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.”
“Jesus 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?”