Chapter 6 Cam #2
“I hate… this… he touched me…” His lower lip trembled. “Yelled my name…”
“Yeah, people think because we’re public figures, they can touch us without permission.” Someone jostled Jari. I barked at them. “We should move from this corner. Can you walk with me to a quiet place? I know a little collectables shop just down a side street.”
“Is it safe? People?”
“Very safe and very quiet in a room out back. They have a cat. Fat orange cat named Lionel.” I held out my hand, and he shook his head, glancing around him.
“I’m not…” he lowered his voice even more, “I’m not out, or anything.”
“It’s all good.” I could have said something about being friends, but he was clearly closeted, and hell, I know what that was like. I didn’t get the luxury of coming out until my career was well established. I hated that it was even a thing, but that was major league sports for you.
He was calmer by the time we arrived at All Bases Covered. Their big cat was lounging in the front window next to a display of signed baseballs and bats.
“That’s Lionel. He’ll sit on your lap if you like,” I said.
“I like cats,” Jari replied, his breath still choppy.
“Me too,” I said, then pushed through the old door, setting off a set of small bells over the door.
The collectibles store smelled of leather, wood, and cigars.
“I do signings here from time to time. The owners are huge baseball fans. Oh, hey, here’s Lionel.
” The ginger cat made one pass around Jari’s ankles.
Jari sighed long and hard, bending down to run his hand over the cat time and again.
“There’s a table and chairs around the corner.
Phil calls it the dugout, but it’s just a place to sit and talk baseball with other fans. ”
“Okay. Can Lionel come?”
“Lionel is a cat, so he does as he pleases, but we can invite him,” I said, then gently led him around a curio cabinet packed full of baseball cards.
“Here we go. Oh, hey, it’s Phil.” I waved my right hand at an older man sound asleep in one of the old recliners.
Lionel leaped up on Phil’s lap, startling the old gent out of his nap.
Phil righted his glasses on his wide nose.
“Jeez, Lionel!” Phil said.
“Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep,” I said with a smile. “This is my friend Jari. Can we sit here in the dugout with you for a little while? He’s got a headache starting.”
“Sure, sure, sit. I’ll go brew us some coffee.
Hey, I saw the game. You pitched well. Your slider is lethal,” Phil said and then pushed to his feet, disturbing the cat, grabbed his cane, and made his way to the back of the packed shop.
Jari took off his sunglasses and flopped into a ratty Barcalounger.
He melted into the worn chair, his eyes closing as he dug into the sleeve of his hoodie to find his watch and bracelets, stopping when Lionel jumped up on his lap with a purr.
I sat down on a battered stool, smiling at the softening of his expression. He seemed calmer now, thank goodness.
“Thanks for the lie,” Jari whispered. “That was… sorry you saw that.”
“Hey, no, don’t be sorry. We all have triggers that set us off. I’m just glad you’re feeling less anxious.” He nodded, his fingers stroking the long-haired cat rhythmically. “Kirby used to battle anxiety attacks when he was younger, so I’ve witnessed a lot of them.”
“Oh, that’s…” He stared at me with dark, dark eyes. Such stunning eyes. “Is he better now?”
“Yeah, lots. He’s on meds that work beautifully—combined with a great therapist. He’s married now, has kids, and has a booming career as a horror writer. He’s told me a few times that the monsters on his pages come from the dark times of his depression.”
“Yeah, I can so see that. My head is… well, there’s some shit in it.” He dropped his gaze back to the cat.
“We all have that shit in our heads,” I affirmed, tapping my temple as his attention darted to me once more.
“You should see the lists I run through before a game, or before I go to bed, or while I’m taking a shower.
What to wear, what my workout routine will be, what color socks I’ll wear to the ballpark, because that is incredibly important. ”
He nodded. “Sock color determines if you have a good game or not. It’s been scientifically proven with at least one clinical study.
” The tone of his voice was lighter now, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a tiny gleam of amusement in his pretty eyes.
“Conducted in Ottawa on no less than forty hockey players.”
I laughed, and his mouth curled into a shy smile. “Overseen by forty baseball players. I only wear purple to the ballpark.”
“I wear socks with smiling yellow suns.”
Phil appeared then, grunting as he lowered himself into his favorite chair.
“You two talking about game day superstitions?” We both nodded while the gurgle of the coffee pot floated into the shop.
“Every player has them. Even the great ones.” Phil glanced over at Jari.
“You know the story about the 1894 Orioles?” Jari shook his head, his cheeks now a healthy pink, his breathing calm.
“Seems every member of that roster drank a glass of turkey gravy before batting practice.” Jari made a face that cracked me up.
“Then there are those pitchers who like to write symbols in the dirt of the pitching mound.”
“Not me,” I was quick to clarify. “I have a no-talking-to-me-if-I’m-throwing-a-no-hitter belief, in case the words spoken to me will jinx me,” I chimed up while the shop filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.
“I won’t use a stick that’s not taped right. I need a candy cane wrap,” Jari said, his cheeks glowing red. It looked amazing on him.
“There’s the one about Willie Stargell…” Phil said as I stared at Jari with open admiration. He glanced at me from Phil, deep into his story about a great Pirates player, and mouthed a silent “Thank You.”
Yeah, I was willing to sit here all day surrounded by moldy cards, cracked catcher’s mitts, and funky-smelling cleats as long as Jari was sitting here, calm and relaxed, with me.