Dash
I couldn’t sleep. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb for the night and juggled three balls ten different ways. I was a fuckup. Everything was fucked up. Wrong. And those phrases just replayed as I tried to distract myself with the rhythm of the balls. You’re a fuckup. You’re a fuckup. She hates you now she thinks you only want her for luck do you love her do you even love her such a fuckup a fucking her is the best thing that ever happened to me with her body around mine she’s mine no one else can fuck up you fucked up you fucked up…
When my arms hurt, I ran up and down my newly dug-out stairs in the dark, and I stopped when I tripped and thought I’d sprained my ankle.
My greatest fear wasn’t a strikeout or even a string of them. I worried about making errors, but they were small potatoes when I thought about the other thing.
An injury. A career-ending injury.
I needed her. I didn’t feel safe on the field. I didn’t know how I knew it, but there was no question. She was all my luck in one little body. She was kind and beautiful and, yes, sexy as hell, but that was gravy.
I shook off the twisted ankle and stretched out on my bed for two hours, drifting in and out of anxiety-laced sleep.
She was right. That was the thing that kept me up. I’d been trying to slap a glass jar over a butterfly. That was bullshit. It was hurtful and stupid and bullshit. She saw right through it. Of course she did. And I’d just fucked it all up by panicking.
At six o’clock? the DND shut itself off, and I heard the chorus of texts coming in from the kitchen. I went out to see what was so important.
Good night
I love you
Then a line where time had passed, and the last few came in real time.
Listen. I’ve thought about it
I don’t think we should get married. I’m sorry. There’s no reason Not now. Not so soon
Maybe someday
You’re right
She was right. I’d been stupid and impulsive.
The messages continued as if she wasn’t even waiting for a reply.
But the now. Let’s have the now. Let’s do this together If you need me, I’m there for you
I want to be clear. I WANT to be there for every game I can. I will do everything. I’ll take red-eye flights and lose sleep if you need me to I’ll walk the bases with you, Dash. I don’t need a ring to do it Was she done? I had so much to say, but I didn’t want to interrupt her.
I’ll walk the bases with you
Nothing more came. The little rolling dots that told me when she was typing had stopped. It was my turn. I had to tell her what she meant to me. I had to use big words and gestures. Infinitely big words. I constructed the speech in my mind before I tapped the glass, and I went for it. I said it big, and I said it loud. The relief, the love, the joy. I thought I was going to explode into a two-word sonnet.
Thank you
I didn’t have any more words. Everything I felt was right there. But what did she need? I had to think of that, and I brushed away the gratitude to find clarity.
For forgiving me. Thank you. I own the world with you by my side
fifty
Vivian
Nothing changed, but everything changed. Dash came to get me that afternoon, and though the stadium was too populated for him to fuck me in the dugout, he made do in the best way possible. He parked in a far off corner and fingered me in the car like a teenager, then he walked me around the bases, tagging each one. He introduced me to the grounds crew and kissed me at home plate.
“Two games down,” I said.
“Hundred sixty to go.” He put his lips on my forehead. So soft. So warm. He turned my insides to paste and exposed them to the comfort of his attention.
“I’m doing this because I want you to be happy,” I said. “But you don’t need me. You’re a brilliant player. Period.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, and I didn’t know if he was thanking me for speaking that truth or for playing along with his ritual. I didn’t ask.
He played that night as if it was the defining moment in his career, and talk of his passion and talent was reignited in the post-game show. The third game was on Wednesday, and he had a car pick me up.
I got there ninety minutes before game time, and we walked the bases quickly, kissed, and I took my spot behind the dugout, where Francine waited in a puffy black coat and red beret.
“Larry and all of them are going to be at the bar on Friday.” She handed me a large black coffee. “Including Carl. I know you avoid him, but I thought you might not have to anymore?”
“I don’t, but Friday isn’t good.”
She pouted. “Doesn’t he have a game? Like… away? Not here?”
“Yeah. I have to be there.”
She blew into the little hole in the coffee lid, making a low whistle. “I’m not even going to ask why,” she said between blows. “I’m going to ask how.”