Chapter 1
Chapter One
"N o," I say for the fifth time. Its early afternoon on a Friday. The bitter end of the spring semester.
"Give me one good reason, " Sarah shoots back.
"'No is a complete sentence," I cross my arms.
"Beatrice Marie Frisoli.” She's patronizing me now.
"Yes, Sarah Beth Thompson?"
"A reason. Now."
I blow out my breath. "I have too much studying to do. If I don't ace this Torts exam next week, I am very, very screwed. Plus, I don't want to go. I can't think of a more boring recreational activity. I'd rather watch paint dry."
I stare down my best friend over the banker’s lights in the library. She has been harassing me for the past ninety minutes. She is unrelenting. One of the many reasons she'll make a damn good lawyer someday.
"First of all, that's offensive. You're talking about America's greatest past time. Second of all, you do realize you’d never do anything remotely fun if it weren't for me, right?"
She slams my book shut and scoots closer to me. "Seriously Bee, you'd rot away your entire youth in this God forsaken library if I let you."
I roll my eyes. Since when did being goal oriented become a bad a thing? After years of being told to ‘dream big’ and ‘stop at nothing’ to get there, suddenly someone somewhere changed the tune, and that mentality was out and 'work-life balance' was in. I did not understand.
I also did not appreciate the added guilt from Sarah that I was missing out on something or that I might have regrets later. I put enough pressure on myself already.
"Two words. Crab. Pretzel."
"What?"
"I will buy you a crab pretzel. At the stadium. If you come."
My stomach growls almost immediately in response.
"Listen. I already have tickets. I will pay for all the concessions you could want. It's the last home game for the next two weeks, then they'll be on the road and then I won't bug you about it till next month," she says, exasperated.
Sarah is without a doubt, the Baltimore Orioles’ number one fan. I've known this about her since we met over five years ago in undergrad. Pictures of her and her older sister, Meg, decked out in O's gear from birth to present are littered all over her parents’ house in Roland Park.
I, on the other hand, could not care less about baseball.
Especially now.
I have another week of classes to get through, followed by final exams, and then approximately seventy-two hours to 'relax' before diving headfirst into my internship clerking for the Honorable Judge Adams in the U.S. District Court for the District of Maryland. It was a once and a lifetime opportunity—one that I had fought like hell against my peers to get. Once my internship was complete, I'd be back at for 2L year and the whole cycle would rinse and repeat again and again, until I graduated and had to take and pass the bar exam.
Tension seeps into my shoulders.
I look out the window of the library. The early May sun is shining bright, and it seems like all of Charm City is outside, laughing, biking, their faces turned up towards the warmth. I look back at my books, at the blaring blue light of my laptop, and feel my eyes burn. I can't remember the last time I've been outside for longer than the ten minutes it takes me to walk from my apartment to class to the library. A crab pretzel and a beer sound like the perfect antidote to the endless drone of lectures and readings.
"Fine. I'll come."
"YES!!!" she squeals and jumps out of her chair.
"Meet me at Pickles at 4pm. Don't be late. And please change out of this hideous outfit," she gestures to my sad stretched out gray high school soccer t-shirt and faded black leggings. It doesn't bother me… because she is right.
* * *
A few hours and a wardrobe change later, I stand in line outside at Pickles Pub, waiting to get in. My normally tight gray tank top feels loose against my body, same for my favorite pair of jeans, reminding me that I should probably put food a little higher on the priority list. As I wait, I watch the crowd from behind my sunglasses. The tiny pub right outside Camden Yards is bustling, filled to the brim with Orioles fans enjoying what feels like the true beginning of summer.
Once I get inside, I push my way through the crowd out front to the bar inside and order four Bud Lights. My drink of choice as of late because it’s so cheap, only $2 a piece at most happy hours, and water-like enough to pretend I'm hydrating myself.
I get to the table where Sarah and two of our other law school friends, Kendall and Pete, are chatting about upcoming finals.
"There is no way Professor Griffin can expect us to know everything about civil procedure in twelve weeks. It's not possible,” Kendall laments.
"He did say he'd grade on a curve," adds Pete.
"I don’t even think a curve could help me at this point," Sarah groans.
"We'll all be fine," I pass out the beers.
"You mean you'll be fine, little Miss Top-of-the-Class," teases Kendall.
My cheeks flush. Though I work my ass off to achieve that exact status, I never want it acknowledged out loud.
"No more school talk. Tonight, we are on an important mission," Sarah says conspiratorially.
Pete raises an eyebrow at her. At this point in our friendship, we’re all used to her outlandish ideas.
She pulls a folded-up piece of neon orange poster board out of her purse and then slowly unfurls it, building the suspense, a Cheshire grin spreading wide on her face.
"Guess who just got off the injured reserve?"
We stare blankly at her, conveying with our eyes for the hundredth time that not a single one of us watches or follows baseball like her. Or at all.
She turns the poster around, – a grand reveal. In thick black marker she's written:
Hey Christian, call me. 443-555-4567!!!
Go O's!
The three of us burst out laughing.
"This is next level. Even for you" Kendall cackles.
"I've gotta admit, its clever. Straight to the point," adds Pete.
"That is your real number, Sar," I shake my head.
"I know, it's brilliant right?"
"Brilliant would not be the word I'd use to describe it. But honestly, you're hot and even more determined so it might just work," Pete points out and takes a swig of his beer.
Sarah musses her perfectly blown out bright orange mane and bats her thick black eyelashes at us. She is gorgeous, with more confidence than the three of us combined, and her obsession with the Orioles’ left fielder knows no bounds. So, by default, the three of us know way more about the man than what is considered normal or perhaps even legal.
Christian Patriankos was a late round draft pick, right out of college but quickly rose through the ranks, leading the O's to three post-season appearances in his three seasons with the team. He is now Baltimore's very own demigod, and men, women, and children across the city worship him. The Baltimore Sun has dubbed him 'A Greek God of Charm City’ and that's exactly what he is.
His Greek-American parents managed to produce an almost perfect specimen: 6'2' with olive skin, a full head of thick dark hair, and equally dark eyebrows. A permanent five o'clock shadow covers a square jaw, topped with a long straight nose, dark eyes and eyelashes. His body is chiseled in the way only a professional athlete's can be.
The owner of the Orioles publicly stated he could create an entire marketing campaign around the man. Christian is that incendiary. Which in turn has made Sarah that much more delusional. In addition to his baseball stats, I know (via Sarah) that he is intensely private with no social media presence at all – almost unheard of in today's day and age.
Perhaps because he also happens to be a notorious playboy, never seen with the same drop-dead gorgeous woman more than twice. And while I definitely do not count myself amongst his superfans, I am not so wrapped up in my own shit to miss the fact that the man is smoking hot.
"I traded my season tickets on the third baseline so we can all sit in left field. He can't miss us," Sarah says, beaming.
* * *