When I realize I’m staring, I look away quickly, focusing back on the field. I’ve never noticed a man outside my marriage; I’ve certainly never stared. This one is just so incredibly breathtaking. My cheeks flush with shame.
He takes his seat beside me, saying nothing, just waving his hand to the young man holding a cart of beer. The drink vendor hands him one, and I keep my eyes on the field, suddenly aware of myself. Am I trembling? Can he tell his presence makes me nervous? Am I sitting too stiffly? I adjust my shirt without thought, and the second I realize what I’m doing, I snap my hands down to my lap.
I sit, staring at the field until the game begins. Thank god. Now, my attention is focused on the young men playing. My heart pounds with excitement as the loud ping of the baseball being hit fills the air. The crowd cheers, and a huge smile spreads across my face. Exhilarating.
The man beside me doesn’t move much—nor does he pay a great deal of attention to the game. His eyes scan the crowd, and he seems to be looking for something, or someone. He is sitting deep into his chair, as if he’s trying to remain inconspicuous. Weird.
The team I’m rooting for lands a home run and I launch into the air, clapping loudly. I jump a few times on the spot and then quickly sit down as realization about what I’m doing hits. I flick my glance to the man to my left and he’s watching me, expressionless. Great. He’s probably embarrassed to sit by me. Not that he can talk. He doesn’t even look as if he’s enjoying himself. I lean forward, gripping the chair in front of me and watching intently.
The first moment that will redirect the course of my life comes out of nowhere.
The game is in full swing, the crowds are cheering, hot dogs are being eaten, and beers thrown down. I don’t even notice the group of men dressed in all white stand—not until the loud gunshot rings through the air. Panic grips my chest as I turn to see at least ten men pulling guns from their pants. My heart feels as though it skitters to a stop as I stare at the faceless gunmen. They’re all wearing masks. Covered entirely in white.
The entire stadium goes dead silent. The only sounds that can be heard are the frustrated cries of children as they try to gain the attention of their terrified parents.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
Security members rush from different parts of the stadium, but quickly stop when one of them is shot in the leg carelessly by a gunman. With a pained roar, he drops to his hands and knees, rolling around in agony. Somebody in the crowd screams.
This isn’t a prank. No. This is real and it’s happening right now. Right here. Vomit rises in my throat and panic unlike anything I’ve ever felt grips my body. My skin prickles, and my mind starts going numb, buzzing as I try to make sense of the situation.
I can’t think or hear over the nervous chatter, crying, and whispers around me.
“Nobody move,” a dark, terrifying voice comes over the loud speaker. “Anyone who moves will be killed.”
That’s all they say.
No explanation.
Nothing.
Somebody screams, a gun is pointed in that person’s direction, and the screaming stops. Tears break free and roll down my cheeks. Is this an attack? A protest? Is there a political person here they’re trying to make a point to? Why a baseball stadium? Is it because it’ll make a scene? Is it because of the families here? Why would anyone be so cold? It makes no sense. It doesn’t even feel real, but it is. I can see it with my own eyes, hear it with my own ears, yet part of me still wants to believe it’s just a prank.
I look to the man beside me, and he’s got a phone low in his lap. He doesn’t seem to be scared; in fact, he’s solely focused on whatever it is he’s typing into the screen. His thumbs move frantically over the keys before he tucks it into his pocket, barely moving.
There are two gunmen about four rows down, pacing the aisles, guns ready to fire. People are no longer screaming but the desperate sobs and whimpers can be heard through the eerie silence.
I hiccup softly, trying to force back a sob and the man finally looks to me, his eyes studying my face. He reaches over, taking hold of my hand. His skin is warm, but rough. His entire hand engulfs mine, it’s so big. “It’ll be okay.”
His voice is deep, dark, and so incredibly comforting. I squeeze his hand and he lets me, not moving it away, letting me hold onto him. I don’t know him, but right now he’s the only chance I have of being protected. He looks like he can hold his own. That’s enough for me to hang on and not let go.
“What’s your name?” he asks, his eyes on the gunmen walking across the field and shoving their guns at the players to make them stand in a group.
“L-L-Lucy,” I whisper.