But despite the rage he seems to have on simmer at all hours of the day, I knew he would be a great ally to have when it comes to my charity because through careful research, I discovered he had a sister with special needs. I don’t truly know what happened when she passed, but I do know he hasn’t been the same since.
Walker takes my hand and gives it a firm shake. “Sure.”
We both situate ourselves at the table and put in a quick order for some drinks and apps—I’m going to have to control myself around the pretzel bites, though, as I don’t want Walker thinking I’m a glutton.
He looks around the restaurant and then asks, “How you liking Chicago?”
“I grew up here, so being back home is amazing.”
“Oh yeah, I think I saw that somewhere.” His jaw works to the side. “Have you seen what they’re already saying about us?”
Another reason why I decided to call up Walker, because the media has been having a field day with the both of us. There’s no doubt the rivalry between the Bobbies and the Rebels is thick in the city, potent, so heavy in the air that you have to use a machete to walk around during baseball season.
You’re either a diehard Bobbie for life or you’re a Rebel at heart. There’s no bouncing between the two, there’s no rooting for both. It’s either or, which the media loves sensationalizing, increasing the rivalry between fans with propaganda-filled articles that show feuds, and include the differences between the hell-bent Rebels and the hometown heroes, the Bobbies.
I laugh. “Yeah, they’re ridiculous, saying we’re playing for the wrong teams.”
He looks off to the side. “Yeah, we might be.”
There’s no doubt Walker has had his ups and downs with the Bobbies. He’s been with them from the beginning, but trade rumors have been circulating, and they always seem to circle around Walker. I can’t imagine what it feels like to never feel safe with your job, to continually wonder if this year is the year you’re traded. He has one year left on his contract and then he’s a free agent. From what I’ve heard from Knox and Carson, he wants to retire as a Bobbie, but the front office isn’t too sure.
Knowing the type of personality Walker has—closed off and not very talkative—I take the lead. “I know we play for different teams, but I figured I’d call you because I thought it would be a good idea to bring the city together for a good cause.”
“The Lineup, right?” he asks, shifting in his seat and finally making eye contact.
“Yes. My brother has cerebral palsy. He’s the reason I started it. In high school, because my coach was awesome, he was included in our games. But there are a lot of kids out there who don’t have the resources, the transportation, or the equipment, and this charity’s goal is to help those individuals. To help educate coaches, to sponsor teams who include a diverse group of kids on the teams.”
“You played with your brother?”
I nod. “In high school. He was a part of the team, pinch runner. He used his walker, and I swear, watching him score runs is still one of the best experiences of my life. Now he’s an assistant coach at our high school.”
“Wow.” He pushes his hand through his hair. “Your coach is a good man.”
“He is. I spoke with Coach Whittaker, and he’s going to be a spokesperson for the charity, along with Joseph, my brother. We’re doing a video montage of them to help encourage other coaches and athletes to be inclusive. That’s where I was hoping you would come in. I know you had a sister with special needs.”
He nods solemnly. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “What can I do?”
I smile to myself, understanding how amazing having Walker Rockwell on board will be. Not only is it going to boost The Lineup, but I also think it will boost his image as well. A win-win for everyone. This man needs someone who gets him. If it helps him heal? Even better.
Are you home?
I stare at the text message, confused. What stranger has my number and is asking if I’m home?
Standing outside my building, sweat dripping down the front of my chest, my shirt tucked into the back of my shorts, I jog in place, trying to calm my already racing heart from my eight-mile run—suck my ass, Carson.
Contemplating what I should do, I slowly text back.
Jason: Not to be a complete asshole . . . but who is this?
I hit send and the dots appear right away.
I slow down to a sidestep, allowing my muscles to cool down as the text comes through.
Unknown: Sorry, it’s Dottie.
Oh . . . how did she get my number?
Duh, that was a stupid question. Emory. I send her a text back.
Jason: Glad you’re not a murderer. I’m headed up right now.
Dottie: Okay, I’m outside the apartment.
I take off toward the elevator wondering what she wants. I’m still surprised how shocked she was by my apology. I don’t know what kind of men she’s been hanging out with, but I was raised to believe that even if both parties were to blame for a disastrous night, you own up to it and apologize. It’s called being a man. Didn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed that she hadn’t wanted to talk more about us being friends though. Am I interested in Dottie? Hell, yeah. I’m putting that weird behavior down to whatever’s stressing her at work, and not a direct hit to me. But, still . . . I had begun hoping we could be more than friends. I like what I see in Dottie Domico, strange behavior aside.
When the elevator reaches my floor, I walk out the doors and spot Dottie immediately. She’s holding a wrapped present in her hand and seems to be struggling with it. I quickly walk up to her and help her with the box.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She shakes out her arms. “I got you something.”
I hold up the box. “This is for me?”
“Yeah. Go ahead, open it.”
“I love presents, especially if they’re wrapped.” Like a kid on Christmas, I tear open the wrapping paper and pop open the box. I push the tissue paper to the side to reveal a brand-new Williams Sonoma baking dish with ingredients to make enchiladas.
Fucking thoughtful shit right there.
“The chicken and cheese are in that mini cooler. Not sure if this is how you make them, but I thought it’s a start. Sorry about ruining your dinner.”
“Hey, I told you it was cool. You didn’t have to do this.”
She points to the box. “There are new oven mitts in there too.”
I push a few things to the side only to find two pink and white mitts at the bottom. I pull them out and slip them on my hands.
“Wow, these are comfortable.”
“They’re the same ones I have in my apartment. They’re top of the line. Unfortunately, it was the only color they had but if anyone could rock them, it’s you.”
When I look up at her, I see a spark of vulnerability. Dottie rarely shows her emotions. She doesn’t flinch when things go wrong, nor does she tend to smile when things go right, but in this moment, it’s as if she’s lowered the shield and is letting me see a small, well-hidden piece of her.
“I’m really sorry about the other night. I’m hoping the invitation to be friends is still open.”
I smile at her. “Hell yeah.”