Chapter 23
Dominic
The rain is still coming down hard when we find Rodríguez Autos, a small lot wedged between a pharmacy and a taqueria two blocks from the hotel.
The streets are flooded at the edges, water rushing along the curbs and pooling in every dip and pothole.
A hand-painted sign hangs over the office door, barely visible through the downpour, and a dozen cars sit on the asphalt in neat rows, headlights reflecting off the wet pavement.
A guy in his fifties is waiting inside the small office, watching us through the rain-streaked window. He steps out under the overhang when he sees us coming, breaking into a grin that looks exactly like his brother’s.
“?Los amigos de Miguel!” he calls out over the sound of the rain hammering the awning.
Brooke steps forward and launches into Spanish, both of them half-shouting to be heard. I stand there understanding maybe every fifth word, rain dripping off my jacket and soaking through my jeans. Then the guy, who introduces himself as Javier, waves us into the office to get out of the weather.
Inside, it’s warm and smells like coffee and Javier gestures through the window toward a white Nissan sedan that looks older but well-maintained.
“He says this is his most reliable car,” Brooke translates, pushing wet hair off her face. “Good tires, new brakes. And he has a cousin who works at a lot near the Mexico City airport, so we can drop the car there when we’re done and his cousin will drive it back.”
“How much?” I ask, pulling out the pesos I’d exchanged at the airport back in Seattle.
More Spanish. Javier holds up his hands and says something that makes Brooke laugh.
“He says for friends of Miguel, five thousand pesos.”
I count out eight thousand and hand it over. “Tell him to keep the rest, and we really appreciate him opening up this early for us. Especially in this weather.”
Javier’s eyebrows shoot up when he counts the bills, and he clasps my hand in both of his. Then he shifts into what sounds like a different mode entirely, more serious, gesturing toward the mountains as he talks. His expression is grave now, none of the easy warmth from before.
“He’s giving us road advice,” Brooke says, listening carefully. “The highway through the Sierra Madre is dangerous in weather like this. The curves are sharp, especially near the pass at El Palmito. The guardrails are, and I quote, ‘suggestions.’” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Comforting.”
Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, as if to punctuate the point. Javier keeps going, and Brooke nods along, her eyes narrowed in concentration, then Javier says something while gesturing at me.
Brooke laughs. “He says good luck, and drive safe, and he’ll be watching the fight on Saturday.”
“Tell him I’ll make sure it’s worth watching.”
She translates, and Javier nods approvingly. He hands the keys to Brooke, who immediately holds them out to me. “You’re driving, I assume?”
I lead the way out of the office and toward the car. “I don’t do passenger seat.”
“Control freak,” she laughs, walking around to the other side of the car without waiting for a response.
We load our bags, and I slide behind the wheel and adjust the seat back to make room for my legs. Rain pounds the roof so loud it’s hard to think. The engine coughs once, then catches and settles into a steady rumble that sounds healthier than the car’s exterior suggests.
Brooke unfolds the map Javier gave us in case we lose reception, and spreads it across her lap, tracing the route with one finger. “Highway 24 south to Durango, then 40 east, then 45 south into the city. He marked a few gas stations along the way. Really nice guy.”
“How far to the pass?”
“About two hours, if the roads are clear. Which they won’t be.” She folds the map loosely and tucks it into the door pocket. “The mountains are the hard part. Once we’re through the sierra, it should be easier. Assuming we make it through the sierra.”
I flip on the wipers and crank them to high. They beat frantically against the windshield, barely keeping up with the rain. Somewhere on the other side of those mountains, Roman is waking up in a Mexico City hotel room.
The team is already at the venue, probably, running through logistics, making sure everything is ready for the weigh-in.
Three years of work comes down to the next forty-eight hours, and right now I’m hours away in a borrowed Nissan with an engine that coughs on ignition and a prayer that we don’t drive off a cliff.
I glance over at her. She looks tired but alert, her damp hair pulled back and no makeup, wearing the same sweater from last night.
And it occurs to me, watching her settle into the passenger seat and squint at the map, that I’m actually glad she’s here.
More than glad. That if I had to be stranded anywhere, with anyone, there’s no one I’d rather have beside me than Brooke Bennett.
Which is a strange thing to think about someone I’ve hated for most of my adult life.
She catches me looking and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I put the car in drive and pull out onto the flooded street, tires cutting through inches of standing water. “Let’s go.”
The wipers beat a frantic rhythm as we head south, and the mountains disappear into the clouds ahead.
“Not a chance in hell,” Brooke says, laughing.
“Come on, you really don’t think the Mariners can make a run?” I keep my eyes on the road as we wind through another series of switchbacks, the Honda hugging the curves. “Julio’s finally putting it together, and the bullpen actually looks solid for once.”
The rain eased somewhere around the first hour, thankfully, settling into a steady drizzle that the wipers handle without complaint. Though the clouds are still heavy overhead, threatening to shift at any time.
“You sound exactly like my father. Every single year, he’s convinced this is the year. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one, Brooke.’” She affects a deeper voice, imitating him. “Twenty-one years of playoff drought, and he said that every single April.”
“And yet you keep watching.”
“Of course I keep watching. I’m not a quitter, plus my parents would disown me.” She laughs.
“You know, I’ve always admired that about you,” I say. The road straightens out for a stretch and I glance over to find her eyebrows raised. “Don’t look so shocked. I mean it.”
“I just can’t believe you’re giving me a genuine compliment. Unprompted. Without any insults attached.” She presses a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “This trip really is something.”
“Yeah well, what happens in Mexico.” I shrug, keeping my tone light even though I mean every word. “And I do think you’re probably the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. Especially with your career. You decided what you wanted and you went after it, and nothing got in your way.”
“Thanks,” she says, and the teasing drops out of her voice for a moment. “It wasn’t always easy, but I don’t think I’d trade it for anything. Sometimes I still have to pinch myself that the dream I had as a little kid actually came true. That I get to do this for a living.”
As the road climbs higher I find myself smiling at the thought of Brooke as a kid, scribbling in notebooks and dreaming of press passes and bylines.
“Did you ever see yourself doing anything else?” I ask, navigating around a tight curve. “Or was it always journalism, no backup plan?”
“Always journalism, no backup plan.” She shifts in her seat, tucking one leg underneath her.
“I think when my dad took me to my first Mariners game I was hooked. I saw the reporters in the press box and the way they got to be right there in the middle of everything. Then he took me to a NASCAR race in Portland and I watched the pit reporters working and thought, okay, this is what I want to do with my life.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight, maybe nine.” She laughs at the memory. “I made my dad buy me a little tape recorder and I’d interview my stuffed animals about their athletic careers. Very serious stuff. Mr. Bear’s thoughts on his upcoming boxing match against Captain Elephant.”
I snort, picturing it. “Please tell me those tapes still exist somewhere.”
“Probably, but under lock and seal. But anyway, I had to narrow down eventually, pick my niches within sports, figure out what I actually wanted to cover. I just loved the camaraderie, the competition, being able to get the inside story that nobody else had. When I was little I wanted to talk to everyone who’d accomplished something incredible, and now I actually get to do that.
I get paid to ask questions and tell stories.
” She pauses, her voice shifting. “Though at the same time...”
I glance over at her, waiting.
“Sometimes I think I’d like to slow down a bit,” she says, looking out the window at the pine trees flashing past. “Not quit, nothing like that, just...”
I laugh. “Too much of a workaholic to even consider retirement?”
“You and I are both completely incapable of sitting still, so you don’t get to judge me.
” She chuckles. “But one day I’d like to step back from the straight-up reporting.
I’d miss the thrill of it, chasing down a story, getting the scoop.
But having been in the business this long, I see stuff that I’d like a hand in changing.
Improving things for newer reporters, for women coming into this industry who maybe won’t have to deal with the shit I did. ”
“I can imagine,” I say, memories surfacing that I haven’t thought about in years. “Just based on how you got treated back in high school covering our matches for the paper, I’m guessing it only got worse from there.”
“Hmph.” She makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh.
“Yeah, well. It definitely got harder. More money involved, more egos, more guys who thought a female reporter in the locker room was either a joke or an invitation.” She’s quiet for a moment.
“Though I gotta say, I always kind of appreciated when you told them to back off, back in high school. Anytime guys were being assholes to me at those matches, you’d get in their faces about it. ”
I laugh, shaking my head. “If I recall correctly, anytime I tried to step in you told me to fuck off because you could handle your own shit. Which to be fair, you could. I still remember Benny Kowalski’s face when you kneed him in the balls after he snatched your press pass and held it over your head. ”
“Well that was a shining moment of mine. God, it felt good.” She laughs. “And yeah, I did appreciate you stepping up. I just couldn’t let you know that. Had to keep up appearances, you know? Maintain the whole hating-you thing.”
“Of course, we wouldn’t have wanted anyone thinking we actually gave a shit about each other.”
“Exactly. Very bad for brand consistency.” She catches my eye and something passes between us, an acknowledgment of all those years we spent pretending, all the energy we wasted on a war that maybe didn’t need to be fought quite so hard.
Or fought at all. “For what it’s worth, I appreciated it more than I let on.
You were one of the only guys who ever said anything. ”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, keeping my eyes on the road as we climb higher into the mountains. The pine trees are thicker up here, the air cooler even inside the car. Somewhere ahead of us, Mexico City is waiting. Roman’s title shot. The next chapter of everything.
But right now, in this car, with twenty-five years of history finally settling into something that feels almost like peace, I’m in no rush to get there.