“I like Natalie,” Emory says, leaning into Knox. “Such a shame she’s already taken; she and Walker could be a good couple. Or Cory.”
“Nice try,” I say. “She’s happily married, so don’t stir the pot.”
“I would never, but is there another Natalie we could find for Walker? He’s so angry all the time, and maybe if he had a Natalie, he would change.”
“Maybe you should stick to your job as a librarian and skip the matchmaking,” Knox says, drawing an appalled sound from Emory.
Hormonal and insulted, not a good combination. Even I know that, and I’m an idiot most of the time.
Emory drags him away just as Carson and Milly walk up to me. “Thank fuck we won. I think I would have screamed if we didn’t bring home the W.”
“You know it was for fun, right?” Natalie asks, joining our little circle.
“Competition is never just for fun,” Milly says, answering for all three of us.
Natalie laughs. “I forgot who I was talking to. Yes, of course, good thing you guys won.”
Milly joined in on the game and had the time of her life. She’s a genius when it comes to baseball. She can fix anyone’s swing—who’s willing to listen to her—and she’s the reason why my boy, Carson, makes the All-Star team. I should give him credit for the practice he puts in as well. But growing up, she studied, she never played, because she wanted to play baseball, not softball, and she was never given the chance. So when I handed her a jersey for our team, she looked up at me with the most grateful eyes I’ve ever seen.
The event is all about inclusion, and that means the girls who want to play with the boys can.
Plus, she was a total ringer and having her on my team was the icing on top of the cake.
“Thank you again for letting me play,” Milly says, looking shy.
“Yeah, thank you, man,” Carson says with so much sincerity it makes me want to cry.
“I love you guys.”
Because I know Carson loves it so much, I grab him by the cheeks and pull him in tight, planting a giant kiss on his lips before releasing him.
“Motherfucker,” he growls, swiping at his mouth. “What did I tell you about that shit? No, just no.”
“You’re so afraid you’re going to fall in love with me. Just let it happen, bro. Just let it happen.”
“I’m not going to punch you in the gut right now because this is a charity event, and because you just made some dreams come true for my wife today, but if this was any other time, know that my fist would be tickling your intestines.”
“Noted,” I say on a smile, that feels entirely too fake.
“As much fun as this is, I need to borrow you for a second.” Natalie pulls on my arm and I follow her to the small stage we have set up. She drags me behind the curtain.
“What are you—?”
My voice falls when I see Dottie standing there, an envelope in her hand, wearing a Bobbies baseball hat, jeans, and a Rebels T-shirt.
Shit . . . the shirt.
She looks really fucking good, especially with those colors displayed across her chest.
“Miss Domico wanted to hand you a donation before she goes.” Natalie gives me a knowing look and then leaves.
Trying to gain my bearings, I say, “Uh, what are you doing here?”
“Well, I watched the game and wanted to keep my donation promise. I know I said I’d be here for the dinner, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to stay. I bought a table and had Lindsay invite some of her third graders and their parents to join. But before I leave, I wanted to deliver this to you.”
She gives me the envelope and nods at me to open it.
Cautious, I tip open the flap and peek inside. A check written to The Lineup for . . . holy shit, one million dollars.
What the actual fuck?
I snap the envelope shut and say, “What the hell is this?”
“My donation.”
“One million dollars?”
“Well, we have a very generous non-profit section. We always donate at the end of the year. I convinced my dad to make a substantial donation to The Lineup.”
“With one million dollars?”
“Yes.”
I try to keep my brain focused on the girl in front of me, but it keeps running away, thinking of all the kids we can help with one million dollars. This is huge.
Bigger than huge . . . it’s phenomenal.
With the contribution from the Rebels, from this event, and from Dottie, there’s so much—
I pause and stare at the check, and then back into Dottie’s hopeful eyes.
Wait . . .
“Are you trying to buy me?”
“What?”
“Trying to buy yourself back into my life.” I hold up the envelope. “Is that what this is all about?”
“Jason.” She shakes her head, tears immediately forming in her eyes. “If that’s what you think, I didn’t do a good enough job letting you get to know me.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say before I can stop myself. “We spent so much time together and yet, it always felt like you never fully let me in.”
“I was trying,” she says. “Trying to form trust—”
“Well, you broke our trust the minute you neglected to tell me about the Carlton meeting. Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I would have laughed it off and said, why don’t we give it a try then? The dating?”
My anger starts to take over again.
“I . . . I didn’t—”
“You didn’t, because you were too chickenshit to let me be the man I am. You didn’t give me a goddamn chance, Dottie. If you did, you would have been surprised at how understanding I am.”
“I see.” She frowns and takes a step back. “You’ll always think the worst of me.” She turns halfway around but pauses. “For what it’s worth, this was how much I’d always planned on donating.” She takes a hiccupped breath. “I believe in what you’re trying to do, your mission. I believe in you, Jason.”
I stare at the envelope and then back at her, the word “Stop” on the tip of my tongue, but I’m unable to pull the trigger. Because even though I’d love to take her into my arms, there’s still hurt billowing deep inside me. So, maybe I am a fool. A miserable, disconsolate fool. Fuck.
Knock. Knock.
The door opens and Knox waltzes in looking like he just pulled himself out of a dumpster, wearing holey sweats and a Brentwood Baseball shirt that must be at least a decade old.
“Come on in,” I say, my head resting against the back of my couch. I’m watching football, not giving two shits who wins, and drowning myself in potato skins.
Piles and piles of potato skins.
I’ll need to run at least ten miles a day until spring training to wear off all the fat in these things. Here’s hoping they go straight to my ass and make it even juicier than before.
Knox grabs a beer from my fridge for the both of us and then flops on my couch next to me. Before he leans all the way back, he picks up a potato skin and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. “These are cold,” he says with a mouthful.
“Yeah, I made them two hours ago.”