“Yes, please,” the boy says dutifully, and his brown eyes flick down to my bag.
“I don’t have them yet, because they’ve got to get some new ones made. If it’s okay with your dad, I’ll get one in the mail to you.”
He glances up at his father with a pleading gaze, and the man rubs a hand across his dark hair. “That would be really nice. What do you say to Mr. Swain?”
“Thank you, Mr. Swain,” Rocco gushes, throwing his arms around my neck.
“You’re welcome, kiddo,” I tell him, patting his back. He smells like a combination of sugar and little boy sweat. “And just call me Reno because we’re buds now, right?” I release him and hold out my fist for a bump. Rocco obliges with a happy, snaggle-toothed grin.
“Best buds,” he clarifies.
“For sure,” I agree affably before standing and addressing his father. “Do you mind giving me your address and Rocco’s size so I can send you the jersey?”
He smiles and digs through his wallet to find an old receipt before pulling a pen from the pocket of his work shirt, which has the name of a sanitation company embroidered on the chest. He scrawls down the info and hands it to me, and I put it in the pocket of my shorts.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for this.” He lowers his voice. “Rocco’s mom has been sick…” The man looks away and blinks rapidly before lifting his chin and continuing. “Anyway, it’s been hard on him. On all of us. So thank you for taking the time to talk to him.”
“Hey, man,” I say with a chuckle, “I’m just glad to have at least one fan in this city.” My tone turns serious. “And I’m sorry about your wife. I hope everything will be okay.”
“She’s doing much better now, but it’s been a long road.”
“Do you have other children as well?” I ask, an idea coming to me.
“No, just our Rocco,” he says, running his hand through the messy curls on his son’s head. “We’re here to pick up my wife’s mom. She’s coming to help out while I’m at work.”
I glance back at the kid, who’s beaming up at me, and my heart melts a little. “Well, good luck with everything, and I’ll get a package sent out as soon as possible.”
“Thank you again,” the man says, his eyes abnormally damp. “We’re glad to have you in Dallas.”
We say our goodbyes, and I watch as they stride toward a woman in a floral dress who just entered the baggage area.
“Got a fan already?” I hear and turn to see Baylor Ward standing a couple feet from me. He’s a Black man with a goatee and shoulders the size of a semitruck.
“Hey, man,” I greet with a genuine smile. I’ve always liked Baylor, though he’s a force to reckon with on the ice. “That’s one fan in my column. Only a few millionleft to go.”
We do the whole bro-hug thing and he gestures toward my bag and attire. I’m wearing a hat and shirt with the Brewers’ red, white, and blue branding on it. “I see you got the stuff I sent.”
“Gotta represent,” I say with a laugh.
“Damn straight,” he replies firmly. “You got any checked bags?”
“Nope, just this,” I tell him, jiggling the duffle. “You care if I make a phone call to take care of the stuff for the kid right quick?”
“Nah, go ahead. I’m parked illegally, but the security guy out there is a fan, so he won’t let me get towed.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a piece of paper, confused when I see the note that’s obviously not from Rocco’s dad. Unless the man wants to do borderline illegal stuff to my cock.
“Shit,” I mutter, digging in my pocket to find the correct paper.
“What’s wrong?” Baylor asks.
“Note from a flight attendant.” He peers at it and his dark eyebrows shoot up.
“Goddamn. I don’t think that’s legal in Texas.”
I bark out a laugh and toss the note into the trash can. “Dude, I don’t think that’s legal anywhere.”
Baylor clocks the move. “Not your type?”
