Page 57 of The Amazing Date

I return my focus to the road, stealing a glance in the rearview mirror, no sight of Ronnie and Thelma behind us. I have no idea whether they passed us during our conversation. And I don’t care. Win or lose, today I feel like a winner.

Chapter 33

Roberto

And just like that, we’re all tied.

Rylee and Ronnie may have been surprised when Kelly and Caitlin caught up to us at the airport, but I wasn’t. I knew their competitive streak wouldn’t just let them accept that both of our teams beat them to the mountain yesterday without explanation. I’m sure they spent all evening figuring it out. That’s what Gabby and I would have done. The local country road may not be well-known, but it’s not a complete secret.

I expected this turn of events to push Rylee back to the edge of anxiety, her need to micromanage and control the race overcoming reason, but it hasn’t. If anything, she’s more relaxed than at any other point in the race. She even suggested we get seats next to Ronnie and Thelma, and we chatted and joked the entire flight back. The blondes, four rows back, flung dagger stares in our direction whenever we looked back.

All three teams exited the plane seconds apart, grabbed the race clue in the terminal, and secured taxis. Two car lengths separate the three taxis as we race toward Citi Field, the baseball stadium in Queens and home of the New York Mets.

“What do you know about the Mets?” I ask Rylee, hoping for some hometown insight.

“About as much as you know about America’s Top Model,” she returns with wide eyes and a smirk on her face. “They’re a soccer team, right?”

I lean toward her and give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Cute. I can’t believe you aren’t more nervous. This is the finale and all.”

She rests her hand on the top of mine, giving it a slight squeeze. “Win, lose, or draw, I wouldn’t change the last few days together. Let them throw their best at us. We got this.”

I nod, my sentiment the same. I turn to read the driver’s plate on the back of the taxi partition. “Excuse me, Miss Purdeep.”

I catch the dark eyes of the driver in the rearview mirror. She appears to be of East Indian descent, long black hair cascading down her back, a New York Yankees baseball cap turned backward. “Mrs. Purdeep, but you can call me Laxmi. How can I help you?”

I lean forward against the plexiglass partition. “Do you know if the Mets are playing today?”

She nods and twists the wheel sharply around a slow-moving van, taking the turn at seventy miles an hour as if she’s on a NASCAR track. “Yeah, and you’re pretty late. Game started about an hour ago. I had you two pegged as US Open fans.”

Rylee leans forward, joining the conversation. “We’re meeting someone at the stadium. I forgot the Open is this week. Traffic must be bananas.” Rylee lowers her chin and whispers to me, “The US Open tennis stadium is directly across the street from where the Mets play. For one week every summer, their schedules overlap. Think of the college football traffic you mentioned at the Rose Bowl but on roads half that size and drivers not as nice.”

A knowledgeable laugh comes from the front seat, Rylee’s whisper not as low as intended. “If you’re planning to be in the area for several hours, you should be okay traffic-wise. The Open’s morning session started at eleven, and all that traffic is gone. Same for the Mets—most people are already in the stadium. The issue is right around 4:00 p.m. The morning session lets out, the evening session attendees begin to arrive early, and the Mets let out. Immediate gridlock. Even the local backstreets are unpassable.”

“There’s Flushing Meadows Park.” Rylee points to the world-famous Unisphere. The six-story-high metallic structure of the globe is world-famous. Originally erected for the 1964 World’s Fair, it is known by appearances in the movie Men in Black, The Avengers, and dozens of TV shows. “We’re almost there.”

The cab takes the next exit, and as it descends the ramp, the sound of cheering erupts from the stadium. I steal a glance into the sliver of open stadium; a sea of blue and orange, the team colors, flood my eyes. There doesn’t appear to be an empty seat in the forty-thousand-seat arena. I pull the race clue from my backpack and give it a quick scan again. “You can drop us at the bullpen entrance.”

“Gotcha,” Laxmi says as the cab turns to the right and pulls up to the rear of the stadium.

I quickly jot down her information in my book, the list of tips to be sent post-race growing. While I write, Rylee explains to Laxmi the reason for the non-tip. I look up, expecting skepticism and the world-famous New York attitude, but instead am met with warm eyes and a soft smile. “That’s so cool. Good luck.”

We hop out of the cab just as a second taxi pulls to the curb. We don’t bother to look at who it may be, racing to the clue sign. I smile, happy to see Juanita standing next to the box.

She bounces on her toes with a smile on her face. I don’t need to ask whether she is happy to see us still in the race. “Welcome to Citi Field. You are the first team to arrive. Please follow this usher into the stadium for an on-field contest. Only one of you will be participating; the other will watch and cannot signal, speak, or communicate in any way during the activity. Good luck.”

We follow the usher into the stadium but stop when I hear Juanita repeat her greeting. I turn. The blondes. My eyes search the curb for Ronnie’s cab and come up empty. Rylee taps my elbow, and I turn. We jog up to the usher.

The roar of the crowd and loud music threatens to blow out my eardrums. “My guess is the activity will be baseball related.” Rylee shoots a smirk in my direction, the hint not so subtle.

“You think?” I roll my eyes and bump hips with her. “Do you want to take it?” I ask, pushing down my older-brother, misogynistic tendency.

A quick blush flashes across her cheek. “I’m secure in my womanhood. Have at it.”

I nod and attempt to focus. “I haven’t played a game of baseball in years. I hope I don’t embarrass us too badly.”

The usher leads us through the tunnels underneath the stadium, the corridors narrowing and the noise level increasing as we near home plate. The stadium is rocking, a loud rhythmic chant, the pounding of the scoreboard’s fake drum, and the bloodcurdling screams of “Let’s Go Mets. Let’s go Mets.”

We stop ten feet from the end of the tunnel. From here we have a clear line of sight out to the field. A cool breeze blows through the tunnel, bringing with it the scent of freshly cut grass—grass so perfectly manicured even Papi with his anal, knees to the ground, scissor-snipping self would approve.

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