Page 22 of Lucky 22

We pause as our dinners arrive, and for the next fewminutes, the conversation is all about the food, which is fine with me becauseit all looks and smells delicious.

“Did they cast you in the TV show because of your work inthe parks?” he asks, and for a minute, I’m confused because I didn’t expect himto want to go back to my story.

“Sadly, no. My dad left his job at Wonder Land and took aposition with a company in Tennessee. Our family moved right after I graduatedhigh school. Then, I got accepted to the University of CincinnatiCollege-Conservatory of Music.”

He looks very impressed, and I can tell he wants to knowmore.

“It was an incredible opportunity, but…” I shrug. “It wasn’ta good fit for me. The program was geared more toward actors looking to performon stage, and I wanted to be on TV and in movies.”

“That makes sense.”

“I got the opportunity to star in an independent film inItaly during my first semester.”

His eyes go a little wide. “Wow, that’s pretty incredible.Was that part of the program?”

“No. It was through a connection I’d made earlier, and I hadto take time off from school to go and film it. By the time I got back,everyone was wondering why I was even going to college for acting when I wasalready landing roles.” Another shrug. “That’s when I had to decide if I wasgoing to stay in Cincinnati, go home to Memphis, where my family was, or takethe risk and make the move to LA.”

“And here you are,” he says with a smile.

“And here I am.” I smile back. “What about you? How did youend up playing for the Magic?”

If I thought I worked hard and had my share of setbacks,they’re nothing compared to what Christian’s journey was like.

He’s short for an athlete. Like, not ridiculously short, butat five foot seven, he’s definitely shorter than the average player. Because ofthat, he was underestimated from the beginning. As I listen to his story, Ifind I’m angry for him. Time and again, he was passed over or just flat-outoverlooked. And that’s even after he won the World Series. If I thought gettingturned down for a role here and there was depressing, I can’t even imagine whatit’s been like for him.

“How do you keep going?” I ask. “Did you ever just want towalk away and be done with it?”

Shaking his head, he confidently says, “Never. This has beenmy dream, and all those disappointments just make me want to prove everyonewrong.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

And right there, there’s a connection that goes beyond anyphysical attraction. There’s something deeper, more profound, and it’s on awhole other level. I already know that I like this man. But now, there’s moreto relate to than the fact that we both grew up in the Sunshine State. The moreI learn about him, the more I want to know. And given how he keeps asking mequestions, I think it’s the same for him.

We finish our dinner as he tells me more about his career.

“What was it like to win a World Series? Your family musthave been so proud of you. I’ll bet you celebrated like crazy.” I can onlyimagine what something like that—a career high—must feel like, and I’mpractically on the edge of my seat waiting to hear all about it.

He doesn’t answer right away. And when he does, I’m a littlesurprised by what he says.

“Winning a World Series was a dream come true.” His voice iscalm, not at all excited like I thought it would be. “The team worked hard forit, and no one believed we’d make it.”

Okay…

“Was your family there to celebrate with you?”

He nodded. “Almost everyone. They all stayed in myapartment, my sisters slept on the floor in sleeping bags, but it was great tohave them there.”

“Who didn’t make it? I would think something that huge wouldhave every member of your family there to support you.”

He shrugged. “My father wasn’t there. He had to work, so…”Another shrug. “Winning the World Series was the best night of my life. Wecelebrated as a team, and my family got to celebrate with us. But every seasonyou play, you expect to win. I was just doing my job. It’s what I’ve trainedfor.” He’s looking at me and can probably tell that I’m a little shocked by hisanswer.

Unable to help myself, I reach across the table and place myhand on top of his. “Christian, you know what an amazing achievement that was,right? What you did, even if you did train for it, was still such atremendous accomplishment.” I pause, caressing his hand, both to comfort himand because I can’t seem to help myself. “It’s a big deal, and I bet someplayers play their entire careers and never win a World Series. I’d still becelebrating if I were you.”

For a moment, he looks uncomfortable. Turning my hand inhis, he studies them. “That’s not the way I grew up. In my family, weacknowledge the victory and then move on to the next thing.”

I need to process that statement, but before I can sayanything, our server comes over to ask if we’re ready for dessert. The awkwardmood is broken, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or not. Still, we orderdessert, because it’s my birthday and he insists, and he changes the subject tothe sitcom I’m filming this week.

By the time we’re done, the restaurant seems quieter,emptier, and when I realize it’s after midnight, I almost can’t believe it. Iknow we’ve eaten and talked, but I had no idea it had been over two hours. Ihave to be on set early in the morning, and I still have a bit of a drive backhome, but I don’t care. My mom always said, “You can sleep when you’re old.”And I feel twenty-two years young.