Chapter Two Rome
T HE BEST WAY to start the day was mail time.
I put my cup of coffee down on the bench in front of my cubby in the clubhouse and tore open a brown paper package with enough tape to secure the Ark of the Covenant in a wooden crate.
A pair of black and bronze gloves tumbled onto my hand, the smell of fresh leather infusing the air.
A stylized bolt was stitched on the back of each glove as I pulled them on and tested the fit.
My thick fingers slipped easily inside as I interlaced my hands together as if in prayer.
Mostly a good fit, but my middle finger had always been longer than usual. The glove was a little tight at the webbing of that finger. I’d have to test them at the batting cages later.
“Yo, Romo-cop,” someone called. I didn’t need to look over my shoulder to recognize Brett, our second baseman. He came up with a new variation on my nickname at least once a month. Romo-cop had been in rotation for about three weeks.
“That one’s getting old,” I told Brett as I peeled the gloves off. “Time for a new one.”
“Whatever you say, Romo the Bozo,” Brett said.
I scoffed but smiled. “Oh, that one is perfect.”
Brett stood a head shorter than me with a stocky build, buzzed head, and thick beard. Like me, he wore a t-shirt, shorts, and slides. “New gloves?” he asked.
“Yep. Gotta test them out later.”
“Cool, cool. Lunch?”
I tossed the gloves into my cubby and picked up my coffee. “Let’s do it.”
Together we walked through the clubhouse, a massive circular room bordered by the cubbies of each Riders player.
A circle of leather furniture sat at the center where four players currently lounged on their phones.
I fist-bumped three of them as Brett and I walked down a short hall and into the clubhouse kitchen.
A vertical flat screen monitor told us today’s menu was teriyaki chicken and baked salmon.
I grabbed a plate of chicken and sat down at one of the tables with Brett.
Chatter filled the kitchen as more teammates filtered in.
First pitch would be thrown in five hours and until then, we had food, training, and socializing to do.
The atmosphere was light and affable, a certain confidence hanging in the air before the second and last game of our series with the Allentown Thunder.
I’d be reviewing their pitchers later with one of our pitchers.
We ended the last game two to one, something I considered abysmal.
I should have scored another homer but their changing pitchers had me on my toes.
I’d need to dial back the cockiness, too. I recognized that and I knew Brett or Hiroshi, our catcher and captain, would say something to me soon enough. As I sat down at the table, I set my plate before me, closed my eyes, and whispered a quick meal blessing before crossing myself and digging in.
“How’d you sleep last night?” Brett asked me between mouthfuls of salmon.
“Like a rock,” I answered.
He swallowed. Took a sip of water. Then hit me with a stare. “Uh-huh. You seemed preoccupied last night. Since when do you like to stick around on the field answering reporters’ questions? I practically had to drag you out. What gives?”
“I felt chatty,” I said. There was truth to those words, but they were a thinly veiled lie. A nugget of guilt settled in my stomach next to the few bites of teriyaki chicken I had taken. I did feel chatty, though not toward reporters.
“Don’t make me drag it out of you,” Brett said as he leaned into the table.
“And don’t make me lie,” I snapped back quickly, though with a lighthearted tone.
Brett leaned back and waved at the air in feigned offense. “Oh-ho, end of the world for the big guy if he has to lie.” He took another bite of salmon. “Fine. I won’t pry. I’ll just talk to Roshi later.”
“Cheater!” I said and reached across the table to smack him on the shoulder.
When we finished, I stood and dumped my empty plate into a trash can. Back in the line for food, I leaned over the glass sneeze guard and hollered. In a second, a short, rotund man came around the corner while wiping his hands on a black apron. “Reggie. Total dynamite teriyaki chicken today.”
The chef smiled. “Thanks, Romo. Your new favorite?”
“It’s getting there, brother. You need to go on a cooking show and blow those guys out of the water. Seriously, the best, man.”
“You’re too kind.”
I thanked him again and left the kitchen. Brett peeled away to head to the gym while I lumbered toward one of the treatment rooms. On my way down the hall, I passed by one of the admin offices and stopped short when I heard my name.
“Oh for sure, total crush on Romo,” came one voice I recognized as one of our media admins.
The other voice was a manager for clubhouse operations. “Did he adjust the lighting? These things look like glamour shots. Shit, look how many there are. It’s like all he did was shoot Romo.”
I felt myself frown as I stayed shy of the door’s entrance.
“There’s no way Emma is gonna let this amateur come back. Once she sees these, the guy is gone. Who cares that his brother is Devin? Clearly he just wants to glorify one player.”
“Ha, no kiddin’. This guy needs to go back to taking senior photos.”
I speed-walked past the open door and didn’t see them turn their heads.
Had I encouraged Alex too much? I wanted him to take good shots of me—Emma and the communications team loved those.
Did he focus too much on me instead of the other players, though?
Emma always wanted a rounded portfolio from our photographers.
I had figured, to get his foot in the door, he could focus on those of us that the media seemed to love. Maybe I had given the wrong direction?
I entered one of the treatment rooms, the smell of chlorine hitting me hard.
A hot tub sat in one corner, a porcelain tub in the other.
At the far wall were stacks of swimsuits.
I grabbed my size and went into the changing partition and disrobed.
My cross and medal stayed on me, as always.
As my shorts made a thunk when hitting the rubber matting, I slipped my phone out and took a seat on the bench in the changing room.
I hadn’t dared google him last night. I had a specific routine that I stuck to when finishing a game. Endless browsing would only keep me awake as my mind spun and perseverated on something instead of emptying my head to drift to sleep.
Alex Edwards Photography . I punched his name into Google as I sat there with the curtain closed in the partition, as if I had to hide myself and my deeds.
I clicked on the first hit, his website.
My phone screen lit up with a nighttime view of the Boston skyline followed by a popup asking me to subscribe.
I exited out and scrolled. A menu of services provided came up next, followed by a headshot of Alex.
Hazel eyes, sandy brown hair just long enough to style.
No smile, but his face showed an easiness, as if he could always slide into home without a glove ever hitting his body.
As I looked at his profile picture, I felt my stomach flutter.
I had seen him meandering the field during pregame yesterday.
He took pictures of empty stands, of something that looked interesting on the ground, but took zero shots of the players.
I wondered who the oddball was until he lowered his camera and I got sight of his face.
His pointy ears had gold studs in the lobes that caught the light of the evening July sun.
He was tall, though not as tall as me, with a lean body.
A runner, if I had to guess. When the opportunity came up to call him out on his lack of photos, I had to take it.
And he had no idea who I was! My family always helped keep my ego in check but golly, he pushed the boundary on that one when we started talking.
I felt a zing of elation, the opportunity to use a blank slate to my advantage.
I had never really had that chance, which slimmed every year I continued with the Riders and grew in popularity.
For the first time in my career, I wanted to ignore a game so I could focus on spending time with someone.
I snuck in as many interactions as I could, tried hard not to push the boundary.
I had already sidestepped my MO by directly interacting with a photographer.
But gosh, I could not help myself. There was something about him that kept drawing me back.
I browsed Alex’s services. Standard portraits.
No option for weddings, which was interesting.
The section for drone videography was listed as “currently unavailable.” Curious.
I saw an option for “Last Moments,” which he offers to enter a home for a family wishing to capture their final moments with a loved one. I slapped my chest at that.
I reached the end of the home page and felt my heart rate kick up.
I had the opportunity to submit a request through the website, so long as I had a valid email.
I had briefly wondered this last night as I played my video games to unwind the evening, but quickly shoved it aside, knowing that stewing over the option would keep me up all night.
Now, in the curtained stall, sitting half naked in swimming shorts, I let my mind unfurl and consider the possibilities.
No. That was a lie. I considered only one thing.
Hi Alex! It’s Rome. I was wondering if you could send me some of the photos you took of me and the kid from the front row? The media guys are persnickety when I ask for photos. If you could text me, that would be great. Thank you! ~Rome
I entered my personal cell phone number, used my personal email for the form, and hit Send. All of it done in under a minute. I stepped out of the stall, dropped my phone next to my clothes, and sank into the hot tub.