Chapter 34
34
[Bolan]
W hen the Anchors return from Cleveland to Chicago, a weird tension exists between Ruthie and me.
I’m afraid I’ve spoken a little too much truth to my wife.
Two steps forward. One step back. It’s my least favorite kind of dance.
I appreciate her concerns. Clifton fucked her over. But I’m not him and I need her to see me. I’m different, not only from him, but from who I used to be.
And I’m willing to prove it, I just don’t know how.
On the final game of our first home series, I remain on the field an extra minute after we win, easily finding Ruthie and Tulane in the stands. The weather is unpredictable in April, and my two girls are bundled up because of the threat of rain.
As I stand on the edge of the field, I toss Ruthie a kiss. It’s been a great game for me again, and I’m attributing my batting average to the changes in my life.
A new team. A new home. My wife. My family.
Ruthie lifts her hand, palm up and flat, similar to how she awkwardly raised her hand back in Jared’s office that first time. Then she makes a fist like she caught my kiss.
Smiling, I motion for her to come down to the field. We only have a few minutes before post-game interviews and cooldown routines, but I want to hug her. I need to hug her.
As the security guard lets Ruthie onto the grass, with Tulane on her hip, I pull both into my arms. “Hello, family.”
“Say hello Daddy.” Ruthie tickles Tulane’s belly, and she giggles before reaching for me. Her smile is so sweet. Her eyes the same color as mine. I love everything about my mini-me, and I want to give her more.
I want our family to grow. I want Ruthie and me to have the baby she desires. I’m not pretending with her anymore. She needs to know how I feel, and I almost slipped up the other night in Cleveland. Almost laid it on the line but held back, reading the temperature of the room for once, which was icy cold.
But as I’m riding the high of a win, the words are on the tip of my tongue when Coach calls out, “Gentlemen, locker room.”
It’s then that I realize Romero Valdez is on the field, chatting up a woman. Ford Sylver’s ex-wife, maybe. I turn back to Ruthie, stamping the corner of her lips with a quick kiss, then turn toward the tunnel.
Ignoring Valdez, I walk a few paces behind Ross Davis. The clomp of our cleats echo through the tunnel to the locker room the second we hit the pavement.
“Got a girlfriend, Coach?” Valdez calls out behind me.
I’ve seen Coach glancing into the stands on occasion, and I’ve wondered if he has a woman. He’s a private guy, keeping himself mainly to the coaching staff. Kip Garcia, our main pitching coach, is a former pitcher himself who once played against Ross. Then Ross was under Kip for a while when he played for the Anchors a few years back. Now they coach together, but they are also friends.
Coach doesn’t answer Valdez, ignoring him like most guys on the team do. People are sick of his shit. His attitude mainly, but also these little digs about girlfriends and wives.
Trying to defuse the situation, I respond. “Ah, give Coach a break. We can’t all be the Romeo you are.” Not that I think he’s a true romantic in any sense. More like the tragic character Shakespeare wrote about.
“You were once a Romeo, too,” Valdez reminds me of my former reputation. The dig a little too close to the bone, all things considered back in Cleveland.
“Now you’ve got that ring weighing down your finger,” Valdez continues. “I don’t know how you handle such a mouse in your bed.”
I’m on Valdez in an instant, slamming his body against the cement wall. “Don’t even think about my wife.”
Valdez lets out a strangled laugh under the pressure of my forearm at his throat, pinning him to the tunnel wall at his back.
“Don’t speak about Ruthie like that. In fact, don’t even look in her direction.”
Coach slips his arm between us, saying something, but I don’t hear him. My ears are ringing louder than a gong and I see red. Valdez’s blood on this pavement if he so much as breathes Ruthie’s air.
“You’re a shit stirrer,” I continue, shoving my forearm harder beneath his chin. He’s only recently been reinstated from his suspension after the incident with Ford. “And no one likes you. ”
“ Ohh , you hurt my feelings.” He falsely whimpers his taunts at me.
“That’s enough,” Coach demands, still attempting to wedge his body between us. “Adler, back up.”
With a final shove against Valdez’s throat, I press off my teammate and take a large step back. My chest lifts and lowers. My heart racing. I’m itching to finish this fight he started, but Coach steps between our bodies. Facing me, he acts like a wall, blocking Valdez from my sight.
“Maybe what your little wife needs is a real man in her bed,” Valdez says.
I rush forward again while Ross spins between us, becoming a blanket of protection over Valdez. A flimsy blanket, because if I have to go through Ross to get to Valdez, I will.
“You’re fucking toast,” I yell, pressing up against Coach, preparing to push him out of the way.
Only someone is suddenly pulling me off Coach’s back and I’m plastered to the opposite wall, held back from killing my teammate.
Ross speaks low and steady to Valdez, who glares at me over our coach’s shoulder. His nostrils flare like a bull ready to charge. Bring it on . I’m a fucking stampede waiting to trample his ass.
Valdez sharply turns his gaze to Ross, who punctuates whatever he said with, “Watch me.”
“Get your ass in the locker room,” Dalton Ryatt yells at Valdez. It’s only then that I realize the bench coach is present, along with Kip Garcia and Cyrus, both of whom are holding me.
Ross presses away from Valdez who only holds his head higher as he turns toward Ryatt. Then he spits in my direction, narrowly missing my feet.
“ Pendejo ,” Valdez mutters. Asshole .
“Fuck you,” I snap, although the words are lost in the tunnel, and I tip back my head, feeling the cold cement blocks against my thick skull.
Ross spins toward me once Valdez is down the tunnel with Ryatt at his back.
“Coach, you need to do something about him.” This bullshit needs to stop. It’s not good for the team to have such a loose cannon. One so full of himself. Thinking he can go where he wants, say what he wants.
“I’m handling him,” Coach replies, but I have my doubts. He’s new to the team, like I am, and that means tiptoeing around issues. I don’t want to question my coach’s ability to lead, but I’m starting to.
“Are you calm yet?” Kip asks, stepping back but holding up a hand, prepared to push me against the wall again, if necessary.
“Yeah. I’m good.” But I’m fucking not. I want to strangle Valdez for what he said about Ruthie. She’s not a mouse. And she has a man in her bed. Me.
Even if the past three nights we haven’t been together, and I miss my fucking wife.
“Let me know what you need. For Ruth,” Coach finally says to me.
“What do you mean?” My tone is still sharp. My emotions raw. If Ruthie needs anything, she has me.
“If you’re worried about her . . . him getting anywhere near her, I’ll file a restraining order myself, if you need me to.”
I huff, the sound bitter. “Yeah, I don’t think that will be necessary.” I appreciate the gesture, though. “He’s just talking shit. But that shit needs to stop.”
I want to believe words are cheap and all Valdez is doing is flapping his lips. But I still don’t want him talking about my wife.
When I get home, I’m still rattled. The afternoon game means Ruthie and I have the night together with Tulane still awake, and I was looking forward to spending quality time with my family. But I can’t shake what Valdez said.
Maybe she needs a real man in her bed . I’m man enough physically, but have I been present enough emotionally for Ruthie?
“You okay?” she asks as soon as I enter the duplex.
“Yeah. I just . . .” How do I tell her I got into a fight with my teammate? “I had an issue with Valdez.”
Ruthie chuckles good-naturedly as she sets something in the microwave. The soft hum of the appliance fills the kitchen. The scent of something spicy wavers in the air. Children’s music is coming through the television while Tulane walks from the ottoman to a basket of toys and then back.
“What now?”
I shake my head. “He was just running his mouth.” I comb my fingers through my hair, pulling my gaze from Tulane to find Ruthie watching me.
“What’d he say?” Her lowered tone expresses her concern.
“Just making comments,” I state, brushing off the insult although it’s still circling around me. Then I glance at Tulane again and wonder what the hell I’m worried about. I have my daughter. I have Ruthie.
Delicate fingers come to my hand fisted on the edge of the peninsula countertop.
“I still want to know.”
I nod and purse my lips. “He made a comment about you. Then us. Saying I might not be man enough in bed.”
Ruthie laughs. Out right guffaws until she reads something in my expression. “You can’t be serious.”
I lower my gaze and twist my lips from side-to-side. “As a kid, I was bullied a lot. Fat kid.” I run my fingertip along the counter’s edge, thinking back on years of rejection and then years of over-attention. “And I guess, just sometimes, I do wonder if I am enough.”
“Bolan.” Ruthie steps closer to me.
“But more so, I wonder if I’m enough emotionally.” Slowly, I lift my head. “Like have I told you lately how much I appreciate you still being here. Taking care of Tulane. Looking after everything.” She’s not asking for anything. Not money. Not even a baby. I’m the one putting that suggestion out there.
Suddenly, Ruthie is in my space, wrapping her arms around my middle.
“You’re enough, honey.”
Circling my arms loosely around her back, I drop my chin to her head. “Say that again.”
“You’re enough?—”
“The other part.”
“Honey?” She mutters to my chest.
“Yeah. That part.”
“Honey,” Ruthie says softly, pulling back to look up at me. Her cheeks turn a sweet shade of pink.
I trace a finger around her face. “This might be my new favorite color.” The perfect one to match other places on her body.
“I’m so going to get you pregnant,” I tease, lowering for a quick kiss because Tulane is present.
Ruthie chuckles against my lips. “We should probably talk about that. What it means for you?”
“What do you mean, what it means for me?” My earlier irritation slowly returns.
“Like, if I get pregnant, what will that mean for you? Do you want to be?—”
My fingertips come to her lips. “I’m going to stop you right there before you say something that pisses me off. I want to get my wife pregnant because she wants a baby. I want a baby with her. You. Us.”
I stare at her, wondering what her train of thought is, and then realizing, I don’t want to know. Respectfully.
“This isn’t fake for me, Ruthie. I’m not certain our relationship ever has been. You’re my wife. That means I’m yours. And we . . .” I point between us. “Are forever. Not a year. Not a season. Not a contract. For life.”
Until death do us part and all that.
Ruthie blinks at me a few times. Then her eyes water. “I just thought . . . I mean, you mentioned a few weeks ago that when the year was over . . . so I thought . . .”
“You thought my God, my husband is an idiot because who talks about when a year is up .” I do my best impression of a female voice. “I also apologized for being a dumb ass.”
She chuckles, shaking her head and places her forehead against my sternum. Maybe she still thinks I’m counting down the days or checking off the months. Maybe she still thinks I’d step out on her, but I won’t.
The microwave beeps and Ruthie pulls out of my arms, leaving me with this strange sense of loss.
“I talked to Jared. He’d like you to call him.”
“Really?” Why would Jared want to speak with me? Ruthie works for him. I assumed all communication would be through her.
“He wants to talk to you about an opportunity.”
I tilt my head, waiting for her to explain but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Maybe you should call him now. Dinner will be ready in ten.”
The phone call with Jared is not what I expected it to be.
“We have a promotion opportunity for you. Ruthie told me you love chocolate milk, and we reached out to the National Milk Campaign.”
I fall back in the chair Ruthie bought for the third bedroom slash office. While sitting there, I glance around the room, noting all the little things she’s done in here. A computer and two plants on a simple white desk beneath the window. A rug on the floor. This chair. And pictures on the wall of Tulane and me. I lean forward, narrowing my eyes, taking in the images.
Tulane and I pressed cheek to cheek. Her smiling wide. Our eyes are the same. Her hair brighter than mine, but she’s my kid, and she looks so happy.
As I glance from image to image, I wonder when Ruthie took all these pictures and when she made them into photos for the wall.
“Bolan?”
“Yeah.” I can’t take my eyes off the photographs, realizing Ruthie has made this room homey. She’s making this temporary living space feel permanent.
“So what do you think?”
“I’ve never done commercials before.” Never been approached to act as a spokesperson.
“It’d be great for your image. Family man drinking milk with his kid. Plus, you’d send the message that athletes enjoy milk. Your body alone would suggest milk made you grow big and strong, and that’s an angle the campaign wants to take.”
“Would Tulane be in the commercials, too?” I’m not certain I want my baby girl splashed across television, print advertisements, and the internet.
“Not likely. They’d use a slightly older child actor. One who can talk.” He chuckles. “It’s a great deal, Bolan.”
Next, he tells me their offering fee, and I almost fall out of the chair.
“Okay. Yeah. Sure. Sounds great.” I cough to clear my throat before he thinks I’m a bumbling idiot and won’t be able to handle the promos. “You can just let Ruthie know where and when and how.”
Jared is quiet a second. “I’ll have someone send over all the information. Have Floyd double check all the contracts, and then get back to me.”
“Of course. Thank you, Jared.” He’s done me a real solid here, and that money . . . That alone is worth it.
“Don’t thank me, thank Ruthie. She’s the one who advocated for you. Demanded a deal, actually.” His voice sounds off, despite the praise. He even sighs after he finishes. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Great.” We hang up, and I return to the kitchen, watching Ruthie plate food for Tulane, who is seated in the converted highchair-turned-toddler stool.
“How’d it go?” she twists only enough to glance at me over her shoulder, but I take the spoon from her hand and set the bowl in her other hand on the counter.
Then I cup her cheeks and kiss her with all I have. My tongue sweeps through her mouth like she’s the flavored drink I’m about to represent. I want every drop of her.
When I pull back, Ruthie follows my retreat, like she wants more of me and a strange image comes to my mind.
That girl from the kiss experiment leaning toward me, chasing after me like she wasn’t ready to let me go. It’s the oddest thing to think about considering I’ve just kissed my wife.
I drop my forehead to hers, listening to her breathe heavily.
“What was that for?” she chuckles lightly, the sound curious while flustered.
“Jared told me what you did. Thank you.” I give her another quick peck. “Thank you for pushing me on him, or standing up for me, or whatever you did.”
Ruthie giggles again. “I only want you to get what you deserve out of these next few years. I want you to know you’re worth more than some guy playing a game. ”
She knows that’s how I view myself. What I worry people will think of me once I leave the sport. If people will ever think of me again.
With my hands on her jaw, I lean down and kiss her again, expressing with every tug on her lip and touch of my tongue, how grateful I am that she’s here.
As long as she finds me worthy, I’m a complete man.