Chapter Seventeen Alex
A FTER ALMOST SEVEN weeks of knowing Rome, I finally bit the bullet.
I googled his salary with the New England Riders.
Why? Well, he was currently in Austin and today was the last of four games with the Lone Stars.
He said that this could be “the one,” indicating the Riders clinching a spot in postseason.
And he wanted me to be there. How would I get there?
Our texts after last night’s game said it all.
Rome: I can’t express how important tomorrow’s game will be. I really, really, REALLY want you to be there. I’m sorry if you have something scheduled, but this is really important to me. Can you make it?
Me: Rome… you’re in Texas. I’m in Mass. I mean I can start looking at flights?
Rome: Never mind that. Do you have anything scheduled? Are you free?
Me: I’m free, yeah. But Rome…
Rome: Be at Logan at 8am.
Me: What? What flight are you looking at? I haven’t even looked it up yet.
Rome: I’m chartering a jet for you. It departs at 8am. You’ll get a call from the service I use. They can pick you up and drive you right to the tarmac.
Rome: Oh, also. There will be a surprise waiting in the jet.
Rome: Okay?
Rome: This is a really, really important game and nothing would make me happier than having you there.
Me: Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.
And I was. A black town car picked me up a little after seven in the morning and drove me all the way to Boston Logan Airport.
We bypassed security, bypassed everything, and practically drove onto the tarmac where the driver opened my door for me.
I stared up at a slick, white jet with red decals.
The door was still closed and I had a moment to appreciate the splendor while the driver unloaded my bags from the trunk.
Which was when I finally stepped over a privacy line (though it was public info) that I told myself not to.
I discovered that Romolo Moretti was one of the highest paid players in all of MLB.
Top twenty, to be exact. The top three made my eyes pop out of my head, which helped qualm the building storm as I scrolled to Number Sixteen of the New England Riders.
Thirty million dollars a year . I almost vomited. I knew he made good money, obviously. But thirty fucking million ? He could buy a jet with that kind of money. There was no need to charter one. Among so many other of his life choices.
Thirty million , I repeated to myself. That was just for the current year. How much had he made the year before, and the year before that? I could continue to research and tally it all up but, again, it felt like some strange invasion of privacy.
I hated that my mind went there, but I thought of Ricky. He had just started to turn the corner of pulling down a million a year. His life had been so removed from mine that I never really shared in the wealth and, as I thought of it, the man never showered me with any type of gifts.
The stair ramp to the jet lowered and a flight attendant popped out and waved at me to join her. The driver brought my bags up first and handed them to the flight attendant. Her name tag read CLAIRE, a tall woman with raven dark hair and ruby lips.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Edwards,” Claire said. Her voice had the slightest hint of a European accent I couldn’t put my finger on. “I’ve been instructed to have you make your way to the rear of the plane through the door. If you will?” she gestured with a perfectly manicured hand.
“Um. Thanks.”
I ambled through the plane, my eyes targeted luxurious, white leather seating with gold threading.
Only two rows of swiveling chairs lined the front, with a long and deep couch along both sides toward the back.
The air smelled faintly of men’s cologne.
I had a curious thought as I reached a sliding wooden door at the rear of the plane.
The ramp wasn’t lowered when I arrived , I thought. In the movies, the stairs were always down and waiting for people to walk up them. Did that mean the jet had just arrived ?
I slid the door open to a cozy bedroom big enough for a queen-sized bed.
Currently occupied by Romolo Moretti.
I threw myself at him. It had only been four days since I last saw him, a short span of time compared to the week and a half that we’d gone in the past. I crashed into him, dropping my body in his lap as he sat at the edge of the bed with a stupid, silly grin on his face.
Our lips pressed together fiercely, my body tingling and cock growing stiff as I gave into my baser lust. With his long legs, he booted the door closed for privacy and leaned back as I pressed atop him.
“Are you crazy?” I said as I did a push up to hover over him. “That had to have been a five-hour flight. You have a game tonight.”
“Four hours,” he corrected. “But five heading back. And yes, I am aware I have a game tonight.”
“You said it was so important. You should be resting.”
He pushed his head up to kiss me. I sucked at his lower lip and dropped my chest onto his. He rolled, hitched my thigh in one of his hands. My legs naturally tightened around his waist and I pressed our hardened cocks together.
“I slept on the way here and I’ll sleep on the way back out.” I started kissing him again but he pulled away and smiled. “But first, we need to take our seats so this thing can actually take off.”
I groaned and rolled off of Rome, who sprung to his feet. The bed smelled like him and I wanted to sink deeper into it, to let the sheets envelope me. I had begun associating that smell with safety. Something to protect me from harm.
Together we left the bedroom and took our seats.
I dropped down into a chair that hugged my body just right as the flight attendant provided me and Rome with a bottle of water.
I took a better gander now that I sat down and didn’t wonder about my circumstance.
There were gold-tinted chrome finishes everywhere.
If you sat in it, it was leather. If you put your hands on it, it was mahogany.
I wondered how much a charter like this cost—twenty, maybe thirty thousand?
A drop in the bucket for Rome’s fabulous wealth, but months and months of salary for me.
As the jet taxied, Rome reached over and placed a delicate kiss on my cheek. I turned my face to give him a better kiss, then dimmed my brow. “Aren’t you worried about…” I gestured vaguely toward the front of the craft where the flight attendant sat in her own seat.
He shrugged. “Trust me, she’s seen a lot more than a semi-closeted pro athlete lovin’ up on his boyfriend.”
That word. “Loving.”
Rome realized it, too. His eyes went wide in shock, then came the hands to placate me.
“It’s okay,” I said and rubbed his leg. “I know what you meant.” The gesture didn’t appear to alleviate the bewilderment on his face, so I deftly changed the subject.
“So, explain to me why this game is such a big deal. Didn’t you guys always know this one would be how you make the playoffs? Uh, I mean, postseason?”
Relief played across his face as he settled into a more comfortable conversation topic. “Okay, there’s this special math that they do called ‘magic numbers’…”
My boyfriend regaled me with his recitation of how statisticians and mathematicians unlocked the secrets of the game to determine how and when a team would make postseason.
Thankfully, he didn’t quite understand the numbers involved and so talked around how the math worked rather than explain it directly.
I learned that they had a good idea of the importance of this upcoming game when they started the four-game series with Austin a few days ago.
He had wanted to invite me out earlier, but they needed to make extra sure.
Regardless, he still had the charter flight booked and waited to tell me about it.
He prattled on while I stewed over the fact that he had planned on flying me out but only told me the night before.
It did feel presumptuous and yes, I understood the importance of the game.
But would that ever end? I peered into the future as if I could divine it, allowing my mind to unfurl and give way to the fantasy of a long-term relationship with this man.
Would every postseason clinch require my presence?
Would I be expected to put my life and career on hold to be there for him?
And was I willing to do that?
I want to be there for him . That much I could assure myself. Irrespective of my career, of the money, of where I watched, yes, I wanted to be there for him during his most important moments.
But was that all I could bring to this relationship?
Simply being there for him? Would I sit back and let his incredible wealth subsume what meager earnings I made by comparison?
I couldn’t shower him with material things, objects of monetary value as, clearly, he could do for me. So what did I bring to him?
What does he see in me ? I absently wondered, as if, suddenly, I had no self-worth.
I was nothing more than a receptacle for Ricky.
A thing to be used for his pleasure at his designated time and discretion.
We never went out, never vacationed together.
In reality, we were merely fuck-buddies for years who occasionally confessed our love that never withstood the war-torn battlefield of our relationship.
“Alex?” Rome said and, I suspected, not for the first time. I broke from my reverie. I had been staring out the window as Boston fell away. “I lost you. I know, the math is weird to me, too, sometimes. If it makes you feel any better, I usually—”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you flew out to Austin?” I interrupted.
He looked confused, but only for a moment. “We weren’t one hundred percent on thinking this would be our clincher,” he told me. “There were a couple other factors. Other teams in the division that—”