Page 17 of The Road to Home Base
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I stayed until the sun sank below the horizon. Which in the summer, was late. My car was one of the last ones in the drive. Like a true gentleman, Rome walked me to my vehicle and stayed until I turned it on and banged a quick three-point turnaround. I saw him, splashed in red light, as he stayed and watched me ease down the drive.
As the gate opened to release me from an incredible night, my phone buzzed. The giddy boy in me swooned at the idea of already getting a text from Rome.
But no. No such luck. Instead, I had a message from someone who I shut out of my life.
Ricky:I can’t send you enough apologies. I know that. But here’s another: I’m sorry.
Ricky:I’m getting my head examined tomorrow. Literally. Doctors think I have head trauma from all of my matches.
Ricky:I’m so sorry, Alex. I’ll text you when I know more.
I stayed halfway out of the gate as I stared at my phone. My heart jumped into my throat, vision narrow, palms dripping with sweat.
I called my brother as soon as I hit the road.
“Hey, Alex. Kinda late. Everything okay? Something happen at the party?”
“It’s Ricky. He just texted me. Can we talk?”
“Yeah, yeah of course.” He cleared his throat. I heard the rustling of sheets. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Chapter Five
Alex
THENEWCITADELBallpark, home of the New England Riders, dominated my view as I drove down the fresh pavement leading to it. They repurposed the old stadium in Boston after completing the Citadel. A colossal wall of navy blue jutted high into the air, capped by a ring of bronze-colored metal, splashed with endless repeats of the sponsor, Citadel Bank. A wide, wide parking lot surrounded the stadium, nearly full on account of the game. Lexington, Massachusetts was not the largest of towns, but a surplus of land at a good price caught the eye of the Riders owners. Less than four years later, Lexington had become the hub for New England baseball, a fitting location given the mascot and theme of the team.
I hadn’t been to a ball game in years.Years. The last game I attended was in my youth at the old stadium in Boston. It was a charity game for sick children. I was nine, bald-headed but excited, and had only barely begun to scratch the surface of seeing beneath the veneer of happiness my parents presented. I remembered them quietly arguing after the opening pitch and thinking that it was odd they were arguing so much, especially when my treatment had been going so well. Devin had come to my rescue, as always, and pulled my focus away from them andstarted spitting Riders facts to distract me.
That was a lifetime ago, almost like another person in another body. I had pierced my ears as a reminder that I was in control of my “new” body. That I had taken back power. Disease would never ravage me again.
I had the wherewithal, despite my baseball ignorance, to know the game with the Riders’ primary rival, the Brooklyn Brawlers, would be a full one. Even at half-past six, I would have to hurry and find parking before first pitch at seven. Not to mention finding my way through security and to the level for suites…
But, true to his word, Rome had taken care of me. Earlier in the day, he shot me a series of texts with explicit instructions on where to go once I reached the stadium. With only a half hour until the game started, I found the closest parking spot and whipped out my phone. I had been googling things in the morning to understand the general routine of players before the game and knew that Rome had likely stowed his phone away to mentally prep. Regardless, I shot him a text anyway.
Me:Buona fortuna. Hit a homer for me, slugger.
Me:Buona fortuna. Have a great game!
Me:Buona fortuna!
The text flipped to Read the moment I hit Send but no dots appeared on his side of the thread. I took no offense and, in fact, delighted in seeing that he read it. He had to focus on getting ready—I didn’t expect a reply, anyway. Not that I had one, but I didn’t need my inner diva to burst onto the scene and demand instant communication when we hadn’t even reached the level of “friends” yet.
Yet. As if that was where this were headed. I knew Rome had his sights set on beyond just friends.
I jogged through the parking lot as the minutes ticked downto the first pitch. Despite my lack of sleep the previous evening, my well-trained feet carried me swiftly between the cars. I had stayed on the phone with my brother for nearly two hours, rehashing old issues from two weeks ago after Ricky hit me. Devin walked me through possible scenarios and outcomes, that regardless of what reasons Ricky came up with, intentional or not, his actions were totally inexcusable. Our almost three-year history went down the drain the moment he aggressively put hands on me.
Not that the moment his fist connected with my skull marked the beginning of the end. That had come six months before. The impetus stayed burned in my memory: staring at his keyring while he was out of the room, contemplating secretly taking my key back so he couldn’t get into my apartment. I should have recognized then that the moment came from fear.
Now here I was, racing my runner’s heart out to watch yet another professional athlete who took a liking to me.
Different kind of athlete, I told myself as I entered the courtyard entry, a space anchored by an obelisk at the center capped with two, massive LED lanterns simulating candleflames. Ricky was an athlete in that he participated in a sport, true, but that sport was MMA. Kicking the shit out of someone rang a little different from throwing a ball to someone wearing a glove.
That’s how Devin characterized it, at least. Yes, I told him about Rome, about where I thought things could go, where they were. He helped me understand that sometimes oversimplification helped one gain clarity. Strip everything down to its base parts to see the components for what they are.
Ricky was always aggressive. I never saw it. He hit me. Goodbye, Ricky.
