“What’s he like?” Bennett asks.
“What’s he like?” I repeat. “You don’t know anything about who I’m on a date with right now, do you?”
Bennett makes a face. “Our app is the matchmaker, not us.”
Chanting starts below us as music plays, stops, plays, stops. The food level is packed with eager fans elbowing each other out of the way, rushing to stand in line for greasy, starchy concessions. Children sprint around with packs of candy and trays of fries in hand. I step to the side to dodge a man balancing three cups of beers when a little girl with strawberry ice cream crashes into me cone first. I feel Bennett steadying me with both hands, his firm grip around my shoulders sending shivers down my arms.
“Are you okay?” I ask the girl, who stands looking stunned, her scoop of ice cream now decorating the front of my white tee. With wide eyes brimming with tears, she nods slowly.
Bennett pulls his wallet from his jeans and takes out a five-dollar bill. He kneels down and uses his thigh as a flat surface to quickly fold the bill into the shape of an ice cream cone. The little girl watches on, amazed. When he holds the ice cream bill up in front of her, she breaks into a wide toothless smile, no tears in sight.
“It looks like you gave her a giant pink belly button,” Bennett says to the girl, holding back a laugh. “Looks kinda cool, huh? Go get yourself another ice cream. And stay close to your parents.” The little girl takes the ice cream bill and runs back to a little boy at the ice cream kiosk.
“That was sweet of you,” I say quietly.
“That’s literally the only thing I know how to make with money,” Bennett says, “so it’s a good thing she didn’t run into you with a soft pretzel. Are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Pink is all the rage nowadays, didn’t you know? I actually told her to do that,” I say with a smile. Bennett laughs before running over to the nearest food stand to grab a wad of napkins as I wipe chunks of strawberry off my jeans with my hands. Bennett returns and hands me a small cup of water. He steps closer, lifting my right arm and gently wiping the cold pink ice cream off with the rough napkins.
“I can do that,” I start.
“I got you,” Bennett says in a low voice. Being this close to him requires tilting my head back further. He dips the napkin into the water and cleans off the stickiness that the melted ice cream left behind.
Bennett releases his grip, sliding his hand down my arms. His touch is disorienting. Then he unbuttons the jersey and takes it off, looking like his usual self again in a simple navy tee. He wraps the jersey around my shoulders, and I lift my arms to tuck them into the short sleeves. I look like I’ve been swallowed whole by a white Dodgers jersey.
“Thanks,” I say distractedly, elongating my neck to see what his hazel eyes look like from this distance. Still soulful.
Bennett brings the collar together at the base of my neck and fiddles with the top button. I can sense the presence of his hands, every nerve in my body tingling. It drives me absolutely wild. He pulls his hands back for me to finish the buttoning.
“You smell like a hot dog,” I say, regaining my awareness. My fingers fumble around the buttons, a new nervousness overtaking my motor skills.
“Is that a good thing?” he asks. “I ate a Dodger Dog earlier. You can only get them here.”
“Right!” I nod. “You get it!” I take the remaining napkins and wipe up the now-absorbed dessert from my jeans.
“You should be talking with Owen, not up here waiting in lines,” he says somewhat begrudgingly.
“The food’s up here, and the game’s down there. Unless you have suggestions?” I say, holding out the money toward him.
Bennett takes the money. “Fine. What do you want?”
“Ooh,” I say, tucking a hand under my chin while I think. “What sounds good? Let’s start with a soft pretzel with extra salt, a chili dog with extra cheese, curly fries, and one of those long red licorice things. And a beer for Owen. Thanks!” I turn back toward my seat.
“Be back here in ten minutes!” he shouts behind me.
There’s a wave moving around the packed stadium that reaches us just as I make it back to my seat.
“Nice jersey!” Owen says as he flings his arms up. “Where’s the food?”
“It’s being prepared,” I say, raising my arms in response to the crowd. “I’ll grab it in a few. What’d I miss?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you,” he says. “I don’t know any of the players’ names or anything that they’re doing. Baseball’s fun to watch, but I just can’t get into it the way others can.”
“Baseball shows us who we are, whether we know the plays or not,” I say dramatically, rattling off a line from one of my dad’s most popular movies.
“Isn’t that from Homer, Run?” Owen asks. “I love that movie.”
I eagerly turn toward him in my seat. “You know that one?”
“It’s a classic. I’m a bit of a horror film buff.”
“Cool,” I say, realizing I haven’t actually had a chance to look at his profile myself. “What is it you do, Owen?”
“I work in my family’s business, too,” he says. “We run a winery in Malibu.”
My ears perk up at this information. “Tell me more!”
“I’m the fourth generation of California farmers,” Owen explains. “I manage the operations of the vineyard, and my sister runs the tasting room. There’s a lot more people involved, but we’re starting to take over more of the responsibility.”
Owen shares more about his family’s winery and his desire to execute new ideas while maintaining the history and reasons why customers have remained loyal. It’s nice to be able to chat about similar business struggles and hear about someone else’s worries for a change.
“Think that food is ready?” Owen says after describing how the wine-bottling process works.
“Oops! Let me go find out,” I say. I check the time on my phone and see a few texts from Bennett. It’s been thirty minutes.
I climb the stairs two at a time and find Bennett waiting at the top.
“Food’s cold, beer’s warm. Here’s a foam finger,” Bennett says. I hold my arm out, and he slides the foam finger over my hand, balancing the tray of food on top. “Did you get lost or something?”
“Owen and I were talking,” I say. “I can see why you picked him.”
Bennett’s posture stiffens. “Oh, great. So it’s going well?”
“Surprisingly,” I say, tossing a curly fry into my mouth.
“You think you’ll see him again?” Bennett asks, his eyebrows furrowed.
“We’re only in the”—I say, looking back toward the field—“third inning. We’re just talking. If we take off to elope, I’ll send you a courtesy text.”
Bennett scrunches his mouth into a smile. “Well, uh, good. I’m glad it’s going well.”