Chapter Twenty-Two. Knock It Out of the Ballpark
Chapter Twenty-Two
Knock It Out of the Ballpark
Sunlight streams in through thin curtains, basking the room in a bright morning glow.
I flip over in an attempt to block the light and snuggle closer to the pillow I’m wrapped around, enjoying the warmth radiating off it. I bury my face deeper and breathe in its leathery scent as it snakes an arm around me.
My critical thinking skills are clouded by sleep deprivation, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out a pillow doesn’t have arms. Or smell like TOM FORD cologne.
Shit.
My eyes shoot open, and I confirm my worst fear. My body is tangled up with Felix’s. One of his toned arms is draped over the curve of my waist, and my head rests on the other.
I carefully unravel the knot of limbs we’re tied in and slide out of his embrace.
Holding up the arm that was laid across me, I reach for a pillow to act as a stand-in for my body, but he’s using the only one on the bed.
The others are strewn across the floor. Ginger has claimed two and is peacefully snoozing on them.
I bunch up the comforter to create a somewhat Natalie-shaped lump. Felix instantly pulls it closer and snuggles up. The small, sleepy curve of his lips; his thumb reflexively stroking the material as if it were my skin; and messy, platinum hair splayed on his pillow cause my heart rate to speed up.
I lean over and run fingers through his bed head. I wish I could excuse it as another instance of my hand moving of its own volition, but I’m fully aware of what I’m doing.
From a distance, Felix’s hair looks healthy and sleek, but it’s actually straw-like and full of split ends. When I withdraw, a sizable clump dislodges. My nose crinkles in disbelief.
“It’s the bleach.”
I startle when he speaks. He does a catlike stretch and yawns.
“It’s quite damaging. Especially since my roots have to be re-bleached every month.
” His words are thick with sleep, and his deep, gravelly voice sends sensation rushing through my body.
My mind wanders to many places, and none of them are the friendzone. Not even friendzone-adjacent.
I bite the inside of my cheek to ground myself. “Mm, right. That sucks,” I choke out.
The look he flashes is somewhere between flirtatious and amused. I start to wonder if he’s thinking the same things I am but force myself to stop. That’s a dangerous question.
“I should go,” I croak.
He wets his lips, which is decidedly unhelpful. “Alrighty. See ya.”
I awkwardly set his strands of hair on the sheet, clamber out of bed, and haphazardly stuff my feet into my shoes like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters. I grab my backpack, put Ginger’s leash on, then beeline for the door.
To my horror, when I open it, I’m greeted by the sight of DAYDREAM’s manager and the other band members.
Necktie’s in the middle, his fist raised like he’s about to knock.
Behind him, Will’s and Mateo’s eyes bug out, slack-jawed; Calum laughs; and Lachlan’s forehead puckers in a tight frown, his lips thinned into a hard line.
Shit! I slam the door shut and flip the dead bolt, heart thundering.
“Your manager’s here!” I whisper-yell to Felix.
He jumps out of bed, mirroring Will’s and Mateo’s flabbergasted expressions. “Bugger,” he mutters. He pulls on a pink DAYDREAM-branded hoodie and walks over; his ears and cheeks burn red. “Deep breaths. I’ll fix this.”
I anxiously pet Ginger’s head as he slides past me and opens the door.
Fire burns in Necktie’s eyes. “What the hell is this?! You little— —” His speech quiets to an enraged murmur. He takes a step forward, but Felix shields me.
“It’s not what it looks like—” Felix starts.
“You’re out of here!” Necktie bites, pointing an accusatory finger at me.
“Her reservation was given away when someone didn’t check in for her,” Felix says, firmer this time.
“Don’t you dare blame me for this!” Necktie scoffs. “It’s not my job to handle your groupie. This is unacceptable! I want her gone!”
“What was she supposed to do? Sleep in the lobby?” Will chimes in.
Felix makes a cutting motion by his neck, urging Will to save himself. “Nat didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.
Steam practically comes out of Necktie’s ears. He knows he’s in the wrong. He shoots his signature daggers at me. “I’m watching you closer than a damn sniper, girlie. If anything like this happens again, you’re on the next flight home.”
“I am so back, baby!” Calum whoops as the band, staffers, and I are led outside one of Fenway Park’s concourses, toward a sprawling baseball field. He squeezes his eyes shut, inhales dramatically, and exclaims on the exhale, “Smells like home!”
The other boys laugh as he runs ahead and onto the field, where he does a slow turn, drinking in his home stadium.
He’s in a navy blue Red Sox jersey, his shaggy dark brown curls tucked under a white baseball cap with a stylized, embroidered “B” on the front.
Some of the people starting to filter in cheer for him from the stands.
I’ve never seen him this pumped, with energy practically radiating off him. The only moment that comes close was when he was headbanging in The Apache Café.
His unbridled joy is brought to a screeching halt when Necktie barks, “Get back here! We need shots of all of you walking on-field.”
When he begrudgingly returns, three crews set up centerfield. DAYDREAM’s tour photographer and someone filming on a GoPro for the music video, the Red Sox PR team, and a local news station. More reporters are staged on the sidelines.
Someone comes out from the concourse and greets the boys with a firm handshake.
They’re in a charcoal suit, their gray hair thinning.
“I’m— —club PR manager. It’s wonderful— —meet you!
” They hand each member a custom white jersey with their last names printed on the back in bold red letters, then turn to Calum.
“We’re honored you’re throwing— —first pitch today.
” They give him another jersey, but this one is covered in signatures.
He’s like a kid on Christmas morning. “No, I’m honored!” he says, clutching the jersey protectively.
Necktie signals for the boys to go onto the field, so they slip the jerseys over their heads and Bhavani tidies their hair.
“Can you hang on to this for me? Please?” Calum asks, signing the last word. He hands me his autographed jersey.
As DAYDREAM walks onto the field, photographers and the camera crews get pictures and videos from all angles.
The crowd has nearly doubled in a few short minutes, and the stadium roars to life as the boys wave, their blown-up selves displayed on the Jumbotron.
I see signs in the stands that remind me of their concert—CALUM > A GRAND SLAM and BOSTON ’S DAYDREAM!
—and folks wearing DAYDREAM merch. I wonder how many people are here because of them versus to watch the game.
The boys film their own clips for the music video on GoPros before the players join them centerfield and take pictures. The whole time Calum is grinning so widely his face might start cramping. He’s really in his element.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mon, July 15, 1:09 PM
[Pretty Boy ]
U can head to our seats! We’re gonna be down here for a bit w all the interveiws & national anthem
X
When I look up, Felix is smiling at me while they’re being interviewed by a news station. I give him a thumbs-up, and a stadium employee guides me to our seats, which are in one of the private suites.
It reminds me of a Green Room, with its leather armchairs, beverage station, and TV broadcasting a live feed of the field.
The walls are also literally green. Ginger lies on the carpet, and I take off her pink doggy headsets since it’s much quieter here.
I leave her and go sit on one of the barstools in an open-air part of the room.
From here, I have the perfect view of the boys down below, the swarms of people in the stands, and a huge green wall across the field with a manual scoreboard.
I grab some water and take my own pictures—mostly selfies to send to Jo—but tune back in when the loudspeaker goes off. “Please welcome— —DREAM— —performing— —national anthem!”
The applause is nearly as thunderous as one of their shows, which is impressive given it’s an open-air stadium and half the crowd isn’t even cheering and seems confused by the uproar. I wonder if Ginger will need her headsets after all, but she’s twitching while she dreams.
The Jumbotron displays the boys in front of American flags waving in the breeze, and they have in-ear devices and hold microphones.
“The Star-Spangled Banner” instrumental plays.
I crank the volume on the in-suite monitor and turn on captions as Will starts the song off.
When it’s Felix’s turn, he’s given a solo shot on the screen.
His long hair flows in the wind, his pearly teeth visible as he sings.
“Whose bright stripes and … bright … stars through the treachero—er, perilous fight.”
I’m almost too distracted by how good he looks (and how funny seeing him against a backdrop of America’s flag is) to notice he’s flubbed the lyrics.
Rattled by his blunder, he incoherently mumbles in tune as he scrambles for the next few words. I instinctively sing the lyrics, trying to help him, but obviously it doesn’t do anything.
Disaster strikes when he freezes and completely stops, but the music keeps going. His mouth is ajar, his eyes wide, with the microphone still primed in the air. I can see panic flooding his face and a humiliated blush coloring his cheeks. I reel with secondhand embarrassment.
He’s saved, though, when another voice rings out. Picking up on the next line flawlessly, as if no lines were skipped, and during the hardest part, for that matter. “The rockets’ red glare”—pyrotechnics send streams of fire shooting up near the boys—“the bombs bursting in air”—fireworks explode.