Chapter 32 Indie

Chapter 32

Indie

“Explain to me again why we are meeting at Dom’s to watch the game,” Poppy quizzes me from the other end of the phone, which is on speaker. The girls are supposed to meet me there in thirty minutes and I’m still getting my shit together. By getting my shit together, I mean stress eating the rest of the cookie dough that Dom opened the other day.

“It’s nearly ninety-five degrees out and he has a pool with a TV. Do you need more of a reason to have a frozen drink and watch your man play from a pool with your best friends?”

“Are you sure it’s not an aquarium? Because I smell something fishy.”

It’s not that I don’t want to tell her, I do; keeping her in the dark feels like a betrayal. I just want to get this over with all at once instead of telling everyone individually. “If this interrogation continues much longer, Mia and Lilah are going to be left waiting outside because they beat us there. And they are bringing the margarita mix, so I should probably get going.”

“Dammit, you’re right.” She sighs.

“I know.”

“I still have questions. Don’t think I’ll forget just because margaritas were involved.”

“Again, I know.” This time it’s me sighing into the phone as we hang up. I toss the now empty container of cookie dough, which isn’t as tragic as it sounds because, as promised, Dom found a way to pack my freezer full from his early morning flight yesterday. As of this morning, my stock is more than replenished. Chocolate chip, double chocolate, peanut butter, snickerdoodle and M his jaw is set and his cleats dig into the dirt as he waits for his pitch. The first pitch is a fastball and he’s behind it just a hair. The pitcher tricks him with a curveball on the next pitch for a strike. Stepping out, he refocuses, before taking his spot in the batter’s box again. After fouling off a few in row, he strikes out, swinging on a slider.

Lilah stops the steady pattern she was pacing on the patio and stands in front of the TV, watching as her husband traces two letters into the dirt. A J for his late brother, followed by a D for her, just like he does every game. With intense focus, he watches the first two pitches before swinging at one he likes and sending it down the third baseline, all the way to the corner.

While the outfielder is digging it out, Hendrix and Cruz advance to third and second base.

Nerves crawl up my spine as Dom walks to the plate. His trademark smirk melts away and his muscles coil, poised to strike. I know that look well, and it has me clenching my thighs together, hoping no one notices.

He doesn’t take his time and wait or battle like his teammates. Instead, he sees something he likes on the first pitch and swings away. It pays off. The ball goes flying over the outfielder’s head and clears the fence, ending the game in impressive fashion. I don’t even realize that I’m making a spectacle of myself until I realize that every pair of eyes is now turned on me as I throw my hands in the air, cheering wildly.

“Oh, I love this.” Poppy laughs, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “You’re a Bandits WAG now, and you’re just as crazy as the rest of us.”

Yeah, I think I am, and I don’t hate it at all.

When the girls clear out after the game, I could take Ronnie with me and go home—I probably should—but I don’t. Instead, the two of us head up to his bed and wait for him to call. With the dog settled on the floor at the end of the bed, I scroll my email while I wait.

When the phone rings, Dom’s face takes up ninety percent of the screen—the contact photo he assigned himself on display. He’s sweaty from his workout and his honey-colored hair is held back by . . . holy shit . . . how did I not notice that the bandana he’s been wearing all season matches the one he had made for Ronnie?

I study the picture more closely, trying to remember the first time I saw him wearing this pattern. I think back to the games I’ve watched. He’s had it since I moved, for sure. He was wearing one in Chicago as well, and I vaguely recall thinking he was ridiculous for wearing one with fireworks when it wasn’t a holiday. I’m such an idiot. The fireworks were never about Memorial Day or the Fourth of July. Snapping out of it, I quickly answer the call before it goes to voicemail.

“Oh fuck, Baby, you’re in my bed. You don’t know how much I like that.” He’s seated at the end of his bed, the unremarkable white sheets and beige hotel walls visible behind him.

“Ronnie wanted to stay here tonight,” I say, causing her to groan from where she lazily lays at the end of the bed.

“She did?”

“Uh huh,” I lie.

“Did Ronnie also dress you in my shirt for bed?” he asks, the corners of his lips turning up in a knowing smile.

“No, that was all me. I missed you and this smells like you.” Inhaling, I bring the shirt up to my nose. “Did she dress the two of you in your matching bandanas?”

It’s annoying how perfect he looks with that crooked smirk tilting his lips. So damn pleased with himself.

“Took you long enough to notice.”

“Is that a superstition you picked up from Memorial Day or the Fourth?”

“Nope.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “How long have you been wearing it?”

“Lark made it for me at the beginning of the season. I’ve been wearing it regularly since then, Firecracker.”

“Why?”

“You know why. I’ve never kept my feelings for you a secret.”

“That scares the shit out of me, Dom; how fearless you are in your belief that things will just work out.”

“I’m not fearless. Nothing scares me more than the thought of losing you.”

My chest splits open with his admission. He’s been my rock, making sure I’m okay day after day, but this is taking a toll on him as well. He just hides it better. I wish I could take that pain away from him the same way he does for me. I know from losing my mom that I can’t. He’s made his choice by being with me.

“If it bothers you, I won’t wear it. ”

“No!” I practically scream. “Don’t do that. It doesn’t bother me. I’m envious of how hopeful you are. I wish I could be more like you. It’s one of my favorite things about you. It’s just one of the reasons this works.”

“You don’t need to be like me, Indie. Let me balance out your wildness. Lean on me for my faith. Talk sense into me when I’m not being serious enough. We’re a team. That’s how relationships are supposed to work,” he says, moving until he’s settled against the headboard, his bare shoulders tanned and still showing some scratches from the last time we were together before I left. God, that’s hot.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“With you, it is. That’s how I knew I wanted more when we first met.” He exhales, looking at me seriously. “I know things aren’t always going to be easy. I’m going to annoy you. You’re going to get snarky with me. It’s going to take everything we’ve got sometimes, but the decision to put in the effort is never going to be the hard part. Not for me. I know what I want and it’s you.”

“I want you too.” He’s right about that much, now that I’m being honest about wanting Dom, being with him is effortless. He’s quickly become my best friend.

“Since we are getting deep, how are you feeling?” he asks.

“Oh, um, fine. The cookie dough was delicious. Thankfully, my uterus is sparing me the dramatics of trying to murder me from the inside out.”

Warmth washes over me when he chuckles, even through the phone it affects me, coasting over my skin like a gentle touch and making me miss him more. “Glad to hear it. If that changes, my freezer is stocked as well. But that’s not what I meant.” The smile on his face fades, replaced by a look of concern. “Are you feeling okay about the blood work tomorrow?”

“Oh, that .” Like I could have forgotten. It’s been haunting me since I made the appointment. I’m still not sure if it’s the right decision, but I’m going through with it.

“We get in early. I have some meetings at the stadium after we land, but I’ll pick you up, just like we talked about. ”

He’s insisted on coming and driving me. It goes against all my instincts to let him help like this, but I know I shouldn’t shy away from the support, even if it feels foreign.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Nice game tonight,” I add, desperate to take a step back from the heavy conversation. “The girls noticed your thong.”

“Well, duh, I wear the shit out of that thing.”

“So humble. How’d I get so lucky?”

“You want me to put it on and remind you just how cocky I am?” He wiggles his eyebrows. Something so ludicrous has no right looking as hot as it does.

“That’s it. This relationship was fun, but it’s over now.”

“You couldn’t quit me if you tried. Now tell me more about your nigh—” Banging in the background interrupts him mid-thought. “Hold on, that’s probably room service.” He stands from the bed, phone held out in front of him as he walks. I hear the locks click and confusion crosses his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, stepping back from the door.

From my limited view, I can see the guys filter in without waiting for an invitation.

“Seems like we have company,” Dom says, his normally sunny disposition souring at the intrusion.

“Never stopped you before,” Dean grumbles, sticking his head in view of the camera. “Hey, Indie.”

Without acknowledging his friend, I tell Dom, “So, I told the girls tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

“Fuck yeah it is. I’ve been dying to shout it from the rooftops,” he practically cheers, dropping onto the side of the bed.

“You want to deal with this and call me back?” I ask through a huff of laughter.

“No. I want to talk to my girlfriend, but Blanche and her gabbers aren’t going anywhere until I fill them in.” Hendrix proves his point by dropping on to the bed next to him.

“You have fun with that. ”

“I wanted to have fun with you,” he grumbles and then we say a too-quick goodbye.

By the time Dom calls me back, I’m asleep, and the next time I hear from him is the following morning when I wake up to a panic-filled phone call because storms have them stuck on the tarmac.

As much as I try to assure him it’s okay, he’s already beating himself up over a situation that’s completely out of his control. I’m still filled with anxiety over going alone, but he’s done so much for me and I want to protect him from his own guilt. I reassure him it’s okay and I can go on my own, dreading it the whole time.

Hours later, I’m alone in the sterile waiting room of the clinic, twisting the hem of my t-shirt in my hands until it’s stretched beyond repair. I swipe my sweaty hands on my shaking thighs and try to focus on anything but how badly I want to walk back out the door. It’s the fear talking, and I’m done letting it win.

Dom took off just over two hours ago, and promised to come straight here, but there’s no way he’s going to make it. Being this close to the postseason, they have the team at the stadium almost nonstop—reviewing tape and putting in extra time with trainers to stay on top of their game. Any hope I’ve held onto is dashed when a nurse steps into the lobby from the back and calls my name. With one last glance towards the entrance, I stand, resigned to being here alone.

I’m halfway across the room when the door to the waiting room bangs open and a red-faced Dom rushes in. I’m so relieved to see him I could cry, but he’s got his arms around me before I have the chance.

I bury my face in his shirt and suck in a deep breath. When he kisses my head and whispers, “I’ve got you,” all the nerves melt away. And he means it because his hand never leaves mine, not when he holds the door for me, or when the medical assistant ties off the rubber tourniquet and draws my blood.