27. Chapter 27 #3
“Games, practices, random behind-the-scenes footage at home I think. I dunno—whatever they think will make for good TV. I guess they’ll follow each of us to compare our experiences playing together in the World Classic versus competing against each other to make it to the World Series,” he explains, and I can tell by the fireworks in his eyes that he’s excited about this.
“Adrian, that’s incredible. Winning the Classic, looking good for a run at the World Series, and now getting filmed for a TV series all in one year—how are you going to decide which once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was the best?” I muse.
He leans down and places one hand on the bed next to me. “You left out the one I would choose,” he says, then brushes a kiss to my lips.
Can that really be true?
I glance down at my lap, catching my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my gray Crowns T-shirt. Changing the subject, I ask, “What do you miss most about Venezuela?” I ask. “Especially after being back there to celebrate the Classic win?”
Adrian stands to his full height but doesn’t answer immediately. After a beat, he says, “Well, my dad, obviously. Mi familia.” As he resumes packing, he grins and adds, “But also the food. There’s nothing like authentic Venezuelan food, cielo. It’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”
“Better than sushi?” I ask, leaning back on my hands and raising an eyebrow.
“Better than sushi,” he states emphatically. Sitting next to me on the bed, he says, “There’s a food truck here that’s run by some fellow immigrants from mi tierra. I eat there at least once a week during the offseason. It feels like home.”
There’s a catch in his voice as he says it, and I consider for the first time how much Adrian probably misses Venezuela.
I’m not sure why I’ve never thought about it—I guess because he’s always so happy, constantly the life of the party.
But he’s lived almost as much of his life in the US as he did in Venezuela, and that has to present some conflicted feelings.
Bending my right leg, I twist on the bed to angle toward him, and he places his hand on my knee.
Lightly grasping his bicep with my right hand, my left lightly traces the lines of his tattoo—the stars, the palm leaves, the baseball stitches.
I can feel his eyes on me as I explore the ink on his skin with my fingers, as he holds perfectly still for my examination.
Turning his arm over, I trace the scripted words on his wrist—the ones he’s never talked about.
“What does this say?” I ask.
When I look up to meet Adrian’s eyes, there’s a flicker of pain he quickly chases away. Cocking my head to one side, I study him, waiting for an answer.
He swallows, and I watch the movement of his Adam’s apple, resisting the desire to lean in and press a kiss there. He places his right hand over mine on his left wrist and says, “They’re lines from a Venezuelan poem.”
Looking at the script with new interest, I repeat, “What made you get them as a tattoo?”
Adrian sighs, silent for a beat, then says, “I’ll tell you sometime. But not right now. Okay?”
There’s tension in the lines around his mouth, and I want to dispel his discomfort.
“Let’s go to the food truck for lunch!” I suggest with enthusiasm.
Adrian shakes his head with reluctance. “I can’t sprint with a weighed-down stomach. A bunch of fried food isn’t the best meal before playing an important game tonight.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Every game is important.”
“Yeah, but we’re only up by four games against this team in the division. We need to widen the gap,” he argues.
Dropping my right hand from his bicep, I lower my chin. “Adrian Ortiz, I don’t think one delicious meal is going to destroy your home-to-first time. Besides, I need to be the one to decide if this is better than sushi or if you’re just blowing smoke.”
“How dare you insult mi comida?” he jokes, twisting my left arm above my head and pushing me back on the bed. I laugh and smack his chest with my right hand, but my laughter dies as I notice the fire in his eyes.
I feel the pull of oxygen through my nose, feel it inflating my lungs as I take a careful breath.
Adrian’s face hovers above me for a second, two, ten.
There’s a tangled web in his eyes—hunger and restraint, passion and gentleness, determination and hesitation.
My left hand is still knotted with his above my head, but I tentatively reach my right hand up to run the tips of my fingers across his goatee, along his jaw, trailing down his neck to rest against his collarbone.
Adrian closes his eyes, breaking eye contact for the first time. When he opens them again, they’re so warm, so full, brimming with what I think is love.
I’m aching for it to be love.
He slowly leans in, tenderly kissing my cheek next to my ear, pressing his lips against my skin with controlled intention. I don’t move or blink or breathe or think.
Then he stands, pulling my hand till I’m also standing, and announces, “Prepare to rearrange your food pyramid. Arepas will sit at the very top.”