The Lineup Read online

  “Well, just think about it, okay? It’s not like you have many options. You put yourself in a really tough spot. Maybe next time when you’re making up a fake boyfriend, don’t say someone who’s famous. Maybe try a classic John Smith.”

  Advice I wish I’d heard a little earlier.

  * * *

  After lunch with Lindsay, I spent the rest of my day in my office, doing God knows what. I’m on autopilot, getting work done even when I don’t think about it. I hate working on the weekends, but my neighbor isn’t someone I prefer to look in the eyes at this moment, so I’ve stayed as far away as possible.

  Now that it’s eight, my brain is fried, and I can barely hold my eyes open—and all I want is to climb into my silk pajamas—I find myself climbing the floors in the elevator I was stuck in with Jason. The space is pretty big, but when he was in it, shirt off, it felt exponentially smaller.

  If I really concentrate, and take a big whiff, I feel like I can smell him . . . that or it’s my imagination.

  The elevator dings, the doors part, and there he is, standing in front of my door, about to knock on it.

  Ugh, this is exactly why I wanted to stay at my office. The easy access is killing me.

  “Oh, hey.” He smiles sheepishly and I want to die inside as humiliation from last night consumes me. But like always, I put on a strong face and give him a small wave.

  “Hey.”

  He steps away from my door, allowing me to unlock it.

  “I uh, was hoping I could apologize.”

  The door to the apartment is halfway open when I turn around to stare at him, confused. He wants to apologize?

  “Why?” I ask, completely questioning this man’s sanity. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Yes, I did.” His hands are in his pockets, his hair styled to the side, his beautiful green eyes reflect sincerity and remorse. I have no idea why. He’s positively gorgeous. Just standing in front of him is putting my stomach into knots and making my heart pound faster. “I shouldn’t have asked if you were high or drunk. That wasn’t cool on my part.”

  I shake my head. “It was a valid concern. I was a little weird last night.” Dropping my head, I stare at the keys in my hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  He lifts his hand to my chin and gently encourages me to look him in the eyes. When I do, everything around us fades to black and all I can see is this strong, confident man who should not be talking to me right now.

  In that moment, with his eyes locked with mine, his expression soft and concerned, I realize, even though I’m terrified and nervous of what might happen, I don’t think I have any other option than to want Jason Orson.

  “Don’t apologize, I was in the wrong. I pushed you and I shouldn’t have.” But I like when you push me. “I shouldn’t have invited you over for dinner or forced you to come over.” But it made my day when you pinned me against the door. “I shouldn’t have forced the date on you for your donation.” But seeing you in my office, with food, made me happier than I’ve ever been. “I’m sorry for everything and I hope we can be friends.” What? No. I know now that I want so much more than that. He nods into the apartment. “I can take care of the plants so you can go back home. No need for you to stay here.” I don’t want to go back home, not now that I want to see you when I arrive home from work. He takes the key from my hand. “I’ll water—”

  I take the key right back. “It’s okay, my parents are at my place anyway, so I’ll just stay here and finish up the job.” I give him a weak smile.

  He nods and takes a step back. “Okay, well, guess I’ll see you around.” He waves and backs up to his apartment.

  The word “wait” is on the tip of my tongue, urging me to shout it out, to stop him, to ask him to dinner, but I stay quiet as he ducks into his apartment and shuts the door.

  He apologized to me? After everything I did last night, breaking his dish, ruining his dinner, not helping clean up, ditching when I should have stayed, he was the one who apologized?

  There’s something extremely different about that man, and even though my mind is hearing warning bells, my heart is exploding with ideas on how to slowly—and I mean slowly—get Jason Orson to date me. Because the alternative—staying friends—isn’t right. All I can hope is the interest he seemed to display initially was real, and not him pretending. I’m terrified, but it might be time for me to be brave and open up my heart to someone. If I’m not too late. Because a man like Jason Orson doesn’t stay single for long.

  Chapter Fourteen

  JASON

  “Thanks so much for meeting with me,” I say to Walker Rockwell, the catcher for the Bobbies.

  I felt intimidated reaching out to him, because Rockwell isn’t known as a touchy-feely guy. *cue montage clips of him beating the ever-living shit out of water coolers with his bat* He has been known to have an attitude, to be tossed out of games for mouthing off to umpires about strike zone consistency, and he’s the first one off the bench when a fight breaks out. Basically, he’s the devil to my angel.

  But despite the rage he seems to have on simmer at all hours of the day, I knew he would be a great ally to have when it comes to my charity because through careful research, I discovered he had a sister with special needs. I don’t truly know what happened when she passed, but I do know he hasn’t been the same since.

  Walker takes my hand and gives it a firm shake. “Sure.”

  We both situate ourselves at the table and put in a quick order for some drinks and apps—I’m going to have to control myself around the pretzel bites, though, as I don’t want Walker thinking I’m a glutton.

  He looks around the restaurant and then asks, “How you liking Chicago?”

  “I grew up here, so being back home is amazing.”

  “Oh yeah, I think I saw that somewhere.” His jaw works to the side. “Have you seen what they’re already saying about us?”

  Another reason why I decided to call up Walker, because the media has been having a field day with the both of us. There’s no doubt the rivalry between the Bobbies and the Rebels is thick in the city, potent, so heavy in the air that you have to use a machete to walk around during baseball season.

  You’re either a diehard Bobbie for life or you’re a Rebel at heart. There’s no bouncing between the two, there’s no rooting for both. It’s either or, which the media loves sensationalizing, increasing the rivalry between fans with propaganda-filled articles that show feuds, and include the differences between the hell-bent Rebels and the hometown heroes, the Bobbies.

  I laugh. “Yeah, they’re ridiculous, saying we’re playing for the wrong teams.”

  He looks off to the side. “Yeah, we might be.”

  There’s no doubt Walker has had his ups and downs with the Bobbies. He’s been with them from the beginning, but trade rumors have been circulating, and they always seem to circle around Walker. I can’t imagine what it feels like to never feel safe with your job, to continually wonder if this year is the year you’re traded. He has one year left on his contract and then he’s a free agent. From what I’ve heard from Knox and Carson, he wants to retire as a Bobbie, but the front office isn’t too sure.

  Knowing the type of personality Walker has—closed off and not very talkative—I take the lead. “I know we play for different teams, but I figured I’d call you because I thought it would be a good idea to bring the city together for a good cause.”

  “The Lineup, right?” he asks, shifting in his seat and finally making eye contact.

  “Yes. My brother has cerebral palsy. He’s the reason I started it. In high school, because my coach was awesome, he was included in our games. But there are a lot of kids out there who don’t have the resources, the transportation, or the equipment, and this charity’s goal is to help those individuals. To help educate coaches, to sponsor teams who include a diverse group of kids on the teams.”

  “You played with your brother?”

  I nod. “In
high school. He was a part of the team, pinch runner. He used his walker, and I swear, watching him score runs is still one of the best experiences of my life. Now he’s an assistant coach at our high school.”

  “Wow.” He pushes his hand through his hair. “Your coach is a good man.”

  “He is. I spoke with Coach Whittaker, and he’s going to be a spokesperson for the charity, along with Joseph, my brother. We’re doing a video montage of them to help encourage other coaches and athletes to be inclusive. That’s where I was hoping you would come in. I know you had a sister with special needs.”

  He nods solemnly. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “What can I do?”

  I smile to myself, understanding how amazing having Walker Rockwell on board will be. Not only is it going to boost The Lineup, but I also think it will boost his image as well. A win-win for everyone. This man needs someone who gets him. If it helps him heal? Even better.

  * * *

  Are you home?

  I stare at the text message, confused. What stranger has my number and is asking if I’m home?

  Standing outside my building, sweat dripping down the front of my chest, my shirt tucked into the back of my shorts, I jog in place, trying to calm my already racing heart from my eight-mile run—suck my ass, Carson.

  Contemplating what I should do, I slowly text back.

  Jason: Not to be a complete asshole . . . but who is this?

  I hit send and the dots appear right away.

  I slow down to a sidestep, allowing my muscles to cool down as the text comes through.

  Unknown: Sorry, it’s Dottie.

  Oh . . . how did she get my number?

  Duh, that was a stupid question. Emory. I send her a text back.

  Jason: Glad you’re not a murderer. I’m headed up right now.

  Dottie: Okay, I’m outside the apartment.

  I take off toward the elevator wondering what she wants. I’m still surprised how shocked she was by my apology. I don’t know what kind of men she’s been hanging out with, but I was raised to believe that even if both parties were to blame for a disastrous night, you own up to it and apologize. It’s called being a man. Didn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed that she hadn’t wanted to talk more about us being friends though. Am I interested in Dottie? Hell, yeah. I’m putting that weird behavior down to whatever’s stressing her at work, and not a direct hit to me. But, still . . . I had begun hoping we could be more than friends. I like what I see in Dottie Domico, strange behavior aside.

  When the elevator reaches my floor, I walk out the doors and spot Dottie immediately. She’s holding a wrapped present in her hand and seems to be struggling with it. I quickly walk up to her and help her with the box.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She shakes out her arms. “I got you something.”

  I hold up the box. “This is for me?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead, open it.”

  “I love presents, especially if they’re wrapped.” Like a kid on Christmas, I tear open the wrapping paper and pop open the box. I push the tissue paper to the side to reveal a brand-new Williams Sonoma baking dish with ingredients to make enchiladas.

  Fucking thoughtful shit right there.

  “The chicken and cheese are in that mini cooler. Not sure if this is how you make them, but I thought it’s a start. Sorry about ruining your dinner.”

  “Hey, I told you it was cool. You didn’t have to do this.”

  She points to the box. “There are new oven mitts in there too.”

  I push a few things to the side only to find two pink and white mitts at the bottom. I pull them out and slip them on my hands.

  “Wow, these are comfortable.”

  “They’re the same ones I have in my apartment. They’re top of the line. Unfortunately, it was the only color they had but if anyone could rock them, it’s you.”

  When I look up at her, I see a spark of vulnerability. Dottie rarely shows her emotions. She doesn’t flinch when things go wrong, nor does she tend to smile when things go right, but in this moment, it’s as if she’s lowered the shield and is letting me see a small, well-hidden piece of her.

  “I’m really sorry about the other night. I’m hoping the invitation to be friends is still open.”

  I smile at her. “Hell yeah.”

  “Okay, good.” She backs away. “I have some dry cleaning to pick up and some errands to run. I’ll see you around.”

  “Thanks again.” I hold the box up to her and she nods, giving me a quick once-over with her eyes. A small blush creeps over her cheeks.

  “You’re welcome.”

  With a small wave, she walks back to the elevators, leaving me in a state of wonderment.

  Friends sounds nice. Maybe if we’re friends, she’ll start to melt that icicle surface of hers.

  * * *

  Dottie: I won’t be back to the apartment until really late. Do you think you can water the plants for me? I promise it’s the only time I’ll ask.

  Jason: Yeah, sure. Anything special I need to do?

  Dottie: Instructions are on the counter.

  Jason: Holy shit, why are things laminated in here?

  Dottie: She’s intense about her plants. Thanks, I owe you.

  Jason: Nah, you don’t owe me anything. What are friends for?

  Dottie: Thank you.

  * * *

  Dottie: Are you still awake?

  I look at the clock, ten thirty. Is she really just getting back to the apartment?

  Jason: Yup. What’s up?

  Dottie: I’m outside your apartment. Open the door.

  Jason: One second, I sleep naked.

  I slip out of bed, throw some clothes on—not bothering with underwear because why at this point—and open the door to my apartment where Dottie is standing on the other side, holding a Dairy Queen Blizzard in each of her hands.

  “Do you like ice cream?” she asks.

  “I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “Oh.” Her face falls, and I laugh, pulling her into my apartment.

  “I’m only kidding. Ice cream is my jam. What flavor did you get?”

  She sets her purse down in the entryway and follows me to my living room where I take a seat on the couch and she stands awkwardly at the edge of the rug.

  “You can come in, you know. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Just dropping off ice cream.”

  “Dottie. Sit.”

  After staring at the couch for a few seconds, she finally gives in and takes a seat. She holds the blizzards out to me and says, “Strawberry cheesecake or double chocolate brownie?”

  “Brownie. Brownie every time.” She hands me the little cup of ice cream and in seconds chocolate is searing my tongue, making me one happy man. “This is fucking perfect. Thank you.”

  “The least I could do for your help today.”

  I nudge her with my foot. “I told you it was no problem. I can seriously take care of the plants from now on if you want.”

  She shakes her head. “No, the distance from my parents is nice.”

  “Oh yeah, I keep forgetting they’re at your place. When I was reading the instructions, I saw that you’re not to water them past nine? What’s that about?”

  “I have no idea. I just do what the instructions tell me to do. I swear she treats them like animals. She was never like this in college. It wasn’t until she was living alone that she developed a green thumb. I think it’s because she missed Knox and poured her love into greenery.”

  “Better than pouring her love into a bottle.”

  “I guess so.” She scoops a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth and looks around the place. “You really did do a nice job decorating.”

  “Thank you. I hate decorating, because I really only care about the kitchen.”

  “So you actually like to cook?”

  “Love it,” I answer, ice cream sloshing around in my mouth. “It soothes me. I spend a lot of hours getting beat up behind home plate,
and it’s a nice getaway from all of that.”

  “What’s your favorite thing to make?”

  “Potato salad of course.” I wink. “Which I still have not forgiven you for spitting that out in front of my face.”

  “You were annoying me. I don’t feel bad.”

  “Didn’t think you did.” I laugh and study her, while still shoveling ice cream in my mouth. “So why the change of heart?”

  “What do you mean?” she asks, even though I know she knows what I mean. I can tell from the way she looks away, no doubt her mind spinning to find an appropriate answer. Whatever she says probably won’t be the full truth and that’s fine, because if she’s had trust issues in the past, it’s going to take a while to know I’m trustworthy.

  “You want to be friends. But a few days ago, I think you would have rather stuck your head in my jockstrap and worn it as an eyepatch than be friends with me.”

  “That’s revolting.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  She sets her cup down and says, “Emory and Knox are going through some big things. There are going to be parties and celebrations coming up, and I want to make sure it’s comfortable for everyone, which means we should get along.”

  That does make sense, but I still don’t believe that’s the full truth.

  “Think they’ll have one of those gender reveal parties?”

  Dottie nods. “Oh yeah. I bet Knox hits one of those color balls with a bat to reveal it.”

  “That is so him.” I devoured my ice cream, so I take the last bite and set my empty cup down. Dottie still has half of hers left. “Are you going to finish that?”

  “Go ahead.” She hands it to me and I don’t even bother switching spoons. I take big scoops while smiling at her.

  “Told you ice cream was my lover. Do you have one . . . a lover?”

  “What? No. I haven’t dated in a really long time.”

  “Not a person. But a thing that you attach yourself to during the good times and bad. A comfort food.”