Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sean
TGIF
It’s been a long fucking week and I’m relieved as I hop in my SUV and check my voice mails and texts.
Nothing. I dial Ronnie’s number. Nothing.
Having her number doesn’t do me a hell of a lot of good because her phone is never turned on.
It’s one of those throwaway phones—a cheap one that doesn’t even have a camera.
She didn’t call this week in spite of her promise to and she and Jimmy are long gone from my house before I get home each night.
I haven’t been able to get home early to surprise them because our days are running long with preparation for Sunday’s game in L.A. .
It’s after six, but I shrug as I start the car up and pull out of the lot, calling up the shelter anyway. Garino answers. At least it’s someone, if not exactly the someone I’d been hoping to hear.
“How the hell are you, Garino?”
“Better than you, I imagine, or you wouldn’t be calling the shelter at this hour.”
I snort, but she’s right on target. “How’s Ronnie and Jimmy doing? I haven’t seen them lately.”
“I know. She gets a kick out of the notes you leave for her and Jimmy at the house. I think they’re enjoying dog sitting for you more than working at the animal shelter.”
“That right? Did she tell you she leaves me notes too? And cake. A different kind every day. I’ve been bringing them into the stadium to the guys. She’s famous on the team now as the cake lady. That delicious shit ought to be illegal.”
Garino cackles. “Yes, she’s enjoying that. Says she doesn’t feel as guilty taking all your money if she can spend some of it on cake and give it back to you—along with a little piece of her heart I imagine.”
That makes me take a sharp breath, but I steady myself. “That you talking or her?”
“That’s me and my wild romantic imagination. But I’m not wrong.”
“Then why doesn’t she call me?”
“She’s skittish. Uses the cost of phone calls as her excuse, but she’s afraid to step into another relationship where she’s dependent on someone. Especially a man like you.”
Sighing deep, because it’s my worst fear spoken out loud, I say, “That you talking or her?”
“What she said is that she don’t want to be no stinking Cinderella. First time I heard her lapse into bad grammar in ages.”
Tension tightens my chest. Not what I want to hear. Maybe I ought to let her go. At what point does wooing a woman turn into stalking?
Garino continues, “She likes the arrangement where Jimmy gets to see Dasher and not you—though he still asks for you, talks about you, brags about your trophies. Likes sitting at your shiny kitchen counter doing his homework while momma bakes you a cake. The domestic scene he paints warms my heart and I’ve suggested on more than one occasion that she ought to wait there for you to come home to give you a big welcome. She laughs at me.”
The picture sends waves of longing through me as I imagine coming home to her warm embrace and losing myself in those brilliant sapphire eyes.
“Wait a minute? You saying she bakes the cakes at my house every day? What time does she come over?”
There’s a beat of silence before Garino speaks in a defensive voice, “I let her go over as soon as Jimmy comes home around two. It’s slow then. Not like I need her. Besides you pay her better than I do.”
I laugh and hope flares. “Maybe I ought to hire her full time … to be my housekeeper and cook as well as dog sit.”
“Maybe you ought to take it easy. She would never go for it. She’s too smart.”
“Fine.” I know she’s right, but the idea is so enticing. The idea of coming home to Ronnie and Jimmy waiting in my kitchen with dinner to go with the cake on a regular basis—
“I have to go. Good luck with Sunday’s game.”
“Wait a minute—she’s supposed to stay over with Dasher because we’re leaving first thing in the morning to head for L.A. Did she say anything to you about it?”
“Sure. She probably left you a note.”
“Right. I’m not home yet.” Disappointment hits me. I was hoping to get her to stay over tonight since I’m leaving early.
Guess I won’t see her and Jimmy in the morning.
Ronnie is being too cautious to alow that.
Garino ends the call as I pull into my driveway.
When I get inside, I let Dasher out of her cage and at least she’s happy to see me.
Slipping my phone out while she follows me into the kitchen, I dial Ronnie’s number again. Nothing. Fuck.
Putting the phone down on the shiny kitchen counter of my island, the silence is oppressive.
Being alone at the end of the day doesn’t suit me, but my options are limited.
We have an early morning tomorrow but even so, I don’t feel like going out.
My other option would be calling someone to come over.
The last thing I feel like doing is inviting any of the women in my contact list over to keep me company. In the past, when I couldn’t stand the silence, that’s what I would do. Now I know better than to take the band-aid approach. Dasher jumps at my knees and I scoop her up.
Not even the pup’s eager companionship is enough. I’m fucking lonely. How pitiful. I need to fix that for real. With a real relationship. And God help me, but I have it in my head—no in my heart—that I want that relationship to be with Ronnie and Jimmy.
The consolation cake mocks me from the counter, sitting in a gorgeous glass domed cake dish like a precious treasure. There’s an envelope sitting in front of it with my name written in Ronnie’s flawless handwriting, elegant and flowing.
“Let’s see what Ronnie has for us tonight, Dasher. Want a piece of cake for dinner?”
I reach for the envelope before the cake in spite of the growl of my stomach, and slip the paper from inside.
Yo Sean—
Don’t touch the cake! (It’s a chocolate mint triple layer cake.
My own recipe.) Your dinner is in the fridge.
Eat that first. It’s my special chile recipe.
All you need to do is re-heat it in the microwave for five minutes.
And don’t let the dog eat the cake! She’ll make a mess and your housekeeper will curse me.
I won’t see you before you leave for your game, so I’ll wish you good luck now. You’ll probably hear me cheering for you all the way in L.A. Srsly. Jimmy and me will be yelling our hearts out for you.
Have fun in the sun and don’t get yourself injured in the game. (Do field goal kickers even get hurt? Probly not.)
Later,
Ronnie and Jimmy
p.s. I promise to keep your place safe and clean and I won’t eat all your food—I’ll bring my own.
The note makes me smile. When I stop pouting and heat up the chile, it’s delicious, so I can’t be too bummed.
I write a note back to her, feeling like a throwback to the old days, I don’t know how many years ago, before the phone was invented when people had no other choice but to write on paper.
After four nights, I’ve come to look forward to our daily hand-written exchanges.
It’s a slow patient way to get to know a person, strangely intimate and a helluva test of my resolve.
But I’m up to it. Putting the pen to paper, I write.
Yo? Srsly?
Your chile was delicious (like you). You’re spoiling me with these meals. Louie is going to wonder what happened to me since I haven’t been into his restaurant in so long. I used to be one of his best customers before you showed up.
BTW, Dasher loved the cake and don’t worry, your rep with the housekeeper is safe. I cleaned her up before she did any damage.
I wish you were going to be at the game in person to cheer for me—and the team, but I’ll take seeing your gorgeous face and Jimmy’s big smile when I get home.
It’ll be late, but please stay over and wait for me.
If we win, I’ll want a celebration hug and if we lose I’ll need a consolation hug. Either way… it’s a win-win (??)
Srsly, I miss you.
Later,
Sean Patrick, the indestructible field goal kicker
p.s. You can eat anything of mine you want…
I wonder if my last flirtatious comment is over the top, but fuck it.
It’s how I feel and I don’t want to her to think I’m okay with being just friends.
I want her to know how much she turns me on, how much I’m into her in every way.
Folding the paper, I put it in a fresh envelope and scrawl her name on it in big bold print that even Jimmy can read.
The kid’s smart, but innocent, so the innuendo in the note will go over his head if he reads it.
Now I can only hope she grants my wish to stay over until I get home.
I figure my chances are less than Dasher standing up and talking to me right now, but a guy’s gotta try.
Though not too hard. It’s a fine edge between staying patient while maintaining interest. There’s no way I’ll let her think I’ve lost interest.
No way I’ll lose interest any time soon. In either of them.
In the morning, cutting the remainder of the cake into pieces and putting it in plastic containers almost makes me late to the stadium.
The team is meeting at seven a.m. for a quick talk before we take the bus to the airport.
I rush in and deposit the cake on the table where half the team is still eating breakfast. I have ten minutes to get my shit together and have a bite.
Tate gives me shit, but takes himself a big slice of the cake. When he takes a bite he exaggerates his reaction, throwing his head back and moaning. I laugh.
“What did you do to deserve your own private baker?” He says. “And where did she learn to bake like this? She a pastry chef on the side?”
“I know,” Gabe says, “That shit is lethal. The chocolate peanut butter cake the other day was my favorite. Can I have her bake one for me for Mia’s birthday in a couple of weeks? She went crazy for it.”
I laugh at the pair of them, enjoying the praise on Ronnie’s behalf. My swelling pride is unearned, though I don’t bother to tamp it down.
“I’m serious,” Gabe says.
“I’ll ask her. I don’t see why not. Ronnie’s fucking ambitious. She’s always interested in earning extra money. I bet she’ll do it. But just so you know—I’ll make sure she charges you a boatload of money for it.”
Gabe smirks. “It’s okay. I can afford it.”
Tate and I both give him the finger and he laughs as we finish up with breakfast and head for the meeting. It should be short and then we’re on our way to Logan Airport, less than five miles away.
I’m in the first wave of players through the tunnel as a veteran player with the team for a few years and as one of the leading scorers.
Coach is in the habit of reminding the guys of this fact far too often.
Normally I don’t mind, taking the credit in stride, taking the good-natured crap from the players in stride too, but I’m under no illusions that as kicker, I’m somewhat apart from the rest of the team.
And today, I feel a deep need to prove myself.
To Ronnie.
We start off with the ball and eat up the clock on a massively fought march down the field in fifteen plays to score a touchdown. I won’t lie, this is my favorite part, to come out and kick the point after like I’m icing the cake.
I jog out with the place holder—the guy who holds the ball for me to kick—one of my good buddies on the team, Mickey Lynch. We’ve done this dozens of times of the past few seasons, but I never take it for granted.
We zone in on the exact spot on the field we need to be to place the ball. the stadium is loud, but I tune it out. Stepping back and to the sides in precisely distanced and angled strides, I focus on my feet, the field, the men in front of me, the uprights and finally the ball.
Standing in place with one foot planted and the other ready to move, I wait for the snap.
As soon as it comes I move, taking my two steps and then lining my foot up exactly with the ball a split second after it’s placed, I swing my leg through in the exact movement, with the exact arc and force I need to put the football through the uprights.
It all takes less than five seconds and the result is the same as it is 97.4% of the time since I started my professional career—the kick is good.
That’s when the crowd noise, the players and the energy in the stadium comes into focus.
A dozen hands batter me on my way to the sidelines.
“Good job, man,” Tate says as he meets me on the sidelines. He punches my pads and high-fives Mickey. The rest of the offense on the sidelines take their shot at me, wisecracks in between grins and smacks on my back.
“Let’s watch the kick off,” I say. “Special teams rule.” I raise my fist and get some laughs, but the guys on the sidelines dial in to watch our teammates. The mutual respect and support are what I love about this team. And it doesn’t hurt that we win far more often than we lose.
By the end of the game when the airhorns go off, we have another win on the scoreboard and I immediately snap out of game mode. The first thought that fills the vaccum is of Ronnie and Jimmy, and whether they’ll still be there when I get home.