11. Billy
ELEVEN
Billy
OCTO-BALL-FEST
“Dee’s havin’ an MVP-type season. Of course, he’s the heart of the team,” my dad is explaining over an ancient hibachi grill, holding a Sam Adams in one hand and pushing sausages around with a spatula in the other.
“But so is Dash. And the team plays mean. Like he does,” my friend Murphy is explaining to my father. A beer in one hand for him and a sausage dog in the other.
“A defensive end like Dash isn’t gonna win MVP. Even if he has thirty sacks. And a running back hasn’t won it in years. So you’re both wrong,” my other friend, Titus, says.
“Mark, whadda you think?” my dad asks my brother.
My brother takes a considered sip of his idiotic cup of sparkling apple cider. “I’m just happy to be out of the house. My wife is the real MVP.”
I roll my eyes at that even though he can’t see me. Guy sucks up to his wife even when she isn’t around. What’s that about?
“She comin’ with my grandkids?”
“Yeah, they’re already up in the box with Ma.”
Me and my pops, brother, and friends are doing what we’ve done for the last couple of decades. We’re tailgating in the Minuteman Stadium parking lot. We don’t have to anymore. I have a luxury box with full catering. But tradition is tradition. Especially when it comes to the Tommies.
“Billy, what are you so quiet ovah there for?”
“Sorry, Pops,” I say, like I’ve done something wrong by not running my mouth.
“He’s thinking about his special guest!” Murph says in a singsong voice. Murph is demonstrating the exact kind of behavior I was worried about when I invited Donna to this game.
“Hey, you be cool and you be nice—all right? All of you. Or I’ll get you kicked out of the friggin’ stadium, and you know I can.”
“Whoa, chill, bro. We’ll be nice to your girlfriend,” Titus says. He sounds very disappointed, which I do not like.
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a very important…neighbor.”
Now, you may think this is where Murph, Titus, my brother, and my dad would ask why I would invite a female neighbor to a Tomcats game. Even an important neighbor. And maybe question why this neighbor is so important and why I’m acting all nervous while I’m waiting for her to show up.
Except they’re men. So they ask no follow-up questions and return to debating the MVP and the successful season the Tommies are having so far.
“Hey, guys.” I turn to find Donna approaching and giving a nervous little wave. She’s looking adorable, with her Philly Lightning cap, hair in pigtails, filling out a Lightning jersey in a way that team does not deserve to have their jersey filled out. I never thought in a million years I’d enjoy seeing someone in that jersey, but there it is.
“Oh, hey. Everyone, this is Donna. Get your boos out now and get it over with.” The boys boo Donna and her Phillies jersey good-naturedly. Donna curtsies in her jersey, and my heart does a little flip. Damn, she’s cute.
The men all shake her hand and introduce themselves to her.
Then they return to the hibachi, but there’s a hush now, like they don’t know what to do with themselves. It’s not like women aren’t around sometimes during tailgates. Maybe no one quite as smoking hot as Donna. But maybe it’s the fact that there’s an enemy in our camp now and they don’t know what to say to her if they have to be nice.
Awkward silence was not the start I was hoping for.
I’m about to punch through this ice, but Donna is the first to speak up.
“Do you mind if I have one of these?” Donna points to one of the cans of Sam Adams.
“Knock yourself out,” Murph says, vaguely glancing at her face. I can tell he’s trying really hard not to acknowledge the lightning bolt on her hat or her shirt.
Donna smiles. “Thanks.” She takes out her keys, punctures the can, turns it on its side, cracks the tab open, and shotguns it.
I laugh, and the boys immediately take notice.
I don’t know who starts the chant, but soon every single guy, including me, is chanting, “Go! Go! Go!” We’re still Tommies, and she’s still a Lighter, but for one glorious shotgunning of a beer, we are all one.
Donna empties the can with a satisfied sigh, crushes it, and throws the can into a nearby barrel. We all clap, and the boys give her high fives. I couldn’t be prouder. The energy is much more relaxed now, and the conversation returns to its normal shouting.
“Where’s your mom?” Donna asks.
“Oh, she’s already up in our seats. ”
“Up, huh? Nosebleeds?”
I grin. “In a manner of speaking.”
I tell the guys we’re gonna bounce and bring her up to our seats. The look on Donna’s face as she takes in the private luxury box is pretty satisfying. We’ve got comfortable seats, an amazing spread of food and drinks, a huge, big-screen TV in the corner, and of course, a wide, direct view of the field.
“Billy…how can you afford this?”
I shrug. “I know a guy.” Of course, the guy I’m talking about now is the ticket guy for the Tomcats who took a whole pile of my money in exchange for the box. But she doesn’t need to know that. “Hey, I have another surprise for you.”
I point to the corner of the box where her oma and opa are sitting. Her oma and opa are dressed in full Philly Lightning gear, head to toe. I wasn’t expecting people who grew up in Germany to have adopted the Philly teams so wholeheartedly. I thought maybe they were just trying to support their granddaughter. But when the first words out of her opa’s mouth wasn’t Hello or even Guten Tag but “The Tomcats schtink !” I knew they were true-blue fans.
“What?! Oma? Opa? What are you doing here?” Donna’s voice is joyful, and it makes me so happy.
“Your kind und energetic gentleman friend Wilhelm flew us here,” her opa says.
“Surprise!” her oma says as they both get up to hug Donna. “Ooof. Püppchen , you need to eat more. Have a strudel. I brought some with me on the plane.”
Donna turns to stare at me, shaking her head. “Billy, how…?”
I shrug again, saying, “I know a guy.” Of course, this was the ticket guy at the airport who took a whole pile of my money in exchange for two tickets on a last-minute flight.
This is why I like having money. Being able to gather my friends and family together and give them an experience like this. And Donna. And her family. The whole knowing a guy thing used to be totally true. I got what I got through guile and charm. I’ve been able to do the things I do because I meet people at crazy parties, remember their names, and I save phone numbers. Donna doesn’t know I have a fuckton of money because I don’t broadcast it. I lease a Volvo. I still live in the same apartment building. But also because, as a rule, we didn’t get to know each other personally until recently.
But now I do want her to know me. The real me. And I don’t feel like the money is me. It’s just something that I have. But the guy I know who really makes things happen—that’s always been me.
“And who might this lovely young red-haired lady be? Billy, why haven’t you introduced me?” I get a loving smack up the backside of my head.
Here we go .
“Oh, hey, Ma.” I throw my arm around Ma and squeeze. “This here is Red, otherwise known as Donna Fischer.”
“What a pleasure to meet you, Donna Fischer. You are simply stunning and adorable with those pigtails, despite that god-awful hat and shirt!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Boston. I mean, O’Sullivan.” Just when I think Donna couldn’t get prettier, she blushes pink as a peach.
“So I guess this means Nolan lost the bet, huh?” Ma says, elbowing me. “What do we win?”
“Nothin’, Ma. It’s not like that.”
Ma puts her fists on her hips. Uh-oh. That is not a good sign. “Whaddya mean nothin’, young man?”
“Hey, Donna, why don’t you check on the spread. The drinks, everything’s all included. Go to town.”
“What are you doin’ tellin’ your date to check on the spread? What kind of animal did I raise? Go get her an appetizah, for cryin’ out loud.”
Donna, seeing that I need a save, helps me out. “I do prefer to peruse the catering table myself. Pleasure meeting you, Mrs. O’Sullivan.”
“You too, hon—such an absolute pleasure!” Ma says pleasantly to Donna as she leaves to check out the game-day buffet. Her smile drops, along with her tone, when she turns back to me. “Explain to me, William, who that full-figured young redhead is, whose grandparents you flew in from Philly, if she’s not your girlfriend.”
“She’s my neighbor.”
“Neighbor, huh? Is that like how they changed the word girlfriend to partner ? Is neighbor the new shawty? Is she your boo thang?”
“What? No. She lives in the apartment next door to me. Not my girlfriend or my partner. She’s teaching me how to date properly.”
“I’m sorry—what’s this?” My ma holds her hand up to cup her ear while leaning in and scrunching up her face. “She’s teaching you how to date, you say? But not actually dating you?”
“Yeah. She offered to help.”
“And why didn’t you come to me for advice? Huh? What am I, chopped livah? I don’t know how to date? I got your fathah to propose after two dates. Two.”
“What? Why would I ask you about something like this? You’re my mothah.”
This is how most of my conversations with my mother go. She never knows if I’m being serious, and I never know what she’s going on about. We love the hell out of each other; we just don’t speak the same language like me and my dad do.
“Exactly—because I’m your mothah! You’re supposed to come to me for everythin’.”
“Well, I didn’t come to you for this. ”
“Well, you’re crazy to pass on my advice for anythin’. One day my heart’ll give out and you’ll be sorry. I love ya more than anyone in the whole friggin’ universe will evah love ya, but you’re outta your damn mind.”
“Right back at ya, Ma.”
Meanwhile, I overhear my pops talking to Donna’s grandpa.
“I don’t know, Mister Opa.” I don’t think my dad gets that opa means grandfather. “The Lightning do have a good offense, but I think the Tommies can run on them and their defense is next level.” But my father is using his peacetime, give the other team a little credit voice. He doesn’t mean any of it. He thinks that every time the Tommies lose a game, it was a glitch in the matrix or the refs were paid off. I do appreciate the effort.
“You forget one thing, Herr O’Sullivan,” Donna’s oma chimes in.
“And what’s that, Missus Oma?” my dad says with a kind smile.
Donna’s grandma holds up a dainty finger to emphasize her point. “The Tomcats schtink .”
Christ Almighty .
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Maybe it would be better if the Lightning were way up. Then my family would just drink and eat and lose interest in the game. Except my dad. Or maybe it would be better if the Tomcats were crushing them, so my family would be even more generous to our misguided guests who chose an enormous loser to cheer for. But it’s tied at halftime. The tension is high in the box, so my friends go roaming around the stadium to stretch their legs.
“Do you want to go with them?” Donna asks.
“No,” I answer honestly. I take a seat next to her in the back row of the luxury box. “I’d rather sit here. This is where a guy would sit if he was on a date, right? Next to his girl. Not that I’m saying you’re my girl, but in this hypothetical educational scenario that is for my own edification, you are the girl. The woman. The female date.”
I say a lot of things in my head. Good one, hotshot! Keep going! You’re a fucking stud! But never, not once in my entire life, have I ever told myself to stop talking. But I’m telling my mouth to shut itself now. My mouth, having no experience with this, keeps on moving.
“But if the lesson is ovah, I guess we can just watch the game.”
“No, class is still in session, Mr. Boston.”
“Oh yeah? How’m I doin’?”
She looks around. My father is continuing his MVP argument from the parking lot with Donna’s opa, even allowing Opa to throw in a Philly player or two. Her oma is discussing “young people nowadays” with my ma while bouncing my niece and nephew on their laps.
“I’d say you’re doing pretty great, Mouth. The whole flying the grandparents out thing? Baller move. How did you do it?”
“Their phone number is on your fridge.” I shrug. “I took liberties. It’s what I do.”
She laughs. “It sure is, Mouth.” She sighs. “I needed this.”
I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
She shakes her head while staring out onto the field. “I haven’t been able to sleep very well since the séance.”
“Yeah. Right. That was intense. Hot, but intense.”
“You thought it was hot?” Donna looks slightly horrified.
“I meant cool. It was cool.” Donna’s face is telling me that is not the right word either. “I mean it had drip. Or rizz. Or whatever the kids are sayin’ nowadays. Anyway, we probably shouldn’t talk about it around my ma. Whether it was real or not. As a God-fearing Catholic she would excommunicate us. Lovingly, but completely.”
“Got it,” she says. “But you do understand it was real, right?”
Before I can respond to that, we’re interrupted by a lady’s voice. “Knock, knock. Mind if we come in?” Hannah Decker, owner of the Boston Tomcats, is standing at the doorway, flanked by members of her staff.
“It’s your joint—you can go wherevah you want.”
“Hello, Mr. Boston,” she says in the we meet again tone of an archenemy.
“Hello, Mrs. Decker.” She approaches us, and I get up to shake her hand. “Nice to see you. Give my best to your husband.”
“Please stop trolling him on X.”
“I’m pretty sure he loves it. This is Donna Fischer, my…neighbor.”
“Neighbor? So that’s what people are calling it nowadays. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fischer.”
“Likewise. Congrats on the season so far. I hear you have a winning record, even though your team stinks.” She cups her mouth and chants, “Lightning! Lightning!”
“Ahh, a Phillies fan. Yes, we’re five and one. You’d think that would get people to cut me some slack on social media…” Hannah raises a brow at me. I have indeed been critical of her moves in the past, especially one that concerned our former star quarterback who is now her husband.
“Hey, don’t look at me—I’m comin’ around. Dash has been an absolute beast. ”
“He has indeed. I hope I’m not bothering you, but I figured we could chat about our involvement with your venture.”
“Uh, yeah, of course. Donna, would you excuse us?”
“Of course. Pleasure meeting you, Ms. Decker.”
“Likewise.”
I pull Hannah aside. I can explain away a lot of stuff. Access to a luxury box. Access to an unlimited supply of costumes and props. Access to all the time in the world to play with her and fix up her house. But explaining why I would have business with an NFL franchise would be tough to pin on “knowing a guy.”
We talk about a sponsorship deal and having some of Hannah’s players at the Make-A-Wish event next month. This lady might think I’m a buffoon for trolling her and her husband, but she knows a good business move when she sees one.
We shake on it. “Sounds good. My people will be in touch with your people.”
Hannah turns to leave, then takes a step back and leans in, lowering her voice. “You know, Mr. Boston, since you’re always offering me unsolicited advice on social media, why don’t I offer you some too.”
“Go on.”
“Don’t wait to secure a deal. You have something good, someone that would make a strong team, then make it happen. Because if they’re a free agent, it’s incredibly easy to lose them to someone else.”
I nod. “I hear you.”
“Enjoy the second half, Mr. Boston.”
“Likewise. Go Tommies!”
“Go Tommies!” Mrs. Decker punches the air and exits with her staff.
I sit back down next to Donna.
“Hey,” Donna says. “What was she talking about? You’re doing business with them?”
“Oh, yeah, you know. Sports business and whatnot.”
She seems to buy that, but she’s looking at me funny. Like I’m a cute puppy or something.
The second half of the game starts. “You can head back down with your friends if you want,” she says to me.
“Nah. I’m where I want to be.” I look at Donna. Really look at her. And she looks at me. We aren’t pretending to be other people. We aren’t wearing costumes or pulling faces or covering how we feel. For a moment we’re just two people who have—whatever it is we have—between us.
I clear my throat. “So how am I doing, really? Decent date?”
“Yeah, it’s really good so far. So, if I were your girl…” She gives a little shrug. “What would you do next? ”
“Well, if you were my girl, you wouldn’t be wearing that godforsaken jersey.”
“Oh yeah?”
I nod, a cocky smirk on my face. “Yeah. You’d be wearing mine.”
Donna looks like she’s considering this real hard. She removes her jersey and tosses it onto the chair next to her. I take off mine and hand it to her, and she puts it on. We’re both wearing T-shirts underneath. We’ve taken our clothes off in front of each other in private so many times, but this feels different. There are other people around, family, but this feels way more intimate somehow.
“How do I look?” she asks, getting up and twirling around so I can see. It’s a custom jersey that my dad got me a long time ago that says O’Sullivan on the back. And it damn well just about takes my breath away to see Donna wearing my name.
“Stunning.”
She sits back down next to me and leans in. “That’s good. That’s real good, Billy. Girls like to hear things like that. So what else would you do?”
“Well, if you were mine, and since you’re wearing my jersey and my name, I’d lift up your chin here, like this.” I place my fingers under her chin.
“Mm-hmm.” Donna murmurs. “And then?” Her voice is breathy, her eyelids getting heavy.
“Then I’d kiss you. Like no one else was here. Like we were the only people in the world, even though we’re surrounded by family.”
And I lean in and do just that. I kiss her. And I don’t care if my family sees. I don’t care if her family sees. I don’t know what kind of explaining I’ll have to do later to justify kissing someone like this who is just “my neighbor.”
Because I’m done justifying not kissing her like this to myself. I need my lips on hers more than anything. More than I need my team to win or air to breathe.
As I’m kissing her, a great cheer erupts around us. We smile into our kisses, both of us thinking the same thing. That they’re cheering for us. But it turns out the Tomcats have scored a touchdown. The old Billy, the Billy of even a month ago, would be sad he missed it, wanting to high-five with his friends down by the railing.
But I’m not missing anything.
I feel right in the middle of the action.
Right where I want to be.