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Chapter 11I’m too old for Netflix and Chill. I’m more of a Prime and Wine.
-Wrigley to George
Wrigley
“Hey, Grams,” I sang into the phone the moment I placed it to my ear. “What are you doing today?”
Grams clucked into the phone. “Are you back together yet?”
I pinched my lips between my upper and lower teeth.
“No,” I drawled. “I’m calling about the game. Are you still wanting to go?”
“Yes,” she sounded offended that I’d even ask. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Today being family day at the field, I wanted to make sure before I told George that you were coming. You know how he gets,” I said.
The first family day I’d gone to had been eye-opening.
Everybody had a ton of family there. Most of the players had at least one or two people out on the field with them while they were singing the national anthem. Everybody, that was, but my man.
My ex-man.
I still remember that day like it was yesterday.
***
Two years ago.
I sat in the seat assigned to me, my infant son in my arms.
Micah was asleep and dead to the world. Dead to the world, that was, until you tried to put him down in his car seat, or pass him off to his Aunt Diamond.
It was as if he knew exactly what I was trying to do when he was sleeping, and he only wanted one of two people. Me, or George.
Nobody else would do.
Not even Grams was a passable alternative.
Grams, who was supposed to be here over an hour ago but wasn’t due to her flight being delayed.
The families started to pour onto the field, all of them looking happy and excited to be out there. Even the players looked happy.
Then there was George.
He was looking at me with concern.
I mouthed, “Her flight is late.”
His face fell.
Nobody else but me would’ve noticed the quick change in him, but I knew.
He got that defeated look sometimes when his sister would call for money, or when his brother would call to tell him he had a new nephew but didn’t actually want him to come see him. He only wanted the big fat check that George would send upon hearing the news.
When we’d called with our good news of Micah’s arrival, nobody had come down. Grams had been sick with pneumonia, and this would be her first time actually seeing Micah since he’d been born over a month and a half ago.
George was the only person on the entire field that was standing alone.
It was heartbreaking.
The players started to be announced, along with their families, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
Standing up and hurrying to the wall that separated the field from the stands, I waved at the security guard.
“Can you help me over?”
He frowned at me, but he didn’t object. Me and Tyrone were tight. He was a big, sexy African American man that was as dangerous as a teddy bear…to me. The rest of the world had to watch out, because it wasn’t often that somebody got pegged with a ball twice in his section—I.e. me.
“Whatcha doin’ girl?” he asked me.
Tyrone was an off-duty cop for the LPD—Longview Police Department and was a part of the SWAT team. He worked part-time as a security officer at the stadium in row F because he was triple certified as a police officer, firefighter, and paramedic. He made shit tons of money sitting at a game—a game which conveniently he loved—and made sure that nobody got too out of hand. And if they did get out of hand, he knew how to handle it.
Tyrone loved me, though, and I invited him to Thanksgiving dinner. He’d accepted, and now we were BFFs.
“Careful of the dirt, darlin’,” he warned.
I was careful of the dirt as George’s name was called.
He was paying attention to the announcer and wasn’t paying attention to me, so he didn’t know that I was standing directly beside him until I was touching his arm.
He frowned ferociously down at me. That frown literally turned upside down as he saw it was me.
His eyes went lazy as he took me in. “What are you doing, baby?”
“We’re family now, right?” I asked him, handing Micah over to him.
That was when the crowd started to say ‘awwwww’ simultaneously when George took our baby up in his arms and expertly parked him on his shoulder, his tiny little baby butt cradled securely in one large hand.
I smiled and turned to say hi to Rhys, a fellow teammate of George’s, before wrapping my arms around George’s waist.
“Thanks, baby,” he whispered.
I squeezed him tighter. “Anything for you.”
***
Anything for you.
That saying held true today.
We may not be married—my fault—but I would forever stand at his side.
No matter what.
Why? Because I was a glutton for punishment.
“Are you even listening to anything I am saying?” she tittered.
