by Kate Meader
Courtney Ellison was one of those things. Well, not a thing, a girl, who told me in the fifth grade that she’d never sit with me in the cafeteria because I wasn’t good enough for her. Yes, my friends, there was a time when I didn’t have all my gifts working to full capacity, and this was largely down to the late development of one of my best attributes.
Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about my gift of gab.
You see, I didn’t always have this facility with the spoken word. I stuttered as a kid—pretty badly—and it took a lot of speech therapy and a whole lot more willpower for me to rectify that situation and become the smooth-talking guy I am today. It’s one of the reasons why I chose the law. Words matter. Crafting words into a persuasive argument matters. Being able to talk myself into and out of anything is one of the hallmarks of my success.
When I was finally able to string a sentence together and speak it to Courtney Ellison without tripping over it, her attitude to me changed overnight. Or over mac ’n’ cheese at Lake Forest High. She couldn’t see herself with a guy who could barely speak, no matter how cute or rich he was. That’s when I learned that looks and money mean nothing. What we say counts. How we use our words says more about a person than a square jaw or a fat wallet.
I wouldn’t quit speech therapy because I was determined to win Courtney over. Once I had—once she invited me to sit with her and her friends in the school cafeteria—I never spoke to her again. I wasn’t magically cured, and I still had work to do, but I would no longer waste my precious words on a girl who didn’t understand sacrifice. Who didn’t recognize their magic.
The reason I bring up the “never a quitter” thing is because I’m about ready to quit being a fucking dog owner.
So the dog’s not technically mine, but I’ve been placed in loco parentis by its true owner, one Ms. Mitzi von Stueben, who has decided to flee the country rather than let me off the hook. I truly believe she planned a trip to Paris, bought the doggie, then waited until I was flirting with another woman in Lincoln Park before she dumped him on me. It’s pretty elaborate as revenge plots go, but I’ve seen plenty of this bullshit in my job so nothing surprises me.
This puppy is a yapper. A yelper. A howler. Luckily I’m on the penthouse floor of my building and the insulation is decent enough so as not to disturb my downstairs neighbor, an oil commodities broker who I know would be doing the equivalent of a broomstick against the ceiling (i.e., sending up Benji the doorman) if he could hear the dog’s screeches. The fact that my neighbors aren’t being disturbed is no comfort. I am being disturbed. I am being inconvenienced but I can’t do a thing about it until Mitzi comes back. “Drop it off at a shelter,” Grant said, but that’s not an option. The little bugger gives me The Eyes, knowing I’m another one of those suckers born every minute.
I expect when I return home he’ll have crapped all over my Java hardwood floors—at least he would have if I didn’t lock him in the guest room where he can instead crap all over the carpet.
Determined to forget my troubles, I head down the aisle at Wrigley on the way to my seat for tonight’s game. I wouldn’t mind but I was definitely making progress with Charlie before Mitzi dumped the beast on me. I didn’t enjoy that smug look on La Love’s face, a look that said all her suspicions about me had been confirmed. Suspicions such as: I’m a playboy cad who leads women into thinking they have futures with me that involve brunches, lazy Sundays in bed, crossword puzzles, and yippity-yappy balls of fluff. Not only do I lead these women on, I then crush their hopes to the extent they have no choice but to foist live animals on me in public places! This is not good for my reputation.
Not that I should really care what Charlie thinks of me. But I don’t like presenting the wrong impression. I want Charlie—everyone—to see the real Max Henderson.
Sounding like a sap there, bud.
Tonight should be stress-free. Okay, a Cubs game can never be completely stress-free, but it’s early enough in the season that I can relax with a couple of beers and some lousy ballpark dog, and kick back with James, Gina, and my dad. Jack’s making one of his rare visits to the city because it’s Mom’s night to volunteer with her literacy group.
As I get closer to the Hendersons’ usual seats in the third row behind home base (these season tickets have been in the family for three generations), a flurry corkscrews down my spine. Unless my dad has suddenly taken to sporting a blond wig piled high on top of his head in one of those sexy-messy buns, I’d say tonight will not be a night for the Henderson boys to bond.
We meet again, Charlie Love.
I take my seat on the aisle, catching James’s eye as I do so and wishing I could wipe that superior smile off his face.
“Hey,” I say to Charlie. Gina and James are on her other side. “You’re getting better looking every day, Dad.”
“He’s got a cold,” James says, “and Mom insisted on keeping him at home after the last time.”
Last time, my dad got a nasty case of pneumonia which dragged on for a month. He’s always been so virile that it’s hard to imagine him as anything but. Mom’s probably being overprotective, but I don’t begrudge her this. I like that they take care of each other.
Charlie gives a little shrug. “Gina, James, and I were meeting a while ago to discuss the music for the wedding and they invited me. Hope that’s okay.”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” I say in a way that implies I don’t think it’s okay. I’m not sure why I’m feeling so testy around her. Maybe because in all our interactions so far, she’s managed to best me. It’s not a contest except that it is.
I always win. I never quit. Words are my weapons.
Now how the hell can I put all that together and ensure I come out on top when it comes to Charlie Love?
On top. I like the sound of that, though to be honest I wouldn’t mind which of us did the honors. Tonight she’s wearing one of those blouses with long sleeves where the shoulders are exposed through slits in the fabric. It’s black with pink and orange flowers on it, and I think I could spend all night counting each exposed freckle and inventing dirty tasks to get her off.
This little freckle sent my fingers delving.
This little freckle got a swipe of my tongue.
This little freckle made my mouth water.
This little freckle had a shitload of fun.
And this little freckle made Charlie scream, scream, scream while I pumped all the way home.
Her jeans hug her thighs, and I’ve no doubt they show the same love to her ass. I wouldn’t mind showing her ass some love of my own, squeezing its perfection, slipping my fingers between her beautiful thighs to find her so hot and—
“Max.” It would seem James has been trying to get my attention.
“What?”
“Beer, asshole.”
Yes, bro, your beer is definitely more important than my fantasy sex life. James is sort of pissed with me because I dared to suggest that he consider a pre-nup. With his wealth, it’s common sense, but raising the topic has created a weird distance between us.
I flag down the beer guy who usually trolls this section. After I get Buds for everybody, Charlie tries to grease my palm with a ten dollar bill.
“I can spot you a beer, Charles.”
“Okay, but I’m getting the next round.”
I don’t agree or disagree. No woman needs to buy her own beer in my presence.
As we settle in, she asks, “How’s your doggie guest?”
“Man’s best friend. Where the best friend is a whiny little shit who scratches the furniture, pees on my hearth rug, and will only eat top-quality steak.”
“Back up a second. Did you say hearth rug?”
She’s amused, and I’m immediately on edge. Nothing good can come from whatever answer I give her.
/> “Yes, I did say that.”
“I’m imagining the pelt of a tiger stretched out before a roaring fire. Maybe there’s a button beneath the coffee table that, when pressed, reveals a hidden recessed alcove with brandy snifters. Another button shutters the windows and—”
“Drops the needle on an LP of Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits,” I finish for her.
Her mouth scrunches up in query. “LP?”
“Long-playing, Charles. That’s what we used to call the music-making thingies. Frisbee-shaped gizmos that make sounds. Way before your time.”
She grins. “That hearth rug must see a lot of action.”
“Right now, it’s seeing a lot of Cujo.”
“Cujo? Are you kidding? He was so cute.”
“Try living with him.” The first inning’s about to start, and my gaze is taking it all in. The usual suspects in my section, the batting lineup, the—
“Shit. That’s all we need.”
Charlie follows my gaze.
“Muller,” we both say at the same time, then turn to each other, surprised.
“I fucking hate that guy,” she continues. “Worst umpire in baseball.”
“Worst official in pro sports,” I offer, my heart beating in recognition. If this woman wasn’t such a true believer in all that wedding mumbo jumbo I would be bringing out every tool in my arsenal: the hearth rug, the brandy snifters, Neil freakin’ Diamond.
Two spots of color appear on her cheeks. She’s felt that zing of connection, too, but she’s torn. She’s already made up her mind I’m a player and not worth her time, but every now and then I surprise her and put her on the back foot. For the next nine innings, she’s going to be fighting her attraction to me and I’m going to be doing my best to make her lose that battle.
“Play ball,” I murmur, then return my attention to the field.
* * *
—
By the top of the fourth inning, I’m two beers in and the Cubbies are three runs down. As foretold in the Book of Max, the losing situation is compounded by the presence of Lars Muller, the worst umpire in Major League Baseball. He’s denied Rizzo a run, claiming an illegal slide that wouldn’t have held up in a court of law but somehow made the grade tonight. The strike calls are a joke and Maddon’s already gotten up in Muller’s grille. It’s only made the bastard more recalcitrant.
The game might be a farce, but every moment of pain is worth it because not only does it piss off Charlie, it gets her royally riled up. Now my section is filled with die-hard fans, some of them like me with third-generation season tickets. If one of us can’t make it, he or she texts Casper (that’s not his name but he’s a pasty-faced Irish guy who has never missed a game). Casper fills in the section for births, deaths, unavoidable kids’ concerts—you get the idea. Tonight the guy is in the row behind me, two seats over, and every decision that doesn’t go the Cubs’ way is like the loss of his firstborn. It doesn’t take long for him to recognize a kindred soul in Charlie, who is on her feet whenever Muller screws up.
“You see that?”
For the first ten times, I agreed with her that I had indeed seen it. But my reaction obviously wasn’t enough for Charlie, which is when Casper steps into the breach.
“Guy’s an asshole,” Casper says encouragingly. “Remember when he screwed the pooch on the Crosstown Classic last year?”
Charlie turns, hands raised, her delicate features more animated than I’ve seen, well, on anyone. “He’s been screwing the pooch for thirty years too long. Should’ve retired years ago.” She stands up. “You’re a bum, Muller! A lousy, no good bum!”
This draws a cheer from our section and several other people nearby. A few scowls, too, but I’m having far too good a time to be bothered. Charlie in a righteous rage means Charlie getting loose. It means Charlie standing up so I get a great view of her ass. (I was right, those jeans were made to love that ass.) It means Charlie plopping down, shaking her head in indignation, her perfume mingling with the night air and making me hard.
The officials are used to a few heckles. They’ve got to be thick-skinned, but even Muller shoots a look over his shoulder at that one.
If I’d read the situation right I would have handled it differently, but I’m too caught up in the glory of Charlie. It’s not often you meet a girl who knows her baseball, can throw down beers with the best of them, and isn’t afraid to take it to the mat. I’m so busy admiring her that when the next play kicks off I’m too far gone to foresee the situation in the making.
Top of the ninth and the Cubs are leading 5–4, a miracle considering the level of umpiring we have to tolerate. The Cardinals are at bat with two outs, but have a player on third, a slowpoke called Pallas who really should lay off the hot dogs. We need one more out, boys. That’s all we need.
Casey for the Cards hits a ground ball to second base and Pallas starts his lumber home, Frankenstein in cleats. Bryant scoops up the ball, throws it to catcher Contreras at home base and good ol’ Will does his job: He tags Pallas out two feet before he reaches home.
That fucker Muller calls Pallas safe.
War breaks out in the ballpark, everyone on their feet, screaming their heads off. The bench clears, our section is in disbelief, but we’ve got the replay, right?
Wrong. Maddon is out of challenges, leaving it up to the crew chief to initiate a replay. Muller must have something good on him because the chief elects not to exercise his right.
No one who calls themselves a Cubs fan approves of this decision. No one. James and Gina are enraged in a cute couple kind of way. Casper is mumbling like he’s about to go into catatonic shock. I’m pretty upset myself, but boy I’ve got nothing on Charlie.
She’s screaming blue murder at Muller. This guy better have security leaving the park tonight because Charlie will have his balls for maracas if she gets close enough. Every name you can think of and a few I’ve never heard before are lobbed like grenades over the bull pen.
Yeah, it sucks because instead of the out that would have ended the game, we have the run that tied it up. Instead of everyone heading to Cubby Bear for celebratory beers, we’ve got to wait it out in the cooling evening and see if our boys can bring it home in the bottom of the ninth. Assuming we can get out of this half of the inning without giving up any more runs.
Spoke too soon, Max. Buoyed by their oh-so-lucky call, the Cards go on a streak, pulling in three more runs over the course of the next ten minutes. Each one is a stab to the heart.
“This is a travesty,” Charlie says, then stands up and shouts, “You’re a travesty, Muller! Take a hike!”
Thirty seconds later, she has the entire section screaming “Take a hike!” at Muller. He faces the crowd, hands on his wide hips, wearing the face of a bulldog who’s just sucked down a catcher’s mitt for a snack and enjoyed the hell out of it.
“Take a hike!”
Muller stares the mob down.
“Take a hike!”
He turns his back, but it doesn’t stop the taunts. That’s when security decides to get involved. A big bruiser of a guy stands in the aisle next to our row and calls out: “You need to quiet down.”
It’s said generally to the section but it’s clearly aimed at everyone’s favorite rabble-rouser, Charlie Love. Ignoring him, she continues with her campaign. “Get off the field, Muller. There are donuts in the clubhouse with your name on ’em!”
Of all the things to offend an MLB official, I would not have thought this was it. But Muller looks at Charlie and somehow telepathically communicates his displeasure at this particular heckle.
“All right, out,” Security Guy says.
“What?” From her now sitting position, Charlie looks down her nose at him though he’s a foot and a half taller than her. “You’re making me leave?”
&nbs
p; “You’re disturbing the players and the fans in this section.”
“Am I disturbing you?” She arcs a hand over the people in our section, all of whom have been greatly digging her enthusiasm. Sure, don’t we all love people who express our sentiments in a way that’s (a) hilarious and (b) ensures we don’t have to put ourselves out on a limb?
“Leave her be,” Casper mutters.
Time to unveil Chivalrous Max. “Any chance we could let this go?” I smile at Security Guy. I usually recognize most of the employees who walk this section, but I’ve not seen him before. “I’ll make sure she behaves.”
Yep, I said that. Have you met Max Henderson, stone-cold idiot?
“Make sure I behave? What, keep the uppity woman in her place?”
I turn, imploring with my eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I’m trying to get everyone back to the game.”
During this hubbub, the show has gone on and you’ve guessed it: the Cards choose this inopportune time to score another home run.
Charlie screams an expletive, clearly aimed at Muller, who while not responsible directly for this run, is really the founder of all that is fucking fucked-up about this fucking game.
“That’s it,” Security Guy says and reaches across me—to lay a hand on Charlie’s arm.
A fierce protectiveness rears in my chest, so sudden it surprises me. Security Guy doesn’t make it so far as laying a hand on Charlie because I push back. I push him. Hard.
And that’s how I get sent to Cubs jail.
Chapter 9
“Being married means mostly shouting ‘What?’ from other rooms.”
—Unknown
Charlie
I really should be angrier than this, but it seems all my negative emotion expired out in the ballpark. I spent a good chunk of my teen years managing my feelings, trying to channel my passion into appropriate avenues like ambition, productivity, and societal acceptance. When my mom died, I was left with a lot of grief which took the form of rage.