Chapter 30

30

It’s not football. And by football, I mean proper football. But baseball will definitely do.

Truth is, I rather like this American pastime, and that is unrelated to having an American-born dad and entirely down to how utterly cool his mother—my nan—was.

Nan, a born-and-bred New Yorker, was loyal to the Bronx Bombers till her dying day. She made me read her the box scores from the newspaper—the actual ink and print thing, not even online—during her last few days. She had season tickets before it was cool to have season tickets. She sat in the upper deck, hunched over in her blue-and-white windbreaker, keeping score and teaching me.

Yes, that’s one of my party tricks. I can record errors, strikeouts, fielder’s choice, double plays, and line drives.

I do it this afternoon, recording the first play while enjoying peanuts and more beer as the sun shines brightly overhead.

“Your little scorekeeping notebook is so cute. Don’t forget to record all the balls ,” Malone says as I write down the count on which the pitcher walked the guy.

“Classy, Malone. Mock me for my hobby. Do I mock you for singing?”

He scoff-laughs. “Every. Single. Time.”

“No,” I say, affecting seriousness. “I sing along.” I slide into the tune I heard him singing the other week. “ Tell all the gang at Forty-Second Street, that I will soon be there. Give my regards to old Broadway . . . See? I’m a much more supportive friend than you, being all respectful of your hobby.”

I write down the flyout that comes next on the field. But as my words make landfall, I wince. I’m not entirely the better friend, not even close. I’m the worst friend, given what I did in a limo last night. But I’m on the straight and narrow today. Turning over a new leaf.

Malone takes a drink of his beer. “Like I said, you mock me every time, and if you didn’t, I’d take you to the hospital for a psychological evaluation. You told me that once. That’s how I’d know you were an impostor.”

I stroke my chin. “True, true. Your insults are proof that it’s you and not a doppelg?nger, pod-person, or robot.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” Charlotte says as the pitcher winds up. “We could actually, I dunno, watch the action on the field?”

Truly pats Charlotte’s shoulder. “It always falls on us women to make sure the men know why they’re actually at a game. Everything is a trash-talk fiesta for them.”

Malone shoots the woman I screwed last night a curious look.

I mean, his sister. He gives his sister a look.

“But I thought you came here because you liked the way the shortstop looked in his uniform,” Malone remarks.

“Ah, the plot thickens. Is that so?” I ask Truly. “Don’t deny it. You do come here to perv on Lorenzo Marquez.”

Truly shrugs like she has a naughty little secret she’s not giving up. “Truth. Preach it.”

Charlotte nods. “Amen. Shortstops are the hottest. I think that’s why my husband decided to play shortstop on your softball team.”

“Because they’re hot?” Malone asks incredulously. “That’s why Spencer is the shortstop? I thought it was because, call me crazy, he was actually good at fielding the ball.”

“That too. But also because shortstops are traditionally the hottest players. If you don’t believe me, just look it up.”

“And you’re complaining that we sit in the stands and do things other than watch the game and only the game? I believe that makes you the pot calling the kettle black, ladies,” Malone says.

Truly squeezes his arm. “Dear brother, at some point, you’re going to have to accept that baseball history is incredibly inclusive and now encompasses everything from not only the greatest ballparks, players, and plays of all time, but also the best parks for craft beer as well as the cutest butts in uniform. Also, I know you’re a historian of athletic physique too. You had a poster of Brandi Chastain above your desk in high school.”

“Whoa,” Charlotte cuts in. “I’m just hearing this story now? I’ve known you two clowns for years, and I’m just now learning your brother had a crush on Brandi Chastain?”

Truly wiggles her eyebrows. “The one and only. He has good taste.”

I tap Malone’s shoulder. “It was the picture, right?”

“Of course.”

“I had that picture too. She was tops when she won the World Cup with the fifth kick in the penalty shootout. Have you ever seen any game that fantastic before?”

Truly cracks up. “Jason, you’re so adorable. He did not have the photo because of the absolutely incredible play she made. He had it because of the sports bra.”

Malone cuts in. “Just like you had posters of Derek Jeter all over your room because of his five Gold Gloves or his World Series victories?”

Truly gasps indignantly. “I totally had his picture because of his World Series wins. He’s the man in the post season.”

“Oh, right,” I say, winking. “Of course. That’s why you hung up his shot. Just like everyone who read a certain magazine for, ahem, the articles.”

Truly crosses her arms, straightens her shoulders. “I admired him.”

“Admired his backside,” Malone coughs under his breath.

“I admired his gamesmanship.”

Malone chuckles, raising a finger to make a point. “So much that you also used to draw hearts in your notebook and write TG and DJ.”

She slaps his thigh. “I did not.”

Charlotte holds up a hand in admission. “I’ll confess. I did that. I also liked to add TLF for True Love Forever . But in my defense, I was fourteen.”

“Same, same,” Truly says quickly. “And just to be clear, I liked him because of his talent. Because of his skills.”

Malone clears his throat. “She liked his ass. It’s that simple.”

I pop a peanut into my mouth, making a mental note that some things never change. Truly Goodman is an ass woman. She squeezed mine the other night on the street, after all. And I have to say, my derriere is just as good as Jeter’s. Maybe not on par with Enzo’s, but Jeter’s will do.

Wait. I can’t be thinking about her interest in my ass. I’m at a game with her brother.

I direct my thoughts to baseball and only baseball for the next several innings as Malone and Truly trade stories, poking each other in places only a sibling can reach, with Charlotte and I chiming in from time to time.

But as we slide into the seventh-inning stretch, something I’ve been sidestepping is becoming unsidesteppable. These two are so connected. They love each other madly, and they support each other savagely.

As it should be.

I love my little sister like crazy. I’d do anything for her, and I do—running a second business to finance her education. And I have zero regrets about it.

I understand the deep and abiding love between siblings.

But guilt is a splinter under my skin. Guilt over the lie I’m telling Malone. The lie of omission.

For the second time, I slept with my best mate’s sister.

Once can be a mistake, can be forgivable, even.

But twice is deliberate.

And if I do it again, it’ll feel like an affair.

Though nothing about last night felt illicit. Everything felt all too right, all too true. Was it that way for her? Did she feel the same something more too?

The loudspeaker crackles, interrupting my thoughts as the announcer tells us it’s time for “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

We stand and sing a rousing rendition.

When it ends, Truly smiles at her brother. “Remember how we used to duet that song when we were kids and Dad took us to the games?”

Malone’s smile is genuine and a little wistful, like he’s remembering those times with their father. “We duetted everything. We had a blast, especially with Dad.”

“We did.” Truly drapes an arm around him. “You have the pipes, but I can hold my own. We killed it at Christmas.”

“ Jingle Bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way ,” Malone croons.

“ Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh ,” she sings.

Malone returns to his speaking voice. “But that was nothing compared to the time you came home from college, and whipped up some pancakes for breakfast and a song about them too. Right on the spot, with your spatula as a microphone. I was all kinds of impressed.”

“Hello? I love pancakes. They deserve all the odes.” Truly shimmies her shoulders, and with a bluesy tone, she and Malone sing to the tune of “On a Bicycle Built for Two.”

“ Pancakes, pancakes, give me your answer true . . . I’m half-crazy over the love of you . . . it won’t be a stylish affair . . . we can’t afford flatware, but I’ll gobble you down, till you’re all around . . . in my huge belly! ”

I lean back in the seat, watching them. It’s completely endearing. It tugs on my heart and makes it ache at the same damn time. When they’re done, I slow-clap along with Charlotte.

“And this is why I’m so damn grateful you sing at my bar too,” Charlotte says, patting Malone on the arm.

“It was nice of me to share my brother with you, wasn’t it?” Truly says.

“Ladies, ladies. There’s enough of me to go around,” Malone says, then looks at Truly. “But that’s your family-friendly pancake number, sis. Don’t hold back on the naughtier one you sang when Mom left the kitchen. As a matter of fact, I sang it to Sloane the other morning.”

“You sang my pancake seduction number to your fiancée? The woman who swoons every time you sing? I’m shocked.”

He shrugs with a smirk. “It worked.”

I chime in. “I want to hear the pancake seduction tune.”

Truly huffs, the kind of sound you make when you’re not really irritated. “Really? You want my not-safe-for-work pancake song?”

Charlotte’s hand shoots up. “Hello! How did I not know about this? Sing it, girl. Sing it now.”

Truly straightens her shoulders, purses her lips, and makes a sexy little humming sound in the back of her throat. “ Come get some pancakes. I know you want 'em. I got some pancakes. Hot off the griddle. Come get some pancakes. ”

I tug on my collar because it’s too hot for words here. I’d like to come get her pancakes. I’d like to pour syrup all over her and lick it off.

And yet, here I am at a ballgame, having a blast with my friends. Am I willing to risk moments like this too?

There are my stakes, there are hers, and then there are these . This deep familial bond.

Truly and Malone are so close they can sing Christmas songs together at Yankee Stadium. They can harmonize about fluffy carbs, they can talk about missing their dad, and it’s all part of who they are.

I can’t ruin that. I can’t take a chance I might damage this precious connection.

I have to stay out of the horizontal zone with Truly.No matter how hard it is.