Page 80 of Sideline Play

“But I have?—”

Though sleep still clings to him, when he says my name it’s with a careful earnestness.

“Is this important to you?”

“Very. Being an equal in this also means you start to see my assets asourassets. So we’ll start small. Use my money to buy lunch or your next caffeine fix, okay?”

Nodding my head, I promise, “Okay, I’ll use it.”

“Good girl,” he praises, the sleepy, gravely texture of his words making it sound far dirtier. Stepping out of the door, he repeats, “Be safe. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Inside the car, I hook up my phone and turn on my Christmas playlist for the first time this season. High beams on to fight against the unlit, unpopulated, and foggy mountain road that leads to Remi’s house—our house—my dad navigates us out of the driveway beginning to belt out, “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home),” with me.

THIRTY-FIVE

SCARLET

Restingmy head on my dad’s shoulder as he pays, I hum, “Thank you; I needed that after this morning.”

“Anytime, Princess,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “But this isn’t what I had planned for you.”

“It’s not?”

Handing the signed copy of our receipt to one of the nail techs who did our pedicures and manicures after hours of frenetic shopping—murmuring, “Happy Holidays,” as her eyes go comically wide upon catching a glimpse of the added gratuity—he slings his arm around my shoulder and walks us out of the spa, confirming, “Nope,” as he directs us not towards my car but further down the picturesque cobblestone street of the Knoxville suburb he brought us to.

The storefronts of the charming town are already decorated in their festive best. Some have snowy, woodland scenes, others have presents under trees, and more still simply evoking the joy and spirit of the holidays with carefully selected color pallets. The lamp posts made to look like gas lanterns that line the street alternate between massive velvet bows and giant hanging ornaments. And in the center of the quaint town square, thepreviously bare trees are dressed as well with candy cane colored lights while instrumental Christmas music lilts from hidden speakers.

“This way,” he guides, hand at my back as he pushes me ahead of him and changes from my left side to my right so he remains between me and the street once we cross. After checking his phone and the next shop number we pass, he murmurs, “Almost.” Then stopping in front of a bright white brick storefront with robin’s egg colored doors and looping script on the glass proclaiming itEver After Bridal,he comments, “It would seem you’re in need of a new dress.”

Lured to the window where a mannequin wears a dress with a dagger-like plunging neckline and full skirt in pearlescent white, I quietly ask, “Am I allowed?” as if speaking too loudly will see me banished from the store before we even enter.

“You do have the golden ticket,” he responds, lifting my left hand to remind me of Remington’s ring on my finger.

“But what about an appointment? On TV?—”

“I made one on Wednesday.”

Finally looking away from the rack of blush colored dresses I can just barely make out beyond the boutique’s display window, I ask, “You did?”

“Yeah. I kind of assumed with the expediency of the proposal y’all would want to marry before Spring Training. I mean we can make a mid-season wedding work; it’ll be a logistics nightmare, but with enough money and a decent planner we can pull it off.

“I figure Knox’ll start for a series and we’ll call Quintin up from the farm as backup so you two can have a quick honeymoon. With your program, the earliest we could do that would maybe be late May, but if we hit the ground running between now and February we could knock out?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “The sooner the better. All I need is a dress.”

“Are you sure? Boomer’s already talking about a home plate ceremony.”

“Definitely not,” I laugh. “But yeah, I’m sure. Remi and I already talked about it. We don’t want to wait. I don’t want to plan anything; I just want a dress.”

“Then let’s find you a dress.”

Little bells jingle above the door when we walk in, announcing our presence to the shop associates. In answer, a statuesque woman comes out to greet us with a broad smile—her appearance commanding attention as she stands out amongst the light walls, light floors, light furniture, and rows and rows of white dresses. Briefly introducing myself, I let my dad inform her of our appointment slot and my expeditious needs. Meanwhile, my gaze searches out the swaths of taffeta, organza, satin, and lace gowns, all with splashes of delicate blush pink coloring I saw from outside.

Spotting the section of pink gowns and following their call, I start to make way onto the sales floor when the woman, Stacey I believe she said her name was, asks, “Do you have any inspiration photos or materials you like? Maybe a favored silhouette? Given your time constraint, you’ll be limited to the samples we currently have, but I have no doubt we can find you the perfect dress for your I Dos.”

“I’ve never really given it much thought,” I reply candidly. “Definitely pink, though I could be open to white for the right dress.”

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