Homemade hummus, check.
I lay it out all in front of Natalie who takes in the impressive spread. “Are you sure you’re a ballplayer? Looks like you could be a home chef.”
“Presentation is everything,” I say, adjusting a little dish of olives. “But let’s get back to the topic at hand; did you see they picked a winner for my Charity Hustle fundraiser?”
Mouthful of my garlic hummus, she shakes her head and swallows. “I didn’t. That’s exciting. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Girl.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Her name is Dorothy Domico and get this, she donated ten thousand dollars.”
“Shut up.” Natalie’s eyes widen. “Holy crap, she must really want to go on a date with you.”
I turn around, showing off my backside. “Must be the ass, it brings all the ladies in.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Natalie deadpans. “That’s why you’re single and making homemade hummus for your sister because you have nothing better to do.”
“You know, if you’re going to make fun of my hummus, I can take it away.” I reach for the bowl, but she swats at my hand, deflecting it.
“If you want to be known as a terrible host, then yeah, take it away.”
“You know how to strike me where it hurts.” I clutch my chest.
“Always a flair for the dramatic.” Natalie rolls her eyes and dips a carrot stick in the hummus. “So, do we know anything about Dorothy other than she was very anxious to win?”
“Nothing. But my PR team sent over the date information. Next Friday night. She lives here in Chicago, so it makes things super easy.”
“She could be a stalker. Do you have security on standby?”
“Or,” I say, pulling the pita slices out of the toaster oven, “she could be a really nice woman and this could be a meet cute.”
Natalie perks up. “You mean . . . you would date this woman?”
I shrug. “You never know. People are brought into your life for a reason, and maybe Dorothy is supposed to be my forever.”
“You know”—Natalie takes a sip of her iced tea—“it’s concerning that you’re looking to actually date through this fundraiser. Are you really that desperate to be with someone that you’re going to make them pay to go on a date with you?”
“Jesus,” I mutter. My sister doesn’t ever beat around the bush. “You don’t have to be so goddamn negative all the time. I was just thinking hypothetically.”
Natalie pats my hand. “I’m not being negative, I’m just trying to keep your head out of the clouds since that’s where you like to live most of the time. Just be cautious with this girl. She could be bad news. After all, she did donate a lot of money.” Or she could be someone after my own heart who likes to give generously to a good cause. There is always a silver lining . . . at least in my mind.
“You’re going to be there, so you can look out for me, give me the nod if you think she’s a stalker or not.”
“Should we have a code word that means abort?”
“That’s a great idea.” I lean against the counter, tapping my chin with a slice of a red pepper. “What could it be?”
“A word that wouldn’t come up in everyday conversation.”
“Precisely.” I spin toward her. “How about gallbladder?”
“Why did that even come into your head?”
I bite the red pepper slice. “It’s a mystery what goes on in my brain.”
“Well, since I don’t think I ever say gallbladder, I think we have a winner. Finding a way to bring it up should be fun.”
“Hey, you might not have to, she could be pretty awesome.”
Natalie eyes me. “I have my doubts.”
“Because of what happened in the minors?”
“How could you not be jaded after Melissa? She used you.”
“That she did,” I murmur, staring at my feet, my mind falling back to my first year in the minor leagues. “She’s why I haven’t invested any time into a relationship.”
Fresh out of college and into the minors, I was lonely, separated from my normal support system, and I filled that void with the wrong person. Melissa used me in every way possible. I didn’t realize it until about four months in when she’d drained my signing bonus, taken all my energy trying to keep her happy, and the worst part? She’d been fucking other guys on the team. Why no one said anything was beyond comprehension, as I would have thought the same level of bro code slash loyalty I’d had with my friends in college carried over into the minors. Yes, she was hot, but man, if you know a girl is taken, you don’t cross that line. Before that experience, I’d been easygoing and quick to make friends. But I learned very quickly that trust took time to earn. I also learned that doubling up on protection was a must. No doubt there were other girls out there like Melissa, whose long-term goal included using whoever’s sperm as her future paycheck.
Yeah, she was a real catch. And I’d been the first fool, but not the last, thank God.
“I understand what you went through with her wasn’t easy, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t date.”
“You’re sending mixed signals here, Natalie. You want me to date, but you don’t want me to date, what is it?” I chuckle, shaking off the feeling of Melissa. I don’t talk about her. Being that stupid jock who didn’t see the signs from a mile away, took a hit to my pride. You live and learn.
Growing serious, Natalie says, “I want you to find love, the kind of love I share with Ansel, the kind of love Mom and Dad have. You deserve it, because you’re a kind and giving soul, but because of that, you need to make sure the girl you go out with is in it for you, not for the jersey you wear. I just want you to be cautious, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I get that.” I lean against the counter, my forearms propping me up. “But you never know, maybe this Dorothy Domico is someone special.”
“Or she’s an eighty-year-old grandma who used all her social security to buy a date with you.”
Smiling, I say, “I can get into the granny thing. Wrinkles are a turn-on.”
“You’re so fucked up.” She laughs and throws a carrot at my head, nailing me between the eyes.
I rub the offended spot and say, “You know, we might need you on the Rebels with an accurate arm like that if the general manager doesn’t pick up some strong arms for next season.”
“More time with my big brother? I think I’ll pass.”
“Such a punk.” I chuckle and bite into another carrot.
* * *
I slam the door to Knox’s apartment and stand there, anger rolling through my body like a tidal wave. Carson and Knox are both sitting on the couch, playing MLB The Show 19, PlayStation’s sanctioned professional baseball game. When the slam of the door cuts through the surround sound of their game—they like to play as themselves, such idiots—they turn toward me, the game put on pause.
“Dude, why are you slamming doors?” Knox asks.
I stomp toward them and flop on one of the armchairs perpendicular to the couch. “Because I’m pissed.”
“This seems like it’s going to be a moment,” Carson whispers, but not quiet enough. “Should I get beers?”
“Get them for everyone,” I say, flailing my arm in the air. “I have wings being delivered shortly.”
“And mozzarella sticks?” Carson asks, desperate for his stupid cheese sticks.
“You know I ordered them,” I huff. “Because I’m a considerate fuck.”
“That you are.” Knox leans back on the couch and takes a beer from Carson. I do the same. He’s a good man and has popped open the tops already. “So . . . do you want to talk about it?”
“Of course I do. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh, I thought you were just being dramatic for no fucking reason,” Knox replies sarcastically.
“I get the need to be snarky, that’s how we are with each other.” I set my feet on the coffee table in front of me, stretching out. “But please, not in my time of need.”
“Jes
us Christ,” Carson murmurs, resting his arm on the side of the couch and getting comfortable. “Just get on with it. We’re two innings away from killing the Rebels in the World Series.”
Of course that’s who they’d be playing. At least I’m not on the team since I was just traded, or else they’d have me doing stupid shit. They did that when I was in Tampa and sent videos of me running in circles on the field. They’re really fucking mature.
“So you know how I did that Charity Hustle thing?”
“Yeah,” they both reply.
“Well, a winner was picked and we were supposed to meet tomorrow night, but the girl cancelled and according to the PR team, she doesn’t want to set up another date.”
Knox looks away while Carson snorts to himself.
“This isn’t funny. Why the hell do you think she’d do that? She has me questioning every last thing I’ve done over the past week. Did I post something wrong on my Instagram? I know I’m a little braggy when it comes to my potato salad, but my presentation with the potato skins was on point, so how could I not post about that?” I mean, I could have posted sweaty, post-workout pics of my muscles, but I showed self-control. You’d think any female would be happy I was bragging about food and not my ripped bod. Can you see my eye-roll here?
“I don’t know about you”—Carson holds his chest—“but personally, I found the potato salad to be incredibly offensive.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, slouching more in my chair. “I don’t get it. Why would she cancel when she donated so much money?”
“Do you know anything about her?” Carson asks while Knox stays strangely silent.
“Just that her name is Dorothy Domico, and she donated ten thousand dollars.”
“Domico, Domico,” Carson repeats, putting emphasis behind the last name. “Why is that name so familiar?”
Knox coughs into his hand, muttering something with it, but I can’t quite understand him.
“Hey, what’s Dottie’s last name?” Carson pokes Knox in the side.
“Anyone need more beer?” Knox asks, standing abruptly.
“I’m nursing mine,” I say.
“I swear it’s Dottie Domico. Right?” Carson is still trying to decipher this poor girl’s name. “Have you ever met Dottie?” Carson asks me.
“Uh, no. Pretty sure I’d remember that name. Is she a cleat chaser?”
“Nah, she’s cool. One of Emory’s best friends. She was in my grade, so a year ahead of you. I swear you’ve met her before. Hey, Knox, what’s Dottie’s last name?”
“When are those wings showing up?” Knox calls from the kitchen.
“Ten minutes,” I call out before dragging my hand over my face. “I don’t know, man. I feel like a dipshit, like this girl goes and donates a crap ton of money but doesn’t want to go on a date with me. I feel like I owe it to her. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money to just throw away.”
“Maybe she really liked the cause but is too nervous to cash in on the date,” Knox says from the kitchen.
Carson snaps his fingers. “It is Dottie Domico, because I remember saying, like the sugar? And she said, ‘No, that’s Domino.’” Carson twists his body over the couch. “It’s Dottie Domico, right, Knox?”
“Want me to cut up some vegetables to go with the wings?”
“Sure,” I call out, scratching my chin. “I don’t know, should I at least send her some flowers and signed gear as a thank you?”
“I think I’m friends with Dottie on Instagram,” Carson continues. Christ, why won’t he get a clue? When he goes down a rabbit trail, he can’t seem to come out of it. “Did you get a picture of her?”
“No,” I answer. “Natalie suggested she’s an old woman who doesn’t really want to show her face or has the energy to go on a date. If she’s old, I’ll go to her. The elderly love me, as I’m an entertaining dickhead when I want to be.”
“Yeah, I was right, Dottie Domico,” Carson says.
“What do you think, Knox?” I call out as he busies himself in the kitchen. “Think she’s old?”
“Dottie is always donating to shit,” Carson says. “Hey Knox, did Emory say anything about Dottie donating?”
“Why are you so hung up on Emory’s friend?” I finally ask. “Like a twenty-nine-year-old could really drop ten thousand dollars on a fundraiser. Use your fucking head, man.”
“She’s rich, dude. She’s a VP or something. Right, Knox?”
We both turn toward him to find him buried into the chopping of celery. It is not like him to remain mute on any occasion or subject, so what’s his deal tonight?
“Hey, we’re talking to you,” Carson calls out.
“I know, and I chose not to answer.”
What the hell?
He knows something . . .
Obvious, I know, but I might have been hit in the head with foul balls for far too many years, so it takes me a few more minutes to catch up.
“What are you not telling us?” I say, hopping onto the arm of my chair.
“I think I’ll go meet the wing person in the lobby instead of having the concierge bring up our food.” Knox wipes off his hands and beelines for the door despite not having a shirt or shoes on.
But Carson is quicker, hurdling over the couch and straight to the door where he blocks Knox. “Oh no, you don’t, you have some explaining to do.”
I join them at the door. What is Knox hiding?
Arms crossed over my chest, I say, “Do you know Dorothy Domico?”
He pulls on the back of his neck with both hands. Guilty is written all over him. “Doesn’t everyone know her?” he asks.
I reach out and snag his nipple with my index finger and thumb. He yelps, smacks my hand away, and steps backward. “What the fuck, dude?”
“Stop avoiding the question and tell us what you know.”
“She threatened to wish a one-fifty batting average on me,” Knox says, looking pathetic and panicked all at once. “One fucking fifty.”
Carson leans against the door, arms crossed as well. “You are the least superstitious person I know.”
It’s true, when every other Brentwood baseball player believed in the power of the locker room and how if you took your girl back there to do the deed, you’d end up together forever, Knox pushed it off as a bunch of bullshit.
“You don’t know Dottie, she’s powerful.” He whispers, “She knows people.”
“Well, Christ, if she knows people, then we shouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.” Carson rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you don’t want to say anything because one of Emory’s friends seems like a threat to you, then just nod or shake your head to our questions, and that way you’re not actually saying anything.”
Finger poised to make a point, I say, “Body language counts as a universal—”
“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Carson says to me. “Don’t you want to know more about Dottie?”
He has a point.
“Sorry. Proceed.”
“Thank you.” Turning back to Knox, Carson asks, “Did Dottie donate to Jason’s fundraiser?”
He nods yes.
“Is she the Dorothy Domico that won the date?”
Yes.
“Did you know she was cancelling the date?”
Yes.
“Do you know why?”
No.
“Are you lying to us?”
No.
Carson taps his chin and then asks, “Why did she donate the money?”
“That’s not a yes or no question,” Knox says.
“I’m sick of this shit. Be a man and tell us what you know.”
“Was it from my potato salad post?”
“No one cares about your potato salad,” Knox groans and walks back to the living room where we follow him.
“I’ll have you know, that post got me a lot of DMs. I was fielding recipe questions for hours.”
“Congratulations,” Carson says, annoyed. “You have the attention of every seventy-five-
year-old woman.” He scrubs his face. “I don’t know why I insist on helping you fools.”
“I’m not going to tell you guys anything. I made a promise to Emory and Dottie that I wouldn’t.”
“That’s shit and you know it,” I say, pointing at Knox. “What ever happened to balls before booty calls?”
“First of all,” Knox says, voice stern, “Emory is anything but a booty call. Second, when you’re in a serious and committed relationship, you’ll know what it means to keep a secret. Back me up, Carson.”
He groans and then nods. “Hate to admit it, but the missus is the same way. I would die with her secrets. I think you might be out of luck.”
“Great.” I throw up my arms. “So you’re telling me one of Emory’s friends who we went to college with donated ten thousand dollars to my charity but refuses to go on a date with me? What was the point even of donating?”
They both shrug their shoulders, annoying the shit out of me.
“You’re both useless. Looks like I might just have to take matters into my own hands.”
“Sorry, man,” Knox mumbles. At least he looks marginally contrite.
“There’s still wings, beer, and PlayStation,” Carson says. Like that will fix my dilemma. Although, wings, beer, and PlayStation have worked before.
That night, after sharing three dozen wings with the boys and playing PlayStation, I scooted across to my apartment and pulled up my good friend, Google, where I spent the next hour searching out every piece of information I could find on Dottie.
Normally, I’m not this invested in creeping on someone, but ten thousand dollars? No one donates that much money without a reason.
And I’m going to find out what it is.
Chapter Five
DOTTIE
Knock. Knock.
I don’t have to look up from my computer to know my dad is standing in the doorway of my office. If I hadn’t heard him chatting up my employees on the way in, I could have smelled his cool aftershave from the moment he walked down the hall. It’s not overpowering, but instead, has a surprising light air about it that carries throughout the halls. It matches his persona—charismatic and powerful.
The Lineup Page 5