Page 6 of Triple Play

“You play for the Monsters?” I ask.

“I’m about to be their new first baseman, since the current one just busted his knee.”

“So why are you worried about being good? The team sucks.” It slips out—the team won a few championships a decade back then promptly went into a deep tank. Not a Melody thing to say.

John’s laugh fills the entire room—and tickles the places we’re still touching. “See, there’s that honest and direct feedback I came here for.”

“Okay, but also, holy shit. That’s the promotion you’ve been worried about? I thought you were like some middle manager somewhere.”

“Nope, just a ballplayer.”

“Oh, just a ballplayer?” I pick up my can and wave it until John does the same with his beer. We bring them together in a toast. “Congratulations,” I say. “Is that what the flowers are for?”

John’s lips press together in a smile. “I wanted to celebrate.”

So you came to see me? “Are you excited?”

He nods.

“But—?”

“You ever chase something so long that you almost regret getting it?” he asks.

“Sometimes good things take a while to happen.” And sometimes they never work out. “Congratulations. For real.”

He smiles.

If this is our last time seeing each other, I have to know what that smile feels like. I stroke my hand along the neatly trimmed hair of his beard. Not a place that’s really dancer-customer appropriate.

Especially not when John runs a possessive hand up my back. This time, when he pulls me back onto his lap, there’s no mistaking it for a dance. My knees settle on either side of his thighs; the curtain of my hair hangs down. We’re breathing the same air. My lips part.

He pushes a lock of hair from my face. “Is it a problem if I kiss you?”

I’m not supposed to. Kissing John would break every rule I’ve ever set for myself—in my heart, I’m still like Tiara, still telling myself that this is a job I’m only doing until I land something else. Nothing here is real…right? Except for the way John is looking up at me: hope in his warm green eyes. No, my common sense says. Yes, every other part of me says. I dab a tongue over my lip gloss. Smile. “It’s not a problem if you kiss me. It’s a problem if you don’t.”

He laughs as his hands settle at my waist, our bodies flush. His lips touch mine, careful but not hesitant, like he’s drinking me in. I kiss back with an urgency that grows with each press of our mouths, with the slide of his tongue against mine. His grip tightens.

Yes. Please. Make me yours.

I don’t care that security is watching, that I’m probably going to be teased for this later, that word will get around that I was doing this on the clock. Worse happens back in these rooms. Or perhaps not worse, because the worst part is that he has to leave at the end. That this is a kiss goodbye.

Eventually, we pull back from each other. “I’ve been dreaming about that,” he says. “Melody…” He touches his forehead to mine. “Come with me to Boston.”

I blink. I must have misheard him. He can’t be asking for real. But he’s looking at me as if he is. I slide off his lap, scoot away on the bench, and take several deep cycles of breath. He came here to ask me to run away with him. My heart beats against my ribs—excitement, followed by a cold splash of reality. “What?”

“I just thought…” He glances around like he’s reminding himself of the room we’re in. “I thought maybe you’d want to come.”

You don’t even know my real name. I don’t know your real name. Though now that I know he plays, it won’t be hard to look it up. I usually have a speech for when customers ask me things like that. How I really appreciate getting to know a guy, but I prefer that what happens at the club stays here. John—or whatever his name is—deserves something better.

“We’re friends,” I say, “but?—”

“Forget I said it. I know it’s not a good idea. You don’t have to let me down easy.” Though he’s looking at me with a mix of hope and regret that makes my chest ache. “I’m sorry I asked like that. But…if things were different, would you?”

Yes. The word sits behind my teeth. Yes, I like you. Yes, we could try this. Yes, let’s just throw caution out the window. I did that once when I was nineteen. I turned down a guaranteed life—high school salutatorian, college acceptance, life on a conveyor belt toward success—and struck out to become a world-renowned dancer. Look where it got me.

I swallow. If things were different… Things aren’t different. I learned to accept that years ago. “Hey, why don’t we get some champagne? Really celebrate?”

For a second, John doesn’t say anything. Sometimes, when a customer tries to take what’s in the club into the real world and I turn them down, they press harder. Sometimes they get mean, and I have to have them hauled out by security. Even if I like John, I don’t really know him. People can surprise you, usually not in good ways.

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