Jason: You’re making my heart soar like a fucking falcon. A goddamn FALCON, Dottie.
Dottie: Falcon. That’s pretty serious. Do you know what would have been more serious? An albatross.
Jason: Pfft, no way. They might have a ten-foot wingspan, but they’re seabirds, so they shit in the ocean. Where’s the fun in that?
Dottie: As opposed to . . .
Jason: Shitting on people’s heads, of course. If I was a bird, that would be my main purpose in life, shitting on unsuspecting people’s heads. Think about it, being targeted by a bird bowel movement is detrimental as a human being. You’re just going about your normal business when all of a sudden, WHACK, white goop drips from your forehead down your cheek. What is that, you think? You carefully touch it, your fingers immediately wet with semi-warm liquid. And when you realize it’s an anal secretion from a flying vertebrate, all hell breaks loose. The horror! The disgust! The SHAME OF BEING SHIT ON. There’s no coming back from that. #DayRuined And as the maniacal bird, there you are, floating around in the peaceful skies, watching idiot humans running around in circles, trying to get rid of the poo-poo. With one flip of the feather—or the bird, hey-o—you’re off to the bird feeder, filling up so you can drop turd once again. A vicious cycle of humans feeding birds only to get shit on unsuspectedly, I AM HERE FOR THAT!
Dottie: I was wrong. I don’t have to be across the hall to be annoyed by you.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
DOTTIE
“If you didn’t want to bring attention to yourself, you shouldn’t have forced me to wear matching shirts,” I say as Jason ducks under a plain baseball hat and sunglasses. He’s been spotted once already by a fan. He was very kind, signed the boy’s shirt, took a picture, and then went on his way. But now he’s hunkering behind me, trying to hide. Which is ridiculous, since he’s six two with a chest the size of two of my bodies put together. There’s no hiding him.
And then the matching shirts. I should have known he was serious. When he picked me up this morning, he handed me a neon-yellow shirt that says “His muscles are mine.” That’s when he unzipped his sweatshirt and puffed his chest with pride. His shirt of course said “Her nips are for my (finger) tips.”
Mortified doesn’t adequately describe how I’ve felt while walking around the amusement park, noticing people squinting to read our shirts . . . but needing sunglasses to avoid the glare.
But after a few laughs and many sneers from uppity parents, I’m feeling a little more comfortable.
“I guess I didn’t think it was going to be this hard to go out.” He brings his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, you must be sick of people stopping us.”
“You didn’t think it was going to be a big deal? Jason, you’re a professional baseball player born and bred in Chicago. You went to Brentwood, so people have been following your career. Of course they’re going to recognize you. Just because you played for Tampa doesn’t mean they forgot about you, especially since you’re back in Chicago, playing for the home team.”
“One of the home teams.” He lets out a deep breath. “That makes me feel a little better. To be honest, I was feeling a little apprehensive about winning over the city of Chicago again. I grew up a Bobbies fan, they all know that, so are they really going to accept me as a Rebel?”
We’re walking along a path to one of the giant roller coasters Jason has been ecstatic to take me on. He wanted to start big—no working me into it—straight to the big guys.
I’ve been stalling by peering into the little shops, but he’s done. He announced it was time, so now I’m walking as slowly as possible.
“You’re worried if you’re going to be accepted as a Rebel?” I laugh. “I didn’t grow up here, but I’ve lived here long enough to know how serious baseball fans are. When they announced you were traded to the Rebels, every Bobbies fan out there wept themselves to sleep. Word around the street was, they wanted you to replace Walker.”
“Oh, come on,” Jason grumbles with an obvious eye-roll. “Walker is one hell of a catcher. He had the second-best batting average on the team last year too.”
“But he has the worst attitude in baseball. Fans don’t like that.”
“Lady fans don’t,” he counters. “Men love it.”
“Not true.” I shake my head as we get in line for the death-defying roller coaster I can’t seem to get myself to look at. I’d rather go in blind. “There are a few men at work who don’t like Walker Rockwell. They think he’s an asshole on the field and not a team player.”
“He hasn’t been painted in a good light, but he’s actually a really nice guy. A quiet one, but nice.”
“Do you know him well?”
“I’m working with him on my charity. His sister passed, not sure how, but she had some disabilities. I knew he was the guy I wanted to pair up with. Plus, I know his reputation is shitty and thought it could help him. Bringing the two catchers for Chicago together. It’s going to be awesome. We have a celebrity softball game planned to include kids with disabilities in the area along with some of the biggest names in baseball. It’s going to be the first weekend in December at the Rebels stadium, my first game there.”
“Wow,” I say, taken aback by what a great idea the celebrity softball game is. But not only that. Jason is just . . . so damn impressive. First, who looks out so honestly for kids with disabilities? But also, who thinks about trying to elevate a rival team member whose exit could pave the way for his own succession to the team he’s loved forever? It’s just ridiculous how generous and . . . selfless . . . this man is. I’m astonished. “That’s a great idea. I’m floored by your attitude toward Rockwell, but it’s an amazing concept on all fronts. Are you selling tickets to the game?”
“Yeah.” We move forward in the line. “One of the stipulations about my trade to the Rebels was their support of The Lineup. They’ve kept their promise and have truly helped me put everything together. Natalie, my sister, has been in talks with them as well, organizing the local side, getting kids from around the area to participate and apply. It’s going to be a pretty big event. We have some sponsors—”
“I’d like to be one,” I say, not even having to think about it. “I’d love to be a silent sponsor, anything you need.”
“Dottie.” He smiles softly. “You already donated ten thousand dollars. That’s more than enough.” Leaning in, he places a sweet kiss to my forehead. “Don’t forget, your donation or accidental donation is what brought us together.”
“That was from me. I want this to be from the company.”
“I mean, I’m not going to deny the kids more money for equipment, but you don’t have to. I didn’t tell you about the event to look for a donation.”
“I know you would never do that.” I see where he’s going with this, cautious with my past and previous guys using me and my family. He has his arm around me, so I do the same, bringing my arm around his trim waist. I look up at him and say, “You’re different, Jason. I know this. You wouldn’t hurt me, you wouldn’t use me. You’re a genuine human being and because of that, I want to support The Lineup. Please.”