Chapter 13
Vanessa
Confession: I like baseball. The prospect of seeing the Mets play in Citi Field actually thrills me.
Today, however, I’m going to hate America’s favorite pastime.
There will be yawning. So much yawning. And complaining.
So much complaining. Sure, this is going to take some effort, but you better believe I’m up for the challenge.
As I wait for Jason outside the Jackie Robinson Rotunda—he’s taking the subway from Brooklyn—I watch the spectators shuffle past, laughing, bumping shoulders, and joking with one another.
Their excitement is palpable, and my only regret is that I can’t join in their enthusiasm. Not outwardly, at least.
A few minutes after arriving, I spot Jason separating from a crowd heading my way. He’s wearing a striped Mets jersey, a pair of loose faded jeans, and a brandless royal-blue baseball hat.
I chuckle as he approaches.
“What?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.
“I was just thinking that if we lose each other in there, it won’t be my fault.”
He looks down at his clothes. “Something wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Uh, you look like every other male here over the age of five.”
He shrugs, his grin widening. “This is the dress code. Period. Not my fault you didn’t get the memo.” Appraising my outfit, he grimaces. “Speaking of which…”
Now it’s my turn to look down at my clothes; they’re my accomplices, after all. “I wanted to dress the part, but they didn’t have any Mets gear at the sporting-goods store by my apartment.”
“So you wore a Phillies jersey? That team is their biggest rival.”
“Is it?” I ask innocently, knowing full well this getup could lead to a scuffle with a drunk fan.
“It is. Which means that if we end up in jail, it’ll be your fault.”
“You’d fight for me?” I say, batting my eyelashes.
“I’d fight with you. Prepare to throw down too.”
“Ah, chivalry isn’t dead; it’s just egalitarian.”
“Exactly. Besides, I have a funny feeling you’d hold your own in a fight. Ready to head in?”
“If we must.”
“C’mon, where’s your joy for experiencing new things? This’ll be fun.”
“I doubt it, but I promise to keep an open mind.”
“That,” he says, pointing at me and grinning. “That is definitely not keeping an open mind.”
He takes my hand, his fingers warm and strong, and we’re swallowed by the crowd of people entering the stadium. After making our way inside, he turns to me, “You hungry?”
“I can eat.”
“Good. There’s a burger at the Shake Shack with my name on it. How does that sound?”
“Oh, um, I’m not really in the mood for red meat. Hurts my tummy.”
He gives me a thoughtful nod. “I had a feeling you’d say something along those lines. They serve a ’Shroom Burger, though. It’s excellent. Fried portobello with gooey cheddar and Muenster on a potato bun.”
“Yikes. All that cheese. I’d definitely get the runs.”
He barks out a laugh. “Damn, just let it all hang out, why don’t you?”
“Well, you asked. Figured I could be real with you.”
“You’re right. I did ask. And I appreciate that you’re being real with me.”
Something about his tone makes me peer at his face, but he’s reading the menu for one of the concession stands in the concourse. I’m being paranoid. There’s no way he’s playing mind games. “You know what I’d love? A—”
“Salad.”
“How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Huh. I’m sure there’s a—” I freeze.
“What’s wrong?” he asks in an alarmed tone.
“They serve Nathan’s in here.”
“And?”
“And it’s only the best hot dog known to man.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want beef.”
Shit, he’s right. But these hot dogs are on another level, and I didn’t factor the possibility of having one when I made my plan to be annoyingly picky.
I’m physically incapable of passing by this stand.
To him, I say, “I can make an exception for Nathan’s.
For some reason they don’t hurt my stomach the way burgers do. ”
“How convenient,” he mutters.
“Oh, and the crinkle-cut fries that you have to stab with the red fork thingy. I’ll be in heaven. And truth be told, that Shake Shack line is out of control. We’d spend the whole game waiting to order.”
“Fine, let’s grab you and your fussy tummy a Nathan’s hot dog.”
“You’re getting one, too, right?”
“Absolutely. If I can’t get a burger from Shake Shack, a Nathan’s dog is the next best thing.”
Well, now I feel bad for depriving him of something he was looking forward to. But wait. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. Get it together, Vanessa. Take no prisoners.
With our ballpark snacks in hand, Jason and I meander to our seats at the end of a row behind first base.
It’s warm but not oppressively so, and the sun is hiding behind a swath of fluffy white clouds.
Because it’s a day game, kids seem to be carpeting the place wall to wall.
Mr. Met, the mascot with a ridiculously humongous baseball head, is high-fiving kids and dancing to the preopening music being blasted through the stadium’s speakers.
“These are great seats,” Jason says, his eyes on the Mets dugout as he opens a mustard packet and preps his hot dog. “Not too far. Not too close.”
“Too many rug rats, though,” I note.
“You don’t like children?” he asks, frowning before he takes a bite of his dog.
“As a concept, sure. In reality, eh, I could do without them. How about you?”
“I’m part of the Big Brothers program, and I can’t wait to be an uncle someday.”
“So kids are cool as long as you can return them to their rightful owners at the end of the day?”
“Exactly.”
“I like the way you think,” I say with a wink.
“We’re growing by leaps and bounds. I never would have imagined you saying that a week ago.”
“Honestly, same.” After taking a few bites of my hot dog, I ask, “Anyone you’re looking forward to seeing?”
He turns so I can see the back of his jersey.
“Lin-dor,” I read. “Is he good?”
Of course I know Francisco Lindor is good.
He’s an Afro Latine shortstop from Puerto Rico.
My father, who derisively calls him by his nickname, “Paquito,” was pissed when the Mets picked up Lindor because he knew his least-favorite team had scored big.
Fans booed Lindor during his first few appearances, and then he went on to hit three home runs in a single game during the 2021 Subway Series and just decimated the Yankees that night.
I watched that game at a sports bar in Chicago and became an instant fan, not that I’d ever mention any of this to Papi.
“He didn’t look great in the beginning, and the fans were rough on him, but he’s finally found his footing. Just watch him play. He brings the excitement this franchise needs.”
“Cool. Okay, so wake me when something interesting happens.”
“I’m starting to think this was a bad idea.”
“What?”
“Bringing you to the game. You’re not into it.”
“I wanted to see the stadium anyway. It’s on my bucket list of things I should do as a New Yorker. Don’t feel bad that I’m not super into it.”
“I don’t feel bad. I just think someone who’s a true fan could have used your ticket instead.”
With my jaw dropped, I whip my head to meet his gaze and find him staring at me, a smile dancing on his lips.
I stick out my tongue at him. “Fine. Point taken. I’ll be a better date from now on.”
“Is that what this is? Another date?”
“Definitely not a date if you’re asking.”
He leans in and lowers his voice. “Would you like it to be?”
I straighten in my seat, mentally brushing off the tremor that went through me when his breath feathered over my neck. “Is this a trick question?”
“No tricks,” he says, putting up his hands, the container of fries we decided to share resting precariously on his lap. “I’m just trying to get a sense of where your head is.”
“Okay, well, if that’s the case, this is probably the right time to tell you that I was in a relationship before I left Chicago and I’m not ready to jump into another one.
And you should also know that I tend to take things slow.
Really slow. If none of this has you running for the hills yet, then I’d like to hang out with you and see where it goes. How does that sound?”
He leans to the side and nudges me with his shoulder. “Sounds like we’re hanging out and seeing where it goes.”
Okay, if I’m being honest, the vibe between us is way too positive for my liking, but he gave me an opening and I took it.
Now I just need to focus on making a bad impression on him.
Somehow, I need to give him an inkling that everything isn’t what it seems. So I’ll bide my time and wait for the perfect opportunity to be messy. Which is always the fun part.
As luck would have it, that chance doesn’t take long to materialize.
In the fourth inning, third baseman Mark Vientos hits a foul ball into the stands.
By some miracle that calls back to my brief stint playing softball in college, I manage to dive past Jason and catch the ball with my bare hands. Motherfucker, that hurts.
“Holy shit!” Jason exclaims. “That. Just. Happened.”
“I can’t believe it!”
A few feet away, a young boy, probably seven or eight, looks at me with pleading eyes. Oh, there it is. Maybe I can slip the ball to the kid later, but for now, I know exactly what I need to do.
Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin.
Jason
“Sorry, kid,” Vanessa tells the little boy next to us. “I’m keeping this one for myself.”
“C’mon, you’re not even a fan of the game,” I tell her.
“But catching the ball awakened something in me.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Shaking my head, I drop into my seat. Stunned by Vanessa’s rudeness—he’s a kid, for God’s sake—I dart a glance at her face and catch her devilish smile before it slips away.
Malcriada. How could I forget that her little assignment is supposed to make her look bad so her sister will come out on top?
That’s the only explanation for her behavior that makes sense.
And if by some small chance she’s actually as heartless as she seems right now, well, then she deserves what’s coming to her.
I jump up and egg on the kid’s parents. “How rude is that? What’s this world coming to, am I right?”
“Yeah,” the mother says, puffing out her chest. “How could she do that to a child?”
Vanessa gulps, her face flushing. “I caught the ball. I’m allowed to keep it.”
“Boo,” I chant. “Boo.”
Waving my arms around, I motion for everyone to join me. Soon after, our entire section is booing Vanessa.
“I can’t believe you’re selling me out like this,” she cries, looking mortified and sinking in her seat.
“I’m not the one who didn’t give the ball to a”—I look over at the kid’s parents—“How old is he?”
“Seven!”
“A seven-year-old!” I say, and the crowd goes bananas. It doesn’t help that Vanessa’s wearing a Phillies jersey, which all but signals she’s the enemy.
Even Mr. Met gets in on the action, shaking his stubby index finger at her. Then he points at the Jumbotron, which is displaying Vanessa’s image with the word Spoilsport above her head.
“Hey, check it out!” I shout. “You’re up there!”
Vanessa looks at the Jumbotron and scrunches up her face. “Oh Jesus.”
With her head bowed, she hands the ball over to the kid, and the people in the stands throw up a wild cheer.
Laughing, I collapse into my seat. “That was the right thing to do. Don’t you feel better?”
“No,” she grumbles, crossing her arms.
Well, I feel better. But I hate—and I mean hate—that her antics somehow make her even more adorable to me.
No, Jason. Do not let her dazzle you. She’s a schemer.
And schemers can’t be trusted. I need to dish out as much bullshit as she does.
Sooner or later, Vanessa’s going to figure out she’s messing with the wrong man.