’m not hurt he didn’t come to the police station—I never expected him to in the first place. What I am upset about is the fact that he isn’t showing the least bit of concern for anything that happened to me. In fact, he’s irritated at the mere thought that I’ve forgotten the Thomas Westbr
ooke cardinal rule: no emergencies or events on game days, and this includes birthday parties, baptisms, retirements, communions, graduations, weddings, bat mitzvahs, funerals, and births.
Yes, we’re not allowed to give birth on a game day. Not that he would come to the hospital anyway.
Let’s be honest here: Dad wasn’t at much of anything. I played sports through school, but he probably couldn’t tell you which ones (volleyball and field hockey). I was on prom court once, but he wouldn’t know that, either—he wasn’t there for the grand march. Prom wasn’t during the official baseball season, but when wasn’t it baseball season in our house? It was never not in season.
He was never not too busy.
Including today.
Dad: I don’t know why you’re upset—your boyfriend was there.
Me: He’s not my
I pause before finishing the sentence and hitting send. Pause and stare at the sentence I’m about to write. Trace Wallace might not be my boyfriend, but so far, he’s acted more like one than any guy I’ve ever dated. Or not dated.
He’s trying so hard, and I’ve done nothing but push back.
Why?
Why won’t I let him in?
Because you were afraid he was going to be like your dad since he works for your dad. Not to mention, he’s the best-looking guy you’ve ever laid eyes on.
His face and body and voice could melt my butter with or without the sun.
Me: We’re taking it slow, but I’m glad to have someone in my life who makes me a priority.
Dad: I don’t appreciate him walking out on his contract.
Me: Is that how you see it?
Dad: You’re missing the point here, Hollis.
Me: Um, respectfully disagree, Dad. This isn’t about money to me like it is for you—and for once I think I might have met someone who prioritizes people over money, too.
Dad: That sounds ridiculous.
Me: Only because you can’t relate.
Dad: If the kid doesn’t prioritize his INCOME then he should re-evaluate what he does for a living.
Me: He loves baseball Dad.
Dad: I know he does. That’s why I need him to stay focused.