Page 72 of His Jersey

“I’ll take a slice of pepperoni and that meat lovers special there.” I point to the grubby whiteboard advertising the pizza of the day.

“You’re so extra,” Ella says, bumping me with her hip.

Content, I grin. “Oh, and an orange soda for me too. Never tried that.”

Ella gawks. “Seriously? You’re missing out. My dad was our softball coach and after games, we’d always go out for pizza and orange soda.”

“You played ball?”

She nods. “My dad, too. He worked a lot, so being part of my extracurriculars helped us have more time together.”

“Were you good?”

“What kind of question is that?” she asks, stopping in front of the soda machine and filling the textured, dark red plastic cup. She shoves it in my hand and says, “I got a full scholarship to UPenn, and not only because of my grades. I was the total package. So yeah, I was good.”

I cannot help myself and wolf whistle. There’s that honest spunkiness I glimpsed when she first met my father.

“Don’t ever forget or let anything make you think that you’re anything less than the total package. Promise?”

She snorts. “Yeah.”

Her humor and humility nearly knock me over and the sweetness of the soda almost knocks my socks off. But I’m going to drink it anyway.

We sit down at a table with a red and white checkered tablecloth. Ella takes a long sip through the straw. I study her for a moment—her big almond-shaped eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her throat bobs when she swallows. It strikes me that I’ve looked at countless women and didn’t notice thedetails—do they all have a little freckle by their left ear? The jutting bone on the side of their wrist? A slim gap between their teeth?

I do know one thing for sure. I’ve never felt this way—like I cannot get enough of Ella. Not enough time, enough of her attention, her voice, her lips …

I wonder if my father felt this way when he met Mom. Can’t recall ever seeing Dad eat pizza. We never went to a baseball game, mostly because football was always his thing, but it would’ve been nice if we’d played ball or the ice hockey equivalent.

Ella may not be the trophy my billionaire father has in mind for me, and I’ll never call her baby, but I hope we’re eating pizza and drinking orange soda together for a long, long time.

“Tell me about your dad,” I say, wondering more about the man who raised such an amazing woman.

“He wanted to be a pro baseball player when he was a kid. He was obsessed, but in his own words, he wasn’t nearly disciplined enough. Joined the service after high school—Army. The third year in, he met my mom. She worked in an administrative capacity—like office work. They fell in love. She got out after four years, then had me. He stayed in four more years after that. He qualified for help with college but again said he wasn’t nearly disciplined enough. He started at the potato chip plant, maintaining the machines.”

“Did he get free chips?”

She licks her bottom lip. “Sure did. When they expanded to make dips, too, we got to sample them. Ranch was my favorite. Dad liked the onion dip. I can’t remember which one Mom enjoyed the most.” She sighs. “After she passed away, neither one of us was the same.”

“I can imagine. I mean, I know, but I wasn’t so young.”

Ella nods, then says, “When I was thirteen, I overheard him tell my uncle that I needed more female influences in my life. I imagine it had a lot to do with me entering my teen years. Shortly after, he met Paula. We’d lived on TV dinners for two years straight until she started making meals for us. They’d watch television together. It was fine. They kept each other company.”

“I bet your mom was cool.”

“She had a great sense of humor. I miss her laugh. I coped by going full steam into school. I read and studied and read some more.”

“And played softball.”

“Then a gap year before college, and you know the rest.”

I snap my fingers. “I knew you took a gap year.”

Her eyebrows ripple.

I think back to that first night I saw her at the Beachside. I want more than anything for this beautiful woman with me to have her happily ever after. But first, the guy at the counter calls our names for the pizza. “Ella and Jack.”

They sound good together.

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