28. Chapter 28
Still thinking of her
Four days after I return from Pineapple Island, I step into the aisle of yet another plane with a Dallas Brewers duffle bag in my hand. I heft it and smile at the additional weight. With Juliette on my mind, I’d packed almost my entire underwear drawer for my three day trip to Dallas.
What if I pee my pants?
Her funny words and wide, sincere eyes flash through my brain as the petite flight attendant rushes to me.
“Mr. Swain, I hope I made your flight enjoyable,” she breathes, pressing a slip of paper into my hand. It’s no doubt her phone number because she’s been flirting shamelessly with me since I stepped onto the plane.
“It was fine,” I say in the most non-encouraging way possible as I turn my shoulders to edge past her and out the door. I cram the note into my shorts pocket to throw away later.
When I reach the baggage claim area, I spot my own name… on a Raptors jersey worn by a little kid who looks to be about five or six. Stepping up behind him and the man I assume is his father, I tap him on the shoulder.
“Hey, kid,” I say, and when he looks up, the expression on his little face is priceless.
“Y-you’re…. You’re…”
I squat and hold out my hand. “I’m Reno Swain.” He shakes it respectfully but his eyes are still taking in my face with wonder.
“I knooooow. I got your jersey on.” He spins to show me SWAIN printed across the shoulders.
Then he does an excited one-eighty jump back to the front.
“But I want a new one cuz you’re coming to the Brewers.
We gotta wait till Dad’s next paycheck though,” he babbles, obviously parroting something he’s heard the adults say.
Glancing up to his father, I see him shake his head and blush slightly. “We just heard the news yesterday, but I, umm, we’ll get him a new jersey soon.”
“You guys live in the area?” I ask.
“We do, though you’re Rocco’s favorite player,” the dad answers. “He’s been beside himself with excitement since the announcement was made that you’re coming to Dallas.”
Because I remember how it felt to want the newest sports jerseys when I was a kid—and not being able to afford them—I make up some shit on the fly.
“Since I’m going to be a Brewer now, the organization has asked me to hand out some jerseys to fans. They want people wearing number ninety-six to generate excitement. Would you do me a favor and wear my jersey around?”
The little boy nods with enthusiasm, and his father gently scolds, “Use your words, Rocco. He can’t hear your head rattle.” That makes me smile because Ma used to say the same thing to me.
“Yes, please,” the boy says dutifully, and his brown eyes flick down to my bag.
“I don’t have them yet, because they’ve got to get some new ones made. If it’s okay with your dad, I’ll get one in the mail to you.”
He glances up at his father with a pleading gaze, and the man rubs a hand across his dark hair. “That would be really nice. What do you say to Mr. Swain?”
“Thank you, Mr. Swain,” Rocco gushes, throwing his arms around my neck.
“You’re welcome, kiddo,” I tell him, patting his back. He smells like a combination of sugar and little boy sweat. “And just call me Reno because we’re buds now, right?” I release him and hold out my fist for a bump. Rocco obliges with a happy, snaggle-toothed grin .
“Best buds,” he clarifies.
“For sure,” I agree affably before standing and addressing his father. “Do you mind giving me your address and Rocco’s size so I can send you the jersey?”
He smiles and digs through his wallet to find an old receipt before pulling a pen from the pocket of his work shirt, which has the name of a sanitation company embroidered on the chest. He scrawls down the info and hands it to me, and I put it in the pocket of my shorts.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for this.” He lowers his voice. “Rocco’s mom has been sick…” The man looks away and blinks rapidly before lifting his chin and continuing. “Anyway, it’s been hard on him. On all of us. So thank you for taking the time to talk to him.”
“Hey, man,” I say with a chuckle, “I’m just glad to have at least one fan in this city.” My tone turns serious. “And I’m sorry about your wife. I hope everything will be okay.”
“She’s doing much better now, but it’s been a long road.”
“Do you have other children as well?” I ask, an idea coming to me.
“No, just our Rocco,” he says, running his hand through the messy curls on his son’s head. “We’re here to pick up my wife’s mom. She’s coming to help out while I’m at work.”
I glance back at the kid, who’s beaming up at me, and my heart melts a little. “Well, good luck with everything, and I’ll get a package sent out as soon as possible.”
“Thank you again,” the man says, his eyes abnormally damp. “We’re glad to have you in Dallas.”
We say our goodbyes, and I watch as they stride toward a woman in a floral dress who just entered the baggage area.
“Got a fan already?” I hear and turn to see Baylor Ward standing a couple feet from me. He’s a Black man with a goatee and shoulders the size of a semitruck.
“Hey, man,” I greet with a genuine smile. I’ve always liked Baylor, though he’s a force to reckon with on the ice. “That’s one fan in my column. Only a few million left to go.”
We do the whole bro-hug thing and he gestures toward my bag and attire. I’m wearing a hat and shirt with the Brewers’ red, white, and blue branding on it. “I see you got the stuff I sent.”
“Gotta represent,” I say with a laugh.
“Damn straight,” he replies firmly. “You got any checked bags?”
“Nope, just this,” I tell him, jiggling the duffle. “You care if I make a phone call to take care of the stuff for the kid right quick?”
“Nah, go ahead. I’m parked illegally, but the security guy out there is a fan, so he won’t let me get towed.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a piece of paper, confused when I see the note that’s obviously not from Rocco’s dad. Unless the man wants to do borderline illegal stuff to my cock.
“Shit,” I mutter, digging in my pocket to find the correct paper.
“What’s wrong?” Baylor asks.
“Note from a flight attendant.” He peers at it and his dark eyebrows shoot up.
“Goddamn. I don’t think that’s legal in Texas.”
I bark out a laugh and toss the note into the trash can. “Dude, I don’t think that’s legal anywhere.”
Baylor clocks the move. “Not your type?”
To be honest, I don’t even remember what the woman looked like. I shake my head. “Not interested. I’ve got a girl.”
Okay, the more correct statement would be that I’m obsessed with a girl that’s not technically mine, but potato, po-tah-to or whatever. I take a picture of the info Rocco’s father jotted down and shoot it off to my agent before giving her a call.
“Reno, my favorite client,” Carly Hanson answers merrily. “What did you just send me? Is this Rocco someone I need to put a hit out on?”
I laugh at her nonsense, though Carly’s a badass broad and could probably make that happen if I requested it. She’s a beast for her clients.
“It’s a kid I met in the airport. Family’s going through a hard time, but he’s a fan. ”
“Say no more. I’ll send a jersey, hat, and full swag package. Maybe a hoodie too. Kids like hoodies.” I can hear her clicking away on her computer.
“Thanks, Carls. You’re my favorite agent.”
“Of course I am. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure how Dallas handles their ticketing requests for players, but… hold on.” Baylor is nudging me with his elbow.
“Tell her to talk to Marjorie in Community Relations,” he says in a low voice.
“Baylor said to talk to Marjorie in Community Relations.”
“On it. I know Marj. I’ll get tickets to the season opener for the family. How many?”
“The mom is sick, so I don’t know if she’s well enough to attend, but there’s also a grandmother.”
“I’ll send six to be safe. The kid can bring some friends.” Then her voice turns shrewd. “Baylor Ward, I’m assuming?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Hmmm,” she muses. “I hear his agent is retiring this year. Put in a good word for me.”
I laugh. “Always a shark, aren’t you? I’ll talk to him.”
“Good man. If there’s any other way I can serve your every need, just call.
” Her tone is sarcastic, but that doesn’t make it less true.
Carly is so much more than an agent. She runs her own firm with a slew of employees that serve as personal assistants for her clients, making sure even the oddest requests are taken care of.
“That’s a nice thing you’re doing,” Baylor says once I disconnect the call. “By the way, what happened to your pinky finger?” He gestures to my still splinted digit.
Before I can think of a better excuse, I say, “Sex hammock incident.”
He chuckles. “I think we’re going to get along really well, Reno.”
Baylor wasn’t wrong. He and I are becoming fast friends.
He gave me a private tour of the arena, and then we had a catered lunch at the swanky private dining room there with the entire team and coaching staff.
Even the owner of the team made an appearance to welcome me.
The Brewers did everything short of rolling out the red carpet, and this sense of belonging begins to settle into my bones.
Now we’re back in Baylor’s big charcoal-gray truck, headed east as he gives me a rundown of the owner and his family. “Mr. Carmichael bought the team about eight years ago and changed the name to the Brewers. He and his family are in the beer business.”
“That explains the name change,” I comment. “And the outstanding bar.”
“They open that up on weekends, even when we don’t have games. A lot of the players go there to socialize, and management keeps the crowd small and low-key so we can relax. It’s like our own private lounge.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is. They usually let in some puck bunnies for the single guys, but they know to leave us married players alone. I can put the word out that you have a girlfriend so they know not to hit on you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that,” I reply.