Chapter 15
15
[Bolan]
O ur opening spring training run includes a three-game series with the Agitators, Chicago’s crosstown rivals, and ends in a losing streak. The black, white, and green are as mean as their mascot, a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Tomorrow, we start a new series.
After admitting how important Ruthie’s presence at the game is to me, there’s been a little shift between us. Nothing tectonic, but a swing, nonetheless. She didn’t hole up in the back bedroom but lingered while I gave Tulane a bath and read to her before putting her down for bed.
When Ruthie plops down on the couch while I watch the replay of another spring training game from the recliner, I’m thrilled. We don’t talk until I ask her about working at Imperial Sports Management.
“How’d you end up working as a sports agent if you wanted to be a teacher? ”
“You remember that?” Those dark eyes sparkle in the glow of the television set from her seat on the couch. Her eyes are like the cosmos, a mystery of darkness with the hint of stars in them.
Sitting in the recliner, my feet are propped up, head tipped back but turned in her direction. I might need to get one of these chairs for my new place.
“I remember lots of things about you, flower.” I wink.
Her eyes only momentarily flare at my flirtatious memory. Her responding smile is weak. “Clifton wanted me to work for his dad. He thought it was a good idea.”
I adjust the chair to sit upright and lean heavily on the armrest. “Why?” Every story I hear about my cousin makes me dislike him a little more.
Ruthie shrugs. “I’m quiet. Shy even. He thought it would bring me out of my shell.” She scoffs. “Teaching wasn’t glamorous to him. When we graduated college and he was recruited to play for a national football team, he thought it’d be cool for his wife to work in the industry.”
What the fuck? “First, you can be whoever you want to be, Ruthie. For you. Teacher. Sports agent. Hell, a belly dancer.”
She snorts.
“Your profession should reflect your passion, and it isn’t being a sports agent.” I recall how adamant she was not to be assigned to me, and something told me it had very little to do with me. Ruthie didn’t want to be an agent, as she told Jared.
“Also, I wouldn’t call you shy, flower.” I stare directly at her, recalling a woman a little thorny upon first meeting, but still sweet. She didn’t seem shy when she kissed me like her life depended on it. Nor when she spread her knees, allowing my head to drop between them.
“Maybe a bit reserved.” I choose my words wisely when I’m not really a smart guy. “But that’s not a bad thing. You’re cautious.” And I’m willing to wait, like I already told her. I tap my temple. “A thinker.”
She’s definitely smarter than me, but also thoughtful. The calendar on my fridge says so. So does the stock of chocolate milk in said fridge. And she came to my games.
“And just what the fuck about wanting his wife in the industry? You see how Valdez responded to you yesterday? You’re fucking hot, Ruthie.”
Her eyes widen at the strength of my voice. Her skin flushes pink at the compliment.
“That blonde hair is like honey to most men. Plus, you’ve got those doe-eyes looking all innocent and sweet.” I hum, dragging my gaze around her face. “I’m going to have to disagree with Cliff on this one, and if I had a say, which I don’t . . . ” I pause to level my eyes on hers. “The last place I’d want my wife working is in the industry where horny, egotistical assholes exist. Athletes can be sharks.” Circling a beauty like her.
I pause again, realizing that’s exactly where my wife does work. “If you don’t want to be a sports agent, if you don’t want to work for Jared anymore, quit. I got you, Ruthie.” I pat my chest.
I’m financially sound, and she’ll be financially well-off once our contract is up in a year. “If it’s about money?—”
She softly lifts her hand and shakes her head. “It isn’t about money.”
“Then what is it about? Why are you still with them?”
Her shoulders drop. “Because they’re family. They’ve been good to me.”
“Do you feel obligated to them? Nylah and Jared adore you, and if they truly love you, they aren’t going to be upset that you want to leave their company.”
“It isn’t that simple. ”
“Yeah, Ruthie. It is.” We stare at each other a long minute, the tension between us building.
She breaks away first, narrowing her eyes at the television, but I’m certain she isn’t watching it. “Nylah and Jared are like second parents to me. Better parents than my own. I don’t want to disappoint them. And I’m not actually an agent. I’m an assistant.”
She glances back at me. “I don’t know why Jared called me your agent. I sucked at being one.”
I laugh, sharp and loud at the word choice. “I’m certain you didn’t suck, flower. You couldn’t suck at anything.” Then I dig my teeth into my lower lip. Well, I could think of a few ways she could put that term to proper use.
She laughs. Not full-on but soft and delicate. “Is your mind ever not thinking dirty thoughts?”
“I’m a guy. A twelve-year old at heart.” And I’m horny for my wife, but back to the conversation at hand. “I’m serious, though. Baby, if you want to still be a teacher, teach. Go back to school or whatever it takes and live life for you, Ruthie.”
Her expression slowly morphs from teasing me about a dirty mind to something close to crestfallen.
“But I’m not living my life, Bolan. I’m living yours.” Her eyes are soft, compassionate even, until they lower completely, dropping away from me.
Dammit . She’s right. She’s stuck with me, like she might have felt stuck with Cliff.
“Why’d you marry him? He sounds like a dick.” The question is harsh, expressing my envy of a dead guy. He had her first and he didn’t appreciate her quiet beauty, not shyness. Her sensual strength. Then again, maybe she wasn’t like she is with him. One could hope her eagerness, the way she kisses, is only about me.
“Don’t they warn you not to speak ill of the dead,” she counters, thorns prickling out of my flower again .
“What’s he going to do? Haunt me?” I make a spooky sound because I don’t believe in that shit, only Ruthie glances back at the television. That far-off look she sometimes gets in her eyes tells me he might haunt her.
“Hey.” I slide off the chair and walk on my knees over to her, stopping in front of her, so she’ll focus on me. I want her full attention, so I place my hands on her knees, spreading them to allow my wide body between them, and instantly noting how soft her skin is.
“I’m a dick sometimes, when I don’t mean to be. He was your husband. You obviously loved him and it’s none of my business why.” I’d still like to know what the attraction was. How did a guy like him end up with a girl like her? But then I could ask the same question about myself. How did I get so lucky as to have her give up her life for a year to be with me? I’m no better than Cliff.
I lick my lips and swallow tightly. “If you want out of our agreement, Ruthie, I’ll make it happen.” I’ll let her go. I’m on the team. Surely, I’m proving myself useful to the Anchors and they’ll see me as a worthy player, with or without a wife.
“No.” She shakes her head, pulling her gaze from my hands on her knees to my face. “No, I don’t want you to let me go.”
She doesn’t want me to let her go? She wants to stay? My heart races, palms sweating on her kneecaps. Does she want me? Will she let me kiss her? So many thoughts collide, and as I don’t think before I act, I lean forward, wanting to steal another kiss from her, whether I’ve earned it yet or not.
I swear she leans toward me as well. Her floral and spice scent tickling my nose. Her eyes are on my lips and my gaze drops to her mouth. That puffy lower lip. The curve of the upper one. Her teeth nip at the corner and I can taste her before we’ve even connected.
Her slight inhale tickles the coarse hairs around my mouth. My beard needs a trim, but something tells me Ruthie likes the scruff. She certainly loved it between her thighs, and I want to dive between them again.
But first, I want to kiss her.
On my knees. Happy she wants to stay. Thrilled she’s giving me a chance.
I lift my hand for the side of her neck, wanting to pull her closer?—
Tulane lets out a sharp cry.
Ruthie and I both turn out heads in the direction of the closed bedroom door.
While my heart is hammering, I’m holding my breath.
Please don’t cry again. Please don’t let her cry again , I pray.
But another sharp wail drifts from behind the door and Ruthie shifts, forcing me to fall back on my heels. My knees crack, catching up to kneeling on a tile floor.
“I’ll get her,” she says quietly. I want to hear disappointment in her voice. Swear I hear it, but I can’t be certain.
As Ruthie stands, her hips are eye level, and I stare after her. The hourglass shape of her. The sweet swell of her ass. The back of her toned legs.
She opens the door to Tulane’s room and disappears inside.
I bend forward, resting my forehead on the couch cushion where she just sat.
So close . So close to kissing her again.
Fear catches up to me. Fear she might never want my kiss again. Fear she feels trapped with me and the last thing I want to do is make her feel like she has to do anything she doesn’t want to do.
I want Ruthie to work where she wants, or not work at all, if that’s her jam. I’m happy to have her as my wife, and as a stepmom for Tulane. She doesn’t need Imperial Sports Management.
She has me.
I want to be enough.
As the Anchors losing streak continues, I’m out of sorts. I’d fucked up in the sixth inning of the new series, missing an easy catch thrown from second to home plate which went over my head, allowing in a run.
I hate when I make simple mistakes.
However, my mind has been circling around what Ruthie told me. How she didn’t want to be an agent. How she’d made decisions because of Cliff or for his parents. Hell, she’s doing something special for me.
Add in the near kiss between us, and her absence from today’s game after I’ve told her how important it is to me that she attends, and I’m a curve ball just waiting to be released from the pitcher’s clutch.
My irritation level is near .246, my batting average, which is actually on the high end for spring training.
When I’m finally back at the apartment, rushing to open the door, I’m vibrating with agitation, prepared not so much for a fight, but an inquisition. Why didn’t she attend today’s game? What was more important?
I can be a hothead, and I know this about myself. I’ve worked myself up into a full lather, as my granddad would say, until the front door pops open and I see Ruthie pacing the living room with a subdued Tulane in her arms.
“What’s wrong?” Spidey senses I didn’t have before Tulane came into my life prickle under my skin, knowing something isn’t right as I close the door behind my blustery entrance.
Ruthie presses a kiss to the side of Tulane’s head. “She has a fever. She’s been extra fussy today. Didn’t want to nap but doesn’t want to play either.”
“A what? How?” I drop my bag, which causes a heavy thud when it hits the floor. In my haste to reach Tulane, I stumble over the bulky bag, catching myself before faceplanting. Eventually placing my hand on Tulane’s back, heat emanates through her thin shirt. “What’s the matter, Tulip?”
Instantly, my girl shifts in Ruthie’s arms, reaching out for me, and I scoop her up. She’s a little bundle of gooey warmth.
Panic escalates. “Did you call a doctor? Give her medicine?”
“Didn’t you get my message?” Ruthie stares up at me, brown eyes wide with concern. She also looks exhausted.
“I haven’t checked my phone.” Why hadn’t I checked my phone? It should have been the first thing I did when I didn’t see them at the game. I’m not used to people checking in with me or checking in on them.
I shake my head. “What did the message say?”
“I called a local pediatrician. They said for now to simply monitor her. Liquids are a must. If she doesn’t eat, that’s okay. Baby Tylenol to help reduce the fever.”
I nod, prepared to ask if I even have the fever reducer, but then remember I do.
“I also felt a little stupid, not knowing Tulane’s medical history, when I’m supposed to be her mom.”
“Supposed to be?” I stare at her around Tulane’s head tucked against my shoulder. It’s been roughly a week of marriage, but it feels like Ruthie has been part of Tulane’s life for months. She is her mom, right now.
My own mother hadn’t known when I broke my ankle or injured my knee. Didn’t know when I had the flu or even a common cold. My dad had been the one to tackle all those things, and I wouldn’t say he handled them well. He wasn’t exactly a compassionate man.
But Ruthie has enough compassion to fill the Grand Canyon.
“Okay. Good point. I’ll find all her records and share them with you.” Tulane had to be up to date on all immunizations before she could enter the United States. She’ll eventually have dual citizenship being born in Japan but parented by Americans.
Later that evening, Tulane won’t stop crying. Every single time I set her down in the crib, she wails.
“Okay, baby. I’ve got you.” But I can’t keep hanging onto her. I have a game tomorrow and need some sleep. It’s bad enough I’m sleeping on a couch that’s too small for my body, not to mention, not great for my back.
By ten o’clock, Ruthie exits the main bedroom, having holed herself up again after a failed attempt at feeding Tulane dinner.
She whispers my name in the dark apartment. The glow of the muted television set is the only light in the place. “You need your rest. I can take her.”
Ruthie is a vision in pajama shorts and a thick-strapped tank top. She’s wearing those red-framed glasses, and her hair is piled up on her head. She looks young and hesitant. Like I might not appreciate her offer of help when I’m growing desperate.
I step closer to her, handing over Tulane who feels like she’s finally nodding off to sleep.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to take her to my room. Give you some privacy and hopefully some quiet.” Ruthie runs her hand down Tulane’s back and presses a kiss to her downy hair.
“Yeah. Of course. Whatever you think will work.” As I watch Ruthie walk down the hallway and disappear into the main bedroom, I feel like a failure. The soft snick of the door might as well be as loud as a metal gate, locking her away. I don’t like this underlying tension between us, and I especially don’t like how I’m not a great dad.
With a heavy sigh, I collapse on my back on the couch, kicking my feet up on the armrest. I stare at the flash of color coming from the television, a replay of today’s game, and my error. I curse my body. The crack in my knees. The ache in my lower back. And despite the exhaustion of trying to placate a sick child, I suddenly can’t sleep.
Especially when I hear Tulane crying again and then abruptly stop, like all the gas ran out of her.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I glance up at the ceiling fan, swirling in a slow circle.
What the hell do I think I’m doing, trying to raise a kid on my own while being a professional ball player?
Moments like tonight remind me how lonely I’ve been, but I’m not alone. I have Ruthie, holed-up in a large room with a king-sized bed and my kid. I should be in there with them. It should be me soothing Tulane’s aches, but I won’t be selfish. I won’t deny her love from all angles. A multitude of people loving on her, like my Hiroshima family had.
Maybe I’d been wrong to return to the U.S. Thinking here was better than there. Thinking I could do this on my own. While I have Ruthie, I only have her for a year. Long enough for my sweet Tulip to fall in love with her and for Ruthie to break her little heart when she leaves . . . like my mom left me.
Not quite the same thing but still the same sensation. A broken heart is a broken heart.
In the morning, I hate to leave them. Ruthie looks even more exhausted. Tulane doesn’t look any better. Her little nose is running, and she has a barky cough.
“I’m going to take her to an urgent care,” Ruthie tells me. Dark circles curl underneath her eyes. She’s wearing her glasses again. Her hair is still piled high on her head. Last night she had on shorts and a tank top. Now she’s wearing a sweatshirt and sweats, covering up every inch of her skin.
I nod, grateful but feeling guilty. “I don’t exactly have a nine-to-five job. One where I can take the day off. ”
“That’s why I’m here,” Ruthie assures me, weakly. Her voice is groggy.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just a little tickle in my throat.”
“Oh boy. Are you sick?” Are both my girls ill?
“Haven’t built up the mom-resistance yet, I guess.” Her smile is timid as she glances at Tulane who lies on the couch, eyes forward toward the television where a kid’s program is playing at a low volume.
Ruthie would make a great mom.
“Why aren’t you a mother?” I blurt before realizing how insensitive my question is. I know all about women struggling to have children and how difficult the subject can be. I also understand Ruthie is Tulane’s stepmother, but I mean why hasn’t Ruthie had children before now.
She shrugs, her motion almost as sad as the sudden dullness in her eyes. “Just never got pregnant.”
Her monotone answer reveals only one thing: she’s lying. Another secret. One I don’t press because she looks too worn out to talk.
“I promise I’ll come right home.” So far, I’ve attended practices, participated in games, and come home every night. The actions are less about being a dutiful husband, but more about keeping my promises and coming home because home is where I want to be. Duty has nothing to do with my position. I’m thankful trouble hasn’t found me, but then again, I’m not out looking for it either. The only kind of trouble I want involves my wife, and trouble is the furthest thing I’d call her.
Within minutes, I’m dressed, gear collected, duffle bag full of snacks and an energy drink, and turn back when I’m at the front door, hand on the knob, but not opening it yet.
Ruthie is sitting on the couch with Tulane in her lap, both girls staring at the television as Ruthie softly sings some kid song I don’t know .
Everything in me wants to stay. Wants to take care of my girls, but I need to go.
“Hey, flower. Call me if it’s anything more than a fever, yeah?” I’ll be checking my phone as often as I can today.
She turns her head, leaning it against the back of the couch. “Of course.”
I nod once and then turn the doorknob. While facing the door to exit, Ruthie calls out to me. “Hey Bolan?”
Spinning around, the door whacks me in the knee because I’m startled by the sudden call of my name.
“Yeah?”
“Catch all the catches.” She further shocks me by placing her fingers on her lips and blowing me a kiss.
I lift my hand, spreading my fingers wide to catch that kiss in my palm before squeezing my fingers tight to close my fist.
“Got it,” I call out, like I’m racing for a pop fly that’s gone behind home plate, hoping to catch the ball for an easy out.
Only, I don’t want to strike out with my wife.
With her kiss in my hand, I make a big show of tucking it in my pocket, patting over the spot to emphasize where I’ll keep it safe.
Ruthie softly chuckles which is the first happy sound I’ve heard from her in days. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re ridiculous?”
“Yes. And from you, I’m taking it as a compliment.” Just like her tossing me a kiss made my day.
Especially when the Anchors lose again, and I come home to find Tulane tucked on Ruthie’s lap, both girls bundled under a blanket on the couch.
Both of them sick.