Page 5 of Lucky 22

Jim: It’s a surprise. 12

Okay, then. I guess I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to getmy answer, which is fine, because I’m beat and desperately want to take ashower, put on some clean, non-coffee-smelling jammies, and get some sleep.Tossing my phone down, I get up and stretch, then do exactly that—lookingforward to sleeping in tomorrow morning.

When Jim shows up the next day, he hands me a bag with mysurprise in it. And I have to say, it’s awesome.

It’s a baseball jersey with the number twenty-two on it.

“I love it! Oh, my goodness! It’s perfect!” I examine itcloser and turn it around. “Lucas? Who’s Lucas?”

“That’s Christian Lucas’s number, so his name’s on thejersey,” Jim explains. “I know you’re not really into baseball, so I was goingfor the number and not the player. Personally, I don’t know anything about himother than that he wears your number.” He winks at me and seems pretty proud ofhimself.

“Oh, okay,” I say, smiling. “I get it. Thank you.” I hughim, and it lingers. I’m hugging him like I would my brother, but he’s clearlyholding on because, to him, it’s something more.

I really need to do something about that. After this game, Ithink I need to break up with him.

When we finally break apart, I excuse myself to change intomy shirt. In the bathroom mirror, I fluff my long, blond hair, add a bit morelip gloss, and admire the jersey, genuinely loving having my lucky number onit. I take it as a sign that it’s going to be a good night.

When I step back into the room, I pose like a model. “Whatdo you think? Do I look like a fan?”

“You look adorable,” he assures me, kissing me on the cheek.“You ready?”

“Let’s do this.”

I’ve experienced many things since moving to LA, but goingto a sporting event hasn’t been one of them until now. Anaheim has a team—theAnaheim Magic—and Jim tells me they’re very good. I take his word for it.

At the stadium, we meet up with our friends, and they’re allgushing about how great our seats are because we are in the first row, rightnext to the dugout. Well, now I feel really spoiled, and I imagine all futurebaseball games will be ruined for me because we have the best seats in thewhole stadium.

The game starts, and Jim tries to explain all the plays andwhat’s happening, but I’m only halfway listening. I may not follow baseball,but I’m familiar with the rules. Having him chattering in my ear is kind ofruining the experience.

Our friends keep calling this Christian Lucas guy “myboy,” since he’s wearing my number. I laugh because, technically, I’mwearing his number. Either way, after every play he makes, thedialogue is a bunch of, “Hey, Ella! Your boy just did this,” or “Did you seeyour boy, Ella? He just did that!” It’s cute, and I’m having a good time.

Anaheim scores a home run, and one of the players comes outof the dugout to congratulate the hitter. My eyes go wide when I see it’s myboy. His back is to us, so we can clearly see the twenty-two, but then heturns toward the stands.

My heart races a little because I’m wildly curious and wantto put a face to the name and number. To my surprise, he looks right atme—almost as if he knows I’m there. He looks familiar, but with his hat on, Ican’t be too sure. All I know is that our eyes lock and hold for like fiveseconds, and it feels as if everything else around me fades away. No noise. Nocheering. No chattering.

I blink, and he’s gone. I seriously wonder if it happened atall. Did I imagine it? But…I feel a little flustered, so it had to be real,right? I want to ask if my friends noticed, but as I glance around, no one’spaying any attention to me; they’re just enjoying the game. I guess I should,too.

The only difference is, now I’m a little more invested andactively watching what my boy is doing.

His team plays a great game, and by the time it’s over, I’mcaught up in the excitement of it all and know that number twenty-two seemslike a very skilled player.

And he looks good in his uniform.

Jim drives me home. We kiss goodnight, but I know this is itfor us. It has nothing to do with the baseball player and everything to do withme. It feels wrong to lead Jim on when there’s no hope of him being my foreverperson. The only fair thing to do is rip off the bandage and be honest. Butwhen I go to say it, he gushes about what a great time he had and how glad heis to have experienced a baseball game with me.

Ugh.

I do break up with him, though.

Just…the next day.

It’s all very cordial, and yes, I play the wholeit’s-not-you-it’s-me card because…well…it is me.

Naturally, he asks for another chance, promising he can bewhatever I need him to be. But he’s missing the point. I’m not looking forsomeone to morph into something they’re not. I do that for a living. That’swhat acting’s all about. I don’t want that in my real life. I want to be withsomeone authentic. The concept is lost on Jim, though, and our breakupconversation goes on for almost an hour. Fortunately, in the end, he finallygets it.

“I wish you nothing but happiness in life,” I tell him. “Andyou’re going to find the perfect woman who loves you for exactly who you are.”

“I wanted it to be you,” he says sadly before walking away.