Mr. Sportsball

by K. P. Haigh

  Lovely. I'm going to think about that every single time I go to bed now.

  Baron comes out of the closet, throws a shirt into the duffel bag, and shuts it. "Okay. I think I've got everything for tomorrow. I'm really sorry I can't stay with you, babe. It's just a thing we have to do. At least it's not an away game, so I'll be back home after we play. We can even walk home together." His smile is apologetic. He knows I didn't know exactly what I was signing up for. I don't think it was a lie of omission, I just don't think he gets it yet that he grew up with this. This culture is ingrained in him like a second language while I’m still learning its alphabet.

  "It's okay, it's just one night." The words feel hollow, but I can't justify telling him how much it sucks. What? So he can feel bad while he stays away? It's not like it’s his choice.

  He walks over and gives me a kiss on the forehead. "It is, and you can hang out with all the other players' wives and girlfriends tomorrow."

  The way he says it, it's like he's completely forgotten I'm an introvert who would rather stay home and read all day. Being around a group of people I don't know sounds like getting stuck on the “It's a Small World” ride for three hours with that same robotic melody repeating on high the entire time.

  I give him a thumbs up with just a touch of sass, but he interprets it as enthusiastic approval. I don't bother to correct him.

  Instead, we get ready to walk the waterfront together for an hour before he has to go check in and grab dinner with the team.

  I message Andie that I have to go. I don't mention that I have to go spend at least five hours with Rochelle tomorrow. I make a mental note to make sure my phone is fully charged so I can stand in the corner of the room and text my best friend the whole time.

  This is what I signed up for. I might not have known all the details before I put my name on the line, but I knew it wouldn't be all puppies and burritos.

  I knew I'd have to suck it up and watch some football, and tomorrow, that's what I'm finally going to have to do.

  Well, this is hell—privileged hell, but hell nonetheless.

  I'm hiding out in the ladies’ bathroom in the owner's private box where half of the team's significant others are hanging out. I'm still trying to figure out where the other half are and if they somehow got to stay home and chill while the rest of us are stuck here.

  Because if that's an option, I am so in.

  At least Georgie's here too. She keeps introducing me to the other wives and telling them I'm a photographer. Part of me wants to spit in her drink, but I know she's just trying to look out for me.

  I've been asked if I do headshots. Newborn shoots. Modeling portfolio work. When I say no, the conversation quickly flips to the safe zone—their safe zone: football.

  My head is so tired from bobbing up and down with a giant smile plastered across my face, I think it might just roll off by itself and look for shelter.

  I find myself trying to actually pay attention to the game, just for something to do that isn't talking, but I seriously can't make sense of anything except for the fact that men in different-colored jerseys run to opposite ends of the field, and they keep stopping to do squats.

  No wonder Baron's ass is a freaking rock. You could carve metal with that thing. I thought it was because he's constantly running sprints, trying to improve his speed. That helps, but kicking off from a half-bent position is absolutely a contributing factor.

  I'll take it. I'll take it all day long, preferably naked and with good lighting so I can appreciate it in its full, jaw-dropping glory.

  I crack open my purse to text Andie. I haven't had a chance to tell her I'm stuck in the owner's suite.

  She'd kick me if she were here. She would absolutely hyperventilate if she stepped foot in a suite on game day, and here I am, wishing I was anywhere else. I'd even take a wickedly uncomfortable stadium seat for four hours over being stuck in here with a bunch of people I am forced to talk to despite having nothing in common with.

  But I'm the one who's here, because I'm the one who fell for Baron. Love certainly has a sense of humor.

  And I'm not entirely sure I think it's that funny.

  I hear the main bathroom door swing open and a set of heels clack against the stone floor. I swear I can feel the air being sucked out of the room, and I know who I'm going to see before I even open the door. I'm tempted to stay hidden in my stall, but I know she can see my feet. I wouldn't put it past her to know it was me just by my Converse.

  I swing open the door to face the she-devil. Her naturally tight curls are coiled to perfection, and part of me wants to ask how she does it. I can't get my hair to look that good with a natural wave; it either comes out crispy, flat, or greasy. Why do evil people always have good hair? Is it to distract you while they reach into your chest, rip your heart out, and crush it beneath their perfectly buffed leather Manolos?

  Because I'm definitely distracted right now. I'm staring at her perfect hair instead of exiting this bathroom like a live grenade was just tossed in.

  "Well, well, well…if it isn't the lesser half of the Beary equation." Rochelle side-eyes me while she touches up her lips in the mirror. She can't even be bothered to take the time to insult me to my face.

  I want to throttle her. I want to find her Achilles heel and twist it just enough that she tumbles to the ground. It's a lovely image in my head, but I'm not sneaky or conniving enough to figure out her weakness. Even if I did, I don't think I could use it. I'd want to, but there's no way I could follow through.

  I think she's evil, but I don't have the guts to try to do anything about it.

  I walk toward the door. I'm not going to confront her. I'm not going to take her down. I might as well get back to the outrageously uncomfortable social situation I managed to get myself into.

  Thanks love, you're a real jerk sometimes.

  I reach for the door handle, and I see Rochelle move out of the corner of my eye. I lurch to the side, thinking she's going to reach for me, but when I move and catch a better glimpse of her, she's leaning casually against the bathroom counter.

  "You don't fit here, Montgomery. I know it, and you know it. You're not one of us, and you're never going to be. You don't have it in you to make it in this world. I'm doing you a favor by telling you now—you should be thanking me."

  "Thank you for what? Being a bitch?" The words tumble out before I have the forethought to catch them. I have the urge to cover my mouth in case any more try to race out after them.

  "Hate me all you want; I'm right. You'll figure that out eventually." She turns back to the mirror and continues to check her flawless makeup. She dropped her knowledge bomb, and now she's on to more important things.

  I want to be sick, but I’m not walking back into a stall. I pull the door open, and the sound of the polite chatter mingling with the low roar of the game hits me like a thick wall of smog. I can't breathe through it. It's not what my body needs. I need fresh air. I need quiet. I need solitude.

  I turn the other direction and head out toward the large concrete hallway of the stadium. I pull out my phone, find Georgie's number, and fire off a message.

  Sorry, need some fresh air. Be back in a bit.

  I open up my maps app and do a scan of the area. Waterfall park in the middle of the city, and it's only two blocks away? Sold.

  I walk there as fast as my legs will carry me, which is nearly a sprint. There are a bunch of drunk fans chanting loudly all through the streets, and their cheers only make me go faster.

  I make it to the park, and I'm dubious of this whole waterfall business, but as soon as I walk through the zigzag entrance, I see it. It's not big, but it drowns out everything else, like a sound machine oasis in the middle of Seattle.

  There's no one here. Everyone else in the world cares about the game that's happening two blocks away, but my universe is happy to reside in this little half-block space for the moment.

  For once, I'm not thinking about my crappy job, or if I should buy
a plane ticket home for Thanksgiving. I'm thinking about if Rochelle is right.

  And I hate her even more for that.

  I know I don't fit in Baron's world. That was clear from the moment I knew what his world was. I guess I just thought maybe our worlds could overlap. I mean, how many relationships are built on having the exact same interests?

  Rochelle keeps planting seeds of doubt, and I know exactly what she's doing. It's not like she's grabbing rat poison from a pouch labeled rosebush seeds. No, she's grabbing from a bag that has a skull and bones stamped on the front.

  I know what she's doing, and yet, I can't brush it off. What if she's right? What if I'm not cut out for this? Will Baron and I survive if I’m a girlfriend who isn't involved in the world he lives in?

  I stare at the water cascading down and slamming against the rocks below. I wonder if the rocks mind the pressure. They just sit there, unflinching, silently eroding away under its weight.

  My phone chimes in my purse. I pull it out and see Baron's name. Shit, the game must be over.

  I'll be done in thirty. Meet me at the locker room?

  I don't even know how the hell to find the locker room, but I'm too chicken to admit I ditched out of his first game early. I want to scream It's not even a real game, but I think someone might shank me. I'm in Hawk country here. You don't insult the home team on its own turf.

  I head out of the park, saying a silent goodbye to the peaceful bliss of this urban refuge, and make my way back to the stadium. I quickly pull up the results of the game. Thank you, Internet.

  Whew, okay, at least the Hawks won. I'm not ready to deal with the inevitable depression of a loss. I know I'm going to need to be understanding, but all I'm going to want to do is roll my eyes because Dude, you had a fifty/fifty chance.

  He knew who I was. I laid out my cards the moment I met him, but will he still love me when he sees that side of me in real life?

  I find the locker room entrance without too much trouble. Apparently, everyone and their mom knows how to get there. Getting in is the real problem. The man standing in front of the open-air entrance looks massive, and that’s saying something considering I just watched—okay, glanced at—a pro football game. I don't use the word massive lightly; I think this guy was ready for professional sports when he was ten. Now? He could crush tree trunks with his bare hands.

  "Hi, um, I'm with Baron Richards." Is that how this works? Do I need to pull my shirt down, show some cleavage like I'm trying to get into the VIP section of a hot club?

  "Your name, miss?" Okay, no cleavage required.

  "Montgomery Bell." I add a charming smile for emphasis, but his face stays in the same stoic line. Is there a list or something? This guy doesn't seem to be holding any clipboards, but he could hide a house behind him, so who knows.

  I'm about to ask about how this process works when Baron walks out of the entrance and right over to me.

  I turn back to the bouncer as if to say, See, I'm supposed to be here, but he doesn't seem to notice.

  Baron wraps his arm around me. "I missed you."

  "I missed you too." There's so much wrapped up in those words, but I don't know how to tell him everything hiding underneath the surface.

  Instead, I let him grab my hand and we head out of the stadium toward the street.

  When we stop at the crosswalk, I lean my head into his chest and breathe him in. I notice that his hair is just a little wet, and he smells like Old Spice. He must have showered after the game, and for a second, it feels like I could be walking with a normal guy. We could have had brunch this morning and then gone for a walk down by the pier and decided to check out Pioneer Square.

  But he's not a normal guy. People just paid serious money to sit in the stands to cheer him and his team on. Baron Richards is my normal boyfriend. Bear Richards? He's the country's boyfriend.

  "So where are we going?"

  I can see the hint of a smile playing on Baron's face. "I thought maybe we could have our first date."

  I crinkle my eyes and nose together in confusion. "But…" We had our first date. It was kind of the first date that never ended; we had puppies and burritos and his apartment and then my parents. It spanned days.

  Baron laughs as he stops and turns toward a door in a block of old brick buildings. This doesn't look like a restaurant.

  I turn to face the front of the building, and my eyes are overwhelmed with flashes of light. It takes me a full ten seconds to even find the sign among all the neon color: Pioneer Pinball Museum.

  He remembered. I lean in and feel the weight of him beside me, wanting to touch the person that keeps surprising me day in and day out. I turned him down in front of Pinball Dave's back in Ann Arbor, but at some point, I admitted how spot on he was with that idea without even knowing it, and he held on to that detail. Now we're getting another shot at it.

  He reaches out and grabs the handle of the door, pulling it toward us. "After you."

  I grab his hand and weave my fingers with his. I want to feel his skin on mine. I want to wash away any lingering anxiety from today with the intoxication of his touch.

  Baron pays the admission and we head in. There are only a couple of people in here, but the walls are packed with more machines than I've ever seen in my life. My eyes stop when I see the Lord of the Rings machine, and I'm done. Just done. I don't even have to feed it any quarters to play to my heart’s content.

  It's taken me years to craft my nerdiness, and it runs deep to my core. LOTR is more than a movie that showcases Orlando Bloom's piercing eyes; it is a standard all other fantasy books are held to. Mix that with some balls, bumpers, and flashing lights, and that's my kind of sport.

  Baron kisses his favorite spot of skin where my neck dips to meet my shoulder. I shiver at his touch, and I can feel his smile respond to my physical reaction. He loves doing that to me. He loves making me tingle and ache for him almost as much as I love feeling that way.

  "I'm going to go grab us some beers," he says with only the slightest hitch to his tone. I know better though—he's just as affected by me as I am by him.

  He walks away, and my thoughts speed back up into real time. Wait, beer? This museum is focusing on all the right things.

  I barely even notice when he comes back five minutes later with two plastic cups of beer. I finally look up when the machine eats my ball. I don't even care. It's not eating my quarters. I can play this all night.

  I stop and turn to Baron, grabbing the cup he hands to me. I can tell by the crinkle around his eyes that he's happy I'm enjoying myself.

  "Good date?" he asks.

  "Great date." I take a sip of my beer. "Although this isn't what I expected when you asked me to meet you at the locker room."

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, some thought went into this."

  I can't figure out why he's shy to admit that. It makes me feel even more special to know he's spent time and energy trying to find something he thought I would enjoy. Obviously, he hit the nail on the head with this one.

  I take another sip, letting the cool liquid hit the back of my throat and cascade down. It feels good, relaxing. The beer I drank earlier today felt like medicine to get through a prison sentence. This feels like a beer to relish in letting go and enjoying the moment. It's strange how different life is outside the stadium.

  "I'm not gonna lie, I was kind of expecting you to show me the locker room."

  "Yeah." He stops and scrunches his eyebrows together while he sorts through his thoughts. "I guess I would have done that before."

  "What's that?"

  "Show a girl the parts of the stadium most people don't get to see—the locker room, the empty field…get my best friend's wife to take them up to the owner's suite." He adds the last item to the list with a sheepish smile.

  He did that? It's sweet when he says it like that, but I can't believe I endured three hours of torture because he thought it would be something special.

  Still, it's the th
ought, right? He's trying to make me feel included at an event where I feel entirely out of place.

  Instead of trying to show me those parts of his life, after a day full of it, he brought me here. I appreciate it, but at the same time, it stings a little to know I don't fit into his life like any of the girls before me did. Something about that makes me nervous.

  Can it really work when I don't want to immerse myself in this life? It would be like stepping into a pool full of pink paint. When I stepped out, my outline would still be the same, but it wouldn't look like me. I am the freckles running across the bridge of my nose regardless of how much sun I get. I am the scar on my eyebrow from when I ran into the dining room table and cut it open when I was three.

  I am books and photography. I will never know how to do the sports thing, and I don't really want to learn.

  But, I want Baron, and he's a football player. I have to take the good with the I'd-rather-pull-my-hair-out-than-sit-through-this side too.

  He leans over and kisses my forehead. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

  I shrug, unable to take the words in my head and let them wander about in the world around me. They're little bits of my soul, and I don't know how to let them go without exposing myself too much.

  I take the easy path. "Well, I've never seen an empty stadium."

  "I didn't think you'd be interested," he says with a tilt of his head.

  "I'm interested in you." That's the truth, no caveats.

  Baron presses against me, and the blood rushes out of my head and into every crevice of my body. I love that feeling. It's as if every blood cell in my body is clambering to the edge, reaching out to feel his touch.

  He runs the tip of his finger along the curve of my jaw. "Even if I play football?"

  "You're Baron Richards to me. You aren't football. You're just the man I want to spend my time with." Because when you peel away the layers, I want what's at the core. It's the sweet, thoughtful man that brought me to a pinball museum.

  Baron opens his mouth, but I can't tell if he's going to say something or kiss me. I hold my breath waiting for the answer.