Like cook a fancy-as-fuck four-course meal for her and her business associates while practicing interesting conversational starters to ensure the night flows smoothly.
Back in college, I might have been referred to as the mother hen of the boys. I might have cooked at least two meals a week for the guys in the loft, and yeah, I was the ironing wizard, the one everyone turned to, to get out the most stubborn wrinkles. The title has carried on over the years, but my creativity in the kitchen has dwindled with the lack of time, my ironing is now done by my apartment keeper once a week, and the fresh flowers scattered around my place? They’re more dead now than alive.
My point—I’m not the lady of the house I used to be. But I’ve been getting back into the swing of it.
So when my girl asked me to perform the impossible feat of an intimate dinner for four, I should have ordered in, tossed everything in serving dishes, and called it a night.
But nooooooooo, I had to attempt to be a goddamn hero and try to cook everything myself.
And all for what?
For one girl?
No. Not just one girl. The girl who owns my balls, who has a grip so tight on them that if she asked me to bellow out my ABCs in soprano while swirling my finger around my belly button . . . I would.
Who is this girl that has brought me to the brink of boo-boo smush bear insanity and caused me to weep like a schoolgirl in the corner of the apartment?
There’s only one lady with more than enough ovaries to buckle the knees of the mighty Jason Orson.
The one and only Dorothy “Dottie” Domico.
Chapter Sixty-Six
JASON
A few months earlier . . .
There’s one sentence every baseball player never wants to hear: you’ve been traded.
Especially after being drafted by a team you’ve worked tirelessly through their farm system for, and finally earned a spot on the starting lineup in the big leagues . . . only to be traded after four short years. Not six or eight years. Four. Years. Four years where you’ve grown relationships, built a fan base, and established all your favorite restaurants within a five-block radius of your apartment.
It’s a kick to the crotch . . . for most.
For me, I couldn’t be more ecstatic. My agent called me two weeks ago, told me about the trade, and once we ended the phone call, I started looking for apartments.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ll miss the fans, my teammates, and the gyros with extra tzatziki sauce I’ve come to rely on, but Tampa has never been my home. It’s been a nice temporary place to launch my career, but I’m ready to move on.
So when I got the call that I was being traded to Chicago, I literally whipped my shorts down, yanked out my dick, and shook it to the ceiling out of pure joy.
Bobbies, here I come, right? Going to play with my boys, Carson and Knox. Just like old times, like in college. Maybe they want to share a place, maybe they want me to make them some of my famous potato salad. Maybe they want to rub their loving relationships in my face—fine by me. As long as we’re back together, holding each other’s nutsacs and singing Take Me Out to the Ball Game together, I’m happy.
At least, that’s what I thought at first . . . one big happy family.
Until I finally calmed down and stopped shaking my dick enough to hear my agent.
Not the Bobbies, he told me.
The Rebels.
I was traded to the Chicago Rebels.
I’m not going to lie and say my nipples didn’t shrivel up from the thought of playing for the rival team of the Bobbies. I grew up in the area, the Bobbies were my team—secretly still are—and as a Bobbie for life, the thought of slipping on a black and red jersey made me want to break out in a cold, dead sweat.
I panicked.
I started to backtrack.
I stuffed my dick back in my pants. No way was I touching that thing while thinking about the Rebels.
Have you ever had a moment of pure rage, where you’re about to fly off at someone, spittle ready to shoot past your lips, and arms geared up to flail irrationally? That was me, seconds away from firing off.
How could I possibly even CONSIDER playing for the Rebels?
But then he said five invaluable words.
Annual donations to your charity.
Lump sums.
Lots of cash.
Foundation-changing money.
Damnit all to hell.
That day, I sucked up my pride, smiled, and envisioned myself in red and black, because I would do anything for the benefit of my foundation.
And, the trade wasn’t bad. Because I’m near my friends again, living in my home state, and piling on the cash for my charity, The Lineup. I also get to brag to everyone who wants to hear that not only am I catching for the best arm in baseball, Maddox Paige, but I get to play with the one and only . . . Cory Fucking Potter.
Yes, THE Cory Potter. You know, the guy who accomplished more than I could ever dream of by the time he hit thirty. He’s a legend. A hero. A goddamn wet dream.
And I get to play ball with him on a regular basis.
I never let a moment go by when talking to my boys about the opportunity. And sure, Cory might be Carson’s brother-in-law and he has access to him whenever he wants, but he doesn’t get to snuggle up to him in the dugout and nuzzle his shirt while they announce the starting lineup.
Nope. I get that privilege.
Well, technically, I haven’t had the opportunity yet since baseball season is freshly over and I was just traded, but this spring, oh boy, Cory Potter better watch out, because there will be some nuzzling.
To bring this full circle, I was traded, I’m happy about it, and because the gods seemed to have lined up with my luck, I’m currently moving into an apartment right across from one of my best friends.
“When do I get a key?” I ask Knox, who sets one of my boxes down on my kitchen counter.
“To my place?” he asks, pointing to his chest.
“Yeah, to your place. We are neighbors, you know.”
“Yup. Neighbors, not roommates, therefore no key.” He swipes at his forehead just as Carson plops another box on the counter and huffs out in pain.
“What the fuck is in that thing?”
Perfectly labeled with my state-of-the-art label maker, I run my finger over the black typed text and say, “My KitchenAid Pro and attachments. You should be able to carry that without making a stink about it.”
Carson slides down the side of the wall, spent. “I threw my back out last night. Milly was adventurous, but that’s beside the point. Why the hell do you have a KitchenAid mixer?”
Milly is Carson’s wife. They got married a few years ago, right after he made it to the big leagues. It was a small, intimate wedding with family and a few friends, nothing too big, perfect for them.
“Who doesn’t have a KitchenAid?” I ask, perplexed. Both Carson and Knox raise their hands. “Well, how the fuck do you make cookies?”
“We don’t,” Carson answers for both of them. “There are things here in Chicago called bakeries.”
I shake my head. “But what about the fresh cookie smell in your apartment?”
“Candles,” Knox answers, just as Emory and Milly walk through the door of my new apartment, lunch in hand.
Emory and Knox reconnected this year. Thank. God. After being apart for so long, they’re finally back together. I’m not going to lie, when I heard the news, my little romantic heart shed a tear of joy. I remember the day they split, because it was the day that a very different Knox was born. He was known for being one of the good guys, the man everyone wanted as their friend, the man who always had a kind word and a quick joke. But when he lost Emory, Knox became a complete bastard. No one wanted to be around him. Carson and I stood by him, but at times, it wasn’t easy. But now they’re back together, and the world feels right again.