“You have a dress?” he confirms, sitting up, his relaxed demeanor melting away as his eyes become as alight as mine no doubt are.
Turning the camera around, I show him the dress bag laying across all the other shopping my dad and I did today.
“See?”
“And you want?—”
“To get married tomorrow evening. My dad, Roman, and even Reeves are already here and I now have a dress. Except for you showing up and saying ‘I do,’ that’s all I need for it to be my dream wedding day.”
“Then tomorrow evening I’m changing your last name, baby girl.”
“Or maybe I’ll change yours,” I wink, blowing the camera a kiss. “Either way, enjoy your last night of being a bachelor, Remi.”
With a look that could melt my phone right along with my panties, he responds, “I plan to,” a pillow smacking over his face as Roman shouts, “Keep it in your damn pants, fucker!” startling Winnie off the couch as the two devolve into play fighting.
Picking up the phone, Reeves’s face comes into view as he says, “You and Colt drive safe, Sugar. I gotta go ref the death match happening in the livin’ room.”
Plugging my phone in and dropping it in the cup holder, I look at my dad and ask, “You think they’ll be alright?”
“If not, we can have your wedding pictures photoshopped,” he whispers, before saying into his phone, “Hey, Boomer, guess what? Scarlet’s getting married… Yeah,married…”Holding up his finger to me as he chuckles, he continues, “No, I’m not, but that’s how it goes I guess… Yeah they will…”.
“So listen, it’s actually happening tomorrow out here in Gatlinburg… I know it’s fast… Well yeah, she still has a semesterof school to focus on. Plus with how long and grueling the season can get… Exactly!
“No yeah, I remember; that’s actually why I called.” Giving me a thumbs up, he confirms, “She is…? Y’all will…? Perfect, man. I owe you and Marcia about a dozen more for this.
“Neither was I… Yeah, yeah, see ya tomorrow, Boomer… I will… Bye.”
Hanging up, he proudly announces, “And now you have a photographer. Also, Marcia and Bommer say, ‘Best wishes.’”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I clap, leaning over the console to hug my dad. “You’re the best.”
“I try,” he winks, pulling us out onto the street while tapping at my car’s screen. “Now, what is our father/daughter song going to be?”
THIRTY-SIX
REMINGTON
In Marchit'll be nine years since I was officially welcomed to The Show. I can remember being handed my first official Nighthawks uniform like it was yesterday. It wasn’t just any uniform either. It was the one with the coveted gold detailing that announced to the world that they were the reigning World Series Champions. Thatwewere the reigning champions, Colt had corrected from his perch on Linskie’s desk, telling me I had more than earned the piece of history that was in my hands.
It was as I was holding that jersey, tracing the number I had been wearing since I was five years old—an eight for my ma’s birthday, August eighth—that they also told me I would be the one starting on Opening Day. Not Stansin, who previously played for Arizona, or Perez from Tampa, both of whom I’d rotated with all of Spring Training. Me. The twenty-three year old kid whose cleats had yet to touch the grass of a Major League stadium. The first of what was going to be almost a dozen new players signed and added to the 40-man roster over the next four seasons, paving the way for the new, long-standing Nighthawks Dynasty that Colt would put the finishing touches on in his first two years as skipper.
I was on top of the world that day and every day leading into Opening Day. But when the day finally came, I was so fucking nervous, I hardly slept more than a couple of hours. I couldn’t eat the whole day yet somehow managed to spend every hour leading up to taking the field puking.
It was the same thing the first time I went to the playoffs. Again when I was named the starting catcher for the American League in the All Star game. And when it was Game 1 of the World Series, I was unsurprised to find the tradition held.
Today, though, there’s not a nerve in sight. Where that first game saw my hands shaking so badly before we took to the field that I struggled with the simple task of getting my mask hooked onto my helmet, my hands were steady as I baked and frosted layers of pink champagne cake. My penmanship didn’t wobble or scratch as I signed for our rush order rings upon delivery. And I succeeded in tying my tie on the first go round as I dressed in the midnight blue suit Scar had once told me was her favorite of the three I own.
Even as I pace laps from the hallway to the kitchen and the kitchen to the deck that Reeves decorated this afternoon with strands of white lights that as the sky grows dark look like falling stars, my anxiousness isn’t born of anxiety, fear of failure, or imposter syndrome. It’s anticipation from watching the hours crawl by all day long. Excitement because, in a few minutes, I’ll see my girl as my bride. Eagerness because not long after that, she’ll be my wife—two words I plan to exhaust tonight when our house empties out and I can have her while she still wears her dress.
The image of her arms spilling over with bunched up fabric as she sinks down on my cock is enough to have me adjusting myself. And when that doesn’t work, I begin another lap around the main floor of our house to calm down.
As I’m making my way around, ready to ignore the stairs leading up to our room where Scarlet’s been sequestered since I left her last night with a single minute to spare before midnight, Reeves comes galloping down with Boomer Hayes on his heels, and Roman follows with Winnie and her massive pink bow in his arms.
“Is it time?”
Setting his sister's dog down, Roman begins to lint roll her black and caramel colored fur from his suit, confirming, “It’s time.”
After he’s done, it’s a flurry of chaos as all the men in Scarlet’s life begin bringing the final touches of our wedding day together. While Roman and I are opening up the glass doors to combine the deck and living room into one flowing space, Reeves lights a hundred or so leftover candles from the night I unexpectedly asked Scar to marry me. Even Boomer is fluttering about getting her Christmas tree lit, the lights inside the house dimmed so we’re washed in firelight and artificial stars, and lining my bride’s aisle with what is easily thousands of rose and peony petals he paid handsomely to have brought in from Nashville, Charlotte, and Atlanta.