Chapter Eighteen Alex #3
I screamed. Screamed like a little girl seeing her favorite boy band on stage.
Even Joe had to pull me away from the balcony and calm me down.
My entire body thrummed with an otherworldly energy that I wanted to harness—to saddle it right on Rome’s lap and make him the most satisfied man to have ever walked the earth.
Fuck, the things I wanted to do to him, as if his running and sliding had physically charged my libido.
I had to adjust myself and took a long pull of my drink to douse the building fire.
“Seven and seven,” Joe said as he took up his drink.
Took me a second, but when I did, I giggled like a fool. I thought he was talking about our drinks, and I suppose he was, but that was now the score.
“You know,” I said, “if I were a superstitious fella…”
We laughed but returned our attention to the field. There was still a game, after all.
A batter named Marco came next, who popped a fly out to the center fielder.
Easy out, which now made two. Moore, the next batter, singled on a line drive to center field.
Singh made it to third. We made a substitution for the next hitter while the Lone Stars changed practically the entire field.
Joe attempted to explain it to me, each fact sailing through me.
They cycled their basemen, shortstop, and pitchers.
And it worked, unfortunately. Their changes did the trick, and the top of the eighth ended after our batter struck out.
But hot damn—I had been charged up and ready to explode as if someone had injected me with a year’s supply of caffeine.
I heard the announcer say that the Riders had come back from the grave with that inning, and I couldn’t have agreed more.
Austin scored only a single run at the bottom fo the eighth, putting them ahead by one. The score was now eight to seven. We needed to pull ahead now or it was bye-bye clincher until the next game, or whenever the sports mathematicians worked their magic numbers.
Martinez was up first. Pop fly. Easy out. Only a slight crush to the mood.
Kaminski singled on a line drive to center field. Turner was up next and he struck out.
“Two outs,” I whispered to myself. Kaminski was still on first.
“Come on, Rome,” Joe said. We were still on our feet.
I sang his walk-up song even though the stadium didn’t play it for him. A smattering of Riders fans in the crowd clapped and I giggled at the fact that they could hear me.
So did someone else. Rome looked up at our balcony as he strode on confident legs to the plate. He pounded his fist against his heart twice, then pointed directly at the balcony.
At me.
Joe looked over with his brow raised. “My cousin has never done that before,” he said. “Ever.”
My mouth had dropped open. I didn’t know how to respond to that.
Rome smashed a home-fucking-run. That ball sailed deep into the back bleachers and my mind told me it went far beyond into the aether.
Joe howled wildly while I simply stood in stunned amazement.
He had to shake me from my stupor until I unhitched my lovesick brain and realized that Rome just scored us two runs , putting us up by one.
The stadium had gone deadly quiet, except for the New England suite blaring with enough noise to wake the dead.
The next batter struck out. We closed the top of the ninth with a score of nine to eight.
The bottom of the ninth passed in a snap-quick blur. Strikeout. Flyout. Someone walked. And then, finally, the third strikeout.
The Riders won. They clinched a postseason spot.
The Texas heat, the 7 & 7, the adoration I felt for Rome, the desire—the need —to take him to heaven and back, all culminated in a single, profound moment that hit me like a fastball to the head.
I think I’m in love .
?
I kept my interaction with Rome brief. We had no privacy, so a bear of a hug was the most sufficient means of conveying my joy and his appreciation.
Joe coughed politely into his fist when Rome refused to let go of me.
He smelled like sweat, his neck sticky from his time in the heat.
I wanted to crawl under his uniform and consume any and everything he could give me. I needed to…
Another cough. I pulled away from Rome and held him by the shoulders.
“You’re taking the flight back with your team.
” Rome started to refuse and I talked over him.
“No way, Rome. You guys earned this win and I have no doubt they want to celebrate on the flight home. I can’t pull you away from that. ”
Rome’s eyes dashed over to Joe, then to me. “Are you sure?”
I smiled. He put up only a perfunctory fight.
“Of course I am. Joe said he’ll take the jet to keep me company.
” A zing of giddiness ran through me. Joe and I had planned ahead for this after the Riders won.
We both knew Rome would want to stay with his teammates but feel obligated to fly with me since he already said he would.
It gave us the perfect opportunity to concentrate on the foundation.
We left Rome to his celebrations with the team. My mind briefly started to calculate the hour we’d arrive home, then promptly shut down when I took into account my appointments for the day.
You can’t juggle all three , I realized as Joe and I climbed into the town car.
Growing my relationship with Rome. Growing my business.
Growing the seeds of a charity foundation.
I’d have to drop one of them to let the other two survive.
Rome would remain on the table—I knew that to be true as much as I knew how damned hot Texas could be.
That left me with the excitement of this foundation and the hobby that had been lucrative enough for me to earn a living.
I loved photography. I loved the elation of my clients when they saw their pictures.
I loved the hours and the randomness, how I didn’t have to log in from nine to five at a cubicle.
But knowing what we were going to do for Danny and Paola would be extended to others in need? That hit me in a spot I hadn’t felt since the doctors declared me cancer free twenty years ago.
What if things go south with Rome? a voice asked me. And you’ve abandoned your photography business to focus on a foundation you’ll never be a part of?
Did I trust Joe enough to broach this topic? I thought it’d be best to get it out of the way during the nascent stages of these efforts. How would I even bring this up? “Hey Joe, what if your cousin dumps me and I’m broke since I shit-canned all my clients?”
You’re overthinking it , a new voice revealed to me. Sanity. Logic. It’s still too early. You haven’t shut down Alex Edwards Photography. Yet .
And so we chatted for three hours during the four-hour flight.
Joe had his laptop out and built half of a business plan for the as-of-yet unnamed charity foundation.
I arrived back at Rome’s before he did. Gentleman that he was, he didn’t wake me when he crawled into bed.
He did, however, draw the blackout curtains shut so the morning light didn’t wake us.
We slept until noon and pleasured each other until we went numb. All I could think about was how much more I wanted from him and with him. The excitement that we could build something that lasted was enough to give me confidence. To shut out the doubt. To shut out worries.
To grow my love for Rome.