Page 45 of Most Likely to Match
I take a deep breath as we get in line with the other baseball fans, Ricky and Matty chatting casually ahead of us, Dean fiddling with his camera settings beside me. I knew this was a possibility, that Matty’s and Ricky’s love for their friend and instinct to protect him wouldn’t have ended at convocation. And I don’t think Dean requires their approval or is even looking for it in regard to any type of relationship with me. Even so, I want it.
I want Matty and Ricky to leave here thinking how happy they are that we have reconnected. Even if Dean decides that our reconnectionwill stay only professional. I want to be worthy of Dean’s friends, of my own standards.
As we step out from the low ceiling of the concourse into the open air of the stadium, the dome pulled all the way back, the sky the most electric blue, the CN Tower the city’s sentinel above us, it all feels a little more possible. The same way the first sunny, warm day of spring can cure, like, 50 percent of my seasonal depression.
“Holy shit,” I say as I follow the boys farther and farther down the steps of the 100-level seating. “Are we right behind the dugout?”
Matty smiles over his shoulder at me; my heart raises a fist in victory— my first official smile. “Yeah.” He stops at our row. Literally right behind the dugout. These tickets must have cost a fortune. I clamp my mouth shut so as not to say so out loud. “Do you like baseball?” Matty asks, like he can’t quite believe it.
I shake my head vigorously, like the more brain damage I give myself, the more he’ll know it to be true. “I love baseball.”
“Huh.” He ponders for a moment, and my stomach sinks when I think he may ask me to name five ballplayers. I really don’t want to cause a scene with Dean’s friends.
But I will if they make me.
Instead, he says, “I wasn’t expecting that.”
Still not an ideal answer, but I’ll take it, since he was probably expecting me to have horns and drink the blood of innocents.
As we wait for the game to start, I learn that Matty now actually goes by Matt to people who aren’t Ricky and Dean and that the same rule applies for Ricky— or Rick. Their wives are really good friends, and Rick’s wife is six months pregnant with their first. They also really love Dean; though, I guess I already knew that.
Matt keeps pulling up photos from Dean’s photography social media account to tell him about something he loved recently. Rick AirDrops a song he’s been keeping saved in his phone for months that made him think of Dean. It’s one he wanted Dean to listen to when they were together so he could see Dean’s reaction. Dean pulls out his AirPods and listens right away, his head bobbing slowly, a smile tugging the edges of his lips from time to time. Ricklistens, rapt, as Dean tells him what he thought (he loved it, of course).
Since they’re catching up, I offer to grab the first round of beer and snacks before the first pitch is thrown. Dean offers to come, but that would defeat the purpose of allowing them to catch up and buy them all treats; the first step in my Convince Matt and Rick to Like Me Plan.
Matt is sober and asks for a pop, so I get three beers and the largest Coca Cola available, as well as the stadium’s longest hot dogs and two collector’s edition buckets of popcorn. A random stadium employee who says his name is Paulo helps me carry it all. “If someone was trying to impress you after they hurt your friend, do you think this would be enough to begin that process?” I ask him, halfway down the level-100 steps.
Paulo surveys our haul. “Foam fingers, maybe?”
“Ugh.” If I had a free hand, I would smack my forehead with it. “You’re right.”
“Don’t get them yet,” he says as I turn around for the long trudge back up to the concourse as the bottom of the first begins. “Wait till the third,” he says. “It’s still early.”
“Thank you.” I try to reach a hand out for a fist bump, but we both stop when I almost lose control of the hot dogs.
The boys seem suitably pleased with their snacks. “Hey, thanks,” Matt says, sounding surprised once again. I try not to look too proud of myself when I smile back.
“This all looks expensive,” Dean whispers when I take my seat beside him.
“Don’t worry about it.” I have an entire section of my budget specifically allocated to sporting events.
He starts to respond but is interrupted by the crack of a bat. The whole stadium cheers as a ball heads toward left field, then groans as it falls foul. “Why does he have to go back to home base?” Dean asks.
I lean across him to mock glare at Matt and Rick. “Have you taught him nothing?” We spend the rest of the inning tutoring Dean on the intricacies of baseball, disagreeing about the efficiency ofpitch clocks and sharing stories about our favorite ballpark memories. Mid-third, I get foam fingers; Matt seems to think they’re silly but tolerable, Rick likes them, Dean loves them. He also spends most of his time watching the game, the sky, the crowd, through the lens of his camera. Though he’s antsy, tethered to this seat when what he really wants is to move and explore. I imagine being tied to one’s seat is a hindrance to photographers.
“Why don’t you walk around?” I suggest during the seventh inning stretch. “Baseball is pretty lax. Just try not to interrupt game play.”
He rests his hand between my shoulder blades. “Are you sure?” he asks, and I think he’s nervous to leave me alone with them. Though whether he’s nervous for them or me is unclear.
“Totally.” I lay a reassuring hand on his thigh, warm from the sun.
“’Kay.” And he leans in, kissing me quickly on the cheek. He doesn’t seem to notice it as he leaves, but my skin feels hot where he touched me. Every follicle of the rough stubble around his mouth has found a nerve ending. I never knew cheeks couldfeelthis much.
When I turn back to the game, it’s obvious Rick and Matt have been watching me, maybe us. It doesn’t help that my fingers still cover the spot Dean’s lips left like a brand.
“We know what you’re doing,” Matt says.
“Huh?” Currently, my brain can’t prioritize the baseball game over Dean’s touch or Matt and Rick’s attention. “Sorry?”
