22. Callaway
22
CALLAWAY
“You good, man?” Bodhi sidles up next to me, taking my attention from the sore elbow that’s been causing me problems lately.
“I’m good, man. Just sore. This rest week will do me good.”
The last two weeks have been back-to-back games with some of them being double headers, and my body is feeling it. Fortunately for all of us, we’re headed into a week off from playing. The league made the decision to give us some time to spend with family for the upcoming Easter holiday.
The things I’m looking to the most are sleep and seeing my parents. Also, the idea of possibly seeing Dakota outside of a work setting sounds pretty great, too. The familiarity of it feels so distant, considering outside of Makers Park is where we saw each other first before she began working for the Strikers.
Even with the off week upon us, the Sports Illustrated shoot is distracting my thoughts from the rest to come. Seven days . I’ve got seven torturous days until the woman of my dreams gets to witness her future husband, naked and unashamed. It may be a little ambitious for me to assume a future with a woman I hardly know, but when you know, you know.
I’m confident this will be the moment she lets me in.
I’ll make sure of it.
Bodhi intercepts my thoughts, “I think I need to get out. I’m gonna hit up Delta tonight if you want to join.”
Bodhi never goes out alone and never invites anyone to join him. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s having a tough time with life right now, and a friend is what he needs. A hot shower and sixteen hours of dead sleep sound incredible, but I’ll entertain the club for him.
“I’m down. Let’s head out at eight.”
Delta is a ghost town tonight. In all the years I’ve lived in Atlanta, I can't remember this place being anything other than alive with people.
A handful of women resembling a bachelorette party take up the dance floor. The bride's sash on the short one gives it away. The tables and bars are scarce with guests for a Saturday night.
What is going on?
Bodhi cuts off my thoughts while I fight the urge to leave, “Let’s grab a drink. There’s a free table right over there.” He points in the direction of the bar across the room where a couple of months ago, Dakota was all but begging to take me right then and there. I would have given in to her had I not been a colossal idiot.
Since the buzz of Sports Illustrated featuring the Strikers made public news, I’ve felt a shift in Dakota’s presence around me, one that I can’t ignore. She seems lighter. Like her pain feels smaller. I’m still hoping for the day she shows me more of who she is. I’ll be ready to give her my full attention and convince her to take a chance on us when that happens.
She needs someone who will choose her, and I hope I’ve done a good enough job of making my message clear: I’m not going anywhere. I wouldn’t say I’m opposed to begging, but I’m content with laying low in a corner while she mends the emotional obstacles holding her back.
I follow Bodhi as we grab our drinks and head to the farthest table. I settle on water for the night while Bodhi does as predicted and orders a beer to hold. He never drinks it; he stares and lets it turn warm.
Seated at the bar top table, I look towards Bodhi as he turns the heavy glass in his hands, “So what gives? You doing alright, man? It’s not like you to want to go out.” His stormy eyes look everywhere but at me. I’m not sure why; I’ve given him every reason to believe I can see right through the facade he wears so well.
“I don’t know anymore, Cal. I feel numb. Numb to it all. Like, what’s the point of living if I have to wake up every day to this pain.”
I hate this for him.
There have been times when it seemed like he was handling the transition from prison better than expected. Bodhi has always been quiet and reserved, but I’ve seen exponential growth in how he can handle social environments. After his release two years ago, he was in a constant state of alert, and his movements were that of a mechanical shell of a man: always watching his back, never engaging unless necessary.
We’ve been in the game together since the beginning. At twenty-six, Bodhi was arrested for drunk driving, causing serious bodily injury. He was sentenced with a third-degree felony and was fortunate enough only to spend two years behind bars. After his release, the uncertainty of him coming back to play for the Strikers was up in the air. Not only was the stress from being released hard to handle, but the fear of not knowing whether the one thing that matters most to you in this life will still be there—in his case, that’s baseball.
It took severe convincing and endless hearings with his probation officer for the league. Traveling out of the state as a convicted felon still on probation is a difficult hurdle to jump. Upon his release, after two years of serving, he was assigned an additional two years probation. However, luck seemed to be on his side because the league agreed to honor his eight-year contract with only a five-thousand-dollar fine.
Bodhi is one lucky son of a bitch.
However, the trauma from the accident and prison has done a number on his mental state. I’ve tried to be there for him the best I can, but I can’t help but think he feels alone. A loneliness I’m sure would feel consuming and screw with your head. That’s a step forward that he has to make for himself to let someone in and be open to it.
“Have you talked to her or seen her since your first hearing?”
From what I can recall, the last time Bodhi saw Gwendolyn was the day of the accident. A public defender told him that Gwen sustained substantial life-threatening injuries and left him with his imagination to figure out the rest. I’ve been hesitant to ask about the follow-up.
“I haven’t. My first year locked up, I wrote letters. It sounds fucking haunting, though, not knowing if you’re writing to a corpse or a living breathing human. I never heard back. She was my best friend, man. ”
I remember all the times Bodhi used to run his mouth about Gwen in a way that best friends banter. In the handful of times I met her before, she seemed cool. With pink hair, bright blue eyes, and a curvy figure—Bodhi has always appreciated curves.
I remember her having a wild and untamed personality, which seems so drastic in contrast to Bodhi’s personality, but I guess that’s what makes people work sometimes, that difference.
One time, she showed up to a home game our first year in the Major League, and she was wearing a flamboyant lightning bolt costume. Where does one find a lightning bolt costume? I have no idea. She couldn’t have cared less about the people staring, but Bodhi’s face lit up like a Christmas tree at the first sight of her. It’s still up in question if they ever wanted more from each other.
Now is not the time to ask that, so I stick with what’s fair ground. “Maybe you should go visit her, B. It might be good for you. It could give you some closure if anything.”
He looks at me hesitantly, “I think it’s a little late for that. Cal, I can still hear her blood-curdling screams. They torment me like a stone tied around my neck, dragging me down. How am I supposed to be able to handle seeing her if I can't even handle the sounds in my head?”
He’s been through so much. I want to take this weight from him and give him the fresh start he deserves. I, unfortunately, don’t have the power to do that, but I’ll help in any way I can.
“Why don’t you look into talking to someone? Someone in the professional sense. It might be a good place to start.”
I can see the relief leave his body once he hears I’m not pushing further on the topic of him visiting Gwen. He only knows she is healthy and safe from his sister, Penelope. Penelope is two years younger than Bodhi. After the accident and his imprisonment, Penelope stepped up and did everything to help care for Gwen while she recovered.
I know Bodhi has yet to ask her anything. He knows she is alive and well, so that must be enough for now.
He stares off in the distance, lost in thought. “Yeah, it might not be a bad idea. Listen, I think I’m gonna get out of here. I’ll call an Uber.”
I move to stand quickly but stop short as Bodhi holds a hand up, causing me to still as he pushes his chair in.
“Stay. I need to be alone. You’re a good dude, Hayes. I needed this, whether it seemed like it or not. I’ll see you at the house.”
His large frame saunters out the exit doors, leaving me alone.
I’m struggling to hold myself back from helping my friend. But I understand him wanting to be alone. Sometimes, fresh air and space help filter your thoughts.
I reach for my phone, planning on searching for psychologists in the Atlanta area who specialize in PTSD, when a loud feminine voice cuts through the club's noise before I can sit back down.
“Barman, pour me another.”
I hear more slurring than actual speaking, but I’d know that voice anywhere, which has my defenses rising.
“Ma’am, you’ve reached your limit. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”
Thankfully, he’s being respectful.
“Nope. I’ve got no one. I’m all aloneeeee.”
That’s my cue to get over there and see what's going on.
I turn quickly and swear to fucking God my heart breaks on the spot.
Dakota is seated alone at the bar, the upper half of her body thrown across the bar top with her arms and head dangling out in front of her. Her hair is messy, hanging lopsided out of what looks like what was once a ponytail, and she’s twiddling with a stir stick.
She’s drunk and alone. Fuck.
Who would let her come here alone? Where’s my sister?
My feet move accordingly, and I’m planted at her side in seconds. I feel the bartender look my way, shaking his head like he thinks I’m the douche who left her here.
“She’s all yours, man.” And to think, seconds ago, I thought he was being respectful.
I’ll let that slide this once. My anger is palpable. “How much did she have to drink?”
“ She is right here.” Dakota cuts in, waving an unbalanced arm before plopping it back on the bar top.
The bartender glances her way before darting his eyes back to me. “I lost count hours ago, man. She’s been here since four, ordering nothing but tequila shots.”
Jesus, Dakota.
I glance at my watch, checking the time; my anger doubles. It’s past nine, and she’s been sitting here alone drinking for the last five hours.
But why?
Dakota left the fields at lunchtime and didn’t return. Without thinking too far into it, I figured she was done for the day, but looking back, that wouldn’t make sense. Her job is photographing the team and our games; today’s game started at one with no sight of her.
Something must have happened. Or something has already happened, and she’s spiraling.
“Did you see anyone put anything in her drink?”
Say no. In that case, mercy will be extended to him. If he says yes, I will rampage .
My fists are clenched at my sides, ready to put a beating on his face.
He looks at me intently, “You see this place, man? Take a look around. Aside from that group of girls over there for hours, she’s been my only customer. She did that all on her own.”
Realizing there’s nothing I can do about what happened, I decide to take matters into my own hands. My priority is for her to get home safely.
I slowly lean my head down to hers, doing my best not to scare her. She looks almost asleep.
“Dakota, angel, where’s Navy? She didn’t come with you?” I ask her gently, caressing the hair that’s plastered to her beautiful face.
She’s woozy. “Big…interview…tomorrow. I’m fineeee.”
Her sudden snoring alerts me that she is indeed passed out. She’s tequila drunk and dead to the world. Fabulous .
I guess it’s time to be her keeper for the night.
I locate Dakota’s purse, throw some cash on the bar top for the inadequate and callous bartender and shrug my leather jacket off to offer her some privacy. Her mini pink sundress will be giving the dying crowd a show if she’s not covered. Within seconds, my jacket is covering her backside and I’ve got my girl thrown over my shoulder ready to take her home.
“Callaway? Why am I upside down? Your booty is so pretty!”
She’s drunk and still trying to get in my pants.
“It’s me, angel. I’ve got you. Gonna take you home now.”
I leave my Jeep here with plans to grab it tomorrow; I don’t want to leave her stranded. As I approach her truck, I lean against the side to grab the keys from her purse. Rounding the truck to the passenger side, I unlock the door and place Dakota’s body gently in the seat. As I’m setting her down, the hands that are now wrapped around my neck are gripping me tightly, causing my body to pause. Her soft body leans against mine like a goddamn tree. I need to alert my dick that this is not the time to notice how incredible her breasts feel against my chest.
Heavy breathing in my ear wakes up my senses. “You came. You said you’d always be here. I miss them so much.”
My heart is demolished. This beautiful, broken, and strong girl. It’s clear life has dealt her an unfortunate hand, yet she still manages to be the brightest one in any room—the one I can’t seem to shake.
I close the door gently before taking my place in the driver's seat.
Before taking off, I lift my hand to drag my thumb across the beautiful freckles on her nose, lost in thought about how to be intentional about my care for her.
“I know, baby. I know.”
I drive away cautiously, knowing the night is far from over.
I’m in too deep.