Page 32

Armed with three tacos each and Mexican coke for me and a Jarritos Mandarin for Charlie, we end up at the Mulholland fountain.

“Shit that’s good,” Charlie mumbles around his carnitas.

“Right?” I say, washing down a bite of my pulled chicken with ice cold Coke.

“Can’t get tacos like this in New York.”

“They’re close, but no,” I agree, “The Italian is way better, though.”

“I don’t know, I’m gonna have to try that.”

“There’s a place, by Javy actually, we’ll go when we head back. The pesto gnocchi actually melts in your mouth.”

“Now that I have to try.”

There’s something about sitting in silence with this man, less than a foot apart, not even looking at him that has me reconsidering everything.

Every time we’re close – hell, every time we’re in the same room – there’s chemistry, a magnetism, something that makes the air spark and my body desperate to be closer.

I glance over to find him already looking at me, Jarritos halfway to his mouth, but he stops when our eyes meet. Then his gaze flicks down to my lips and the air electrifies around us, sharp and hot against my skin, already warm from the afternoon sun.

“Hang on, you’ve got . . .” he trails off, and I feel like I’m in some kind of extremely earnest nineties romcom as he reaches out, hesitating just before the callused edge of his thumb lands at my bottom lip. “Can I?”

And it’s so familiar, his need to know if I want him to touch me, if it’s allowed, that I find myself nodding and then, when the rough pad of his finger brushes against me, a shiver flows through my body at the slightest contact.

I could be imagining it, but I think maybe he starts to lean in, the tips of his other fingers ghost against my neck, making the shiver into a surge of pure fire in my blood.

How is it possible that it’s getting more intense?

Reaching up, my hand grasps his wrist, simultaneously holding him close, but stopping him.

He lets his hand fall away and I release it as he does. Shaking my head, I let out a heavy sigh. “Every single time.”

He laughs and then takes that sip, before saying, “There are worse things in the world.”

“True,” I agree. “But at some point . . .”

“We’re both adults, Frankie. We’ll ignore it until it goes away.”

“You think it’s going to go away?”

“I think . . .” he trails off, “I think we have to hope that it does, unless . . . you’ve changed your mind.”

And there it is. The ball is in my court and I can admit that it has been ever since I hitched a ride with him back from JFK in the wee hours of a rainy New York morning.

“Then here’s to it going away,” I say, raising my glass bottle for him to clink his against.

“No offense, Sullivan, but I’m not drinking to that.”

And now I’m the one laughing. “Fair enough. We should get back.”

“Yeah. Do you mind if we go back to my place first? I didn’t bring anything with me and, if we’re going to be camping out at the Four Seasons for a few days, I’m gonna need a change of clothes.”

“Sure, but I pick the music.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Sullivan. Dan Wilson doesn’t a stand a chance.”

The drive is long. It’s never easy to get from one side of LA to another, but rush hour has us in the car for nearly an hour.

“Isn’t this a little . . . obvious?” he asks, when I tune up California by Phantom Planet.

“I will hear no blasphemy about this song.”

“I marathoned this show once.”

“Really?”

“When Javy and I were in the minors, we had no money, there wasn’t anything to do, so one season we just mainlined The O.C. from beginning to end.”

“Okay, moment of truth then, Marissa . . . better dead or alive?”

“Alive. It was so fucked up when they killed her.”

“Right? I remember being enraged. Like, was she annoying, sure, but that was the point. It never worked right again after they killed her off.”

“So which one were you?”

“What?”

“Ryan or Seth?”

“Ryan Atwood is one of the greatest male characters ever written. Second maybe only to Pacey Witter. Teenage me was absolutely ruined for real-life teenage boys.”

“Wait, who, Paste??”

“Stop, if you watched The O.C. then you watched Dawson’s Creek too. That’s more your era than mine.”

“You are not that much younger than me.”

“I’m enough younger that I didn’t watch that show when it was airing.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You’re what? Five years younger than me and you’re just on the upswing of your career, meanwhile mine is pretty much over?”

“I’m sorry, did you check into the nearest old-age home?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. I always imagined it’d be pretty surreal, to not even be forty and to be retired, and you managed to play longer than most guys.”

“It was . . . it is. Like, this is technically my retirement job.”

“Technically. Don’t pretend like you’re a greeter at Wal-Mart now.”

“Okay, so it’s a pretty good retirement job.”

“One of thirty guys in the whole world who are able to do it. Less than the amount of catchers in the league. If you think about it, it’s even more rare than what you were doing before.”

“Doesn’t pay as well, though.”

“Yeah, you’re really hurting for money.”

“Just saying, and it’s not like you’re doing too badly yourself. I know what that neighborhood you live in costs.”

“Have you started looking for a place?”

“I have, just you know, scrolling Zillow a bunch to see what’s around. Somewhere near the ballpark, for sure. Something that makes me feel like I’m getting the whole Brooklyn experience, you know? If I’m gonna do it, I might as well really do it, become a part of the place.”

“It’s a great neighborhood. The team being there really kept it the heart of the borough, kept businesses alive, made it a place people want to be, you know, even before Brooklyn was cool.”

“Brooklyn was always cool, but that’s because of the people. None of this matters if you’re not surrounded by good people.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Something clicks in my head. It’s not a fully formed idea, but when I pull up to Charlie’s driveway and park my car, it starts to come together, starts to become more than just an idea.

It has me thinking back to that presentation that I have memorized, the thing I’ve had prepared for weeks now, the way I was going to convince Kai Nakamura to come play for us.

And now I want to scrap it all.

Because I have a way better idea.

Stepping into Charlie’s house, I look around: it’s warm, comfortable, and, despite its size and the clear amount of money that went into making it look that way, it feels safe.

Staring at the view, I know in my gut this is the way to get the job done.

“What if . . .” I start, and try to find the right way to say this. If I can talk Charlie into it, then I’ll know for sure. “What if we started the meeting here?”

“We might just convince him right into signing here instead and buying this house from me.”

“It’s more personal this way, though. Having him in your home.

He’s a kid, leaving his family behind, everything he’s ever known, and chasing his dream here.

Let’s show him what signing with the Eagles would mean: it would mean joining a family, our family, and that we’ll treat him that way when he signs with us. ”

“You think that will work?”

“It will if he’s the kind of guy we want around for the next ten or twelve years.

If it doesn’t work, then I’m not sure he was the right fit for us in the first place.

We just got rid of one cancer with Ethan Quicke.

I don’t think Nakamura is that kind of guy, but it’s better to know sooner rather than later.

We’re going to build around those kids playing in the fall league –~that’s the organizations future, and if Nakamura is anything like them, he’ll understand what we’re trying to do here and he’ll buy in. ”

“And you think he’ll be able to tell all of that just from my house?”

“No, that’s . . . that’s just the first part of it.”

It’s completely crazy, the plan that just popped into my head, but if I’m right about the kind of player Nakamura is, the kind of player we need him to be, it just might work.

“So what’s the second part?”

“It’s a little bit insane.”

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s actually really insane.”

“Sullivan . . .”

“The kids.”

“The kids?”

“Cole, Archie and Xander. What if we brought him to see the kids?”

“You want to fly him to Arizona?”

“I want to fly him to Arizona and sit his ass behind home plate and let him watch an Arizona Fall League game that his future teammates are playing in. We can show him instead of tell him what we’re offering.”

“And you don’t think sitting in a minor league ballpark watching a game that doesn’t matter will have him leaning the other way?”

“I think if he sees those kids, guys his age, playing the way they play, wanting the same thing he wants, to come to the big leagues and show the world what they can do and maybe do it together, I think maybe it’ll work.”

“You’re right. It’s batshit, but . . . you’re also just . . . right. We’re not going to be the highest bid. We kind of knew that going in, but this might be crazy enough to actually work.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Then call the guys at the hotel, get them over here. I have a plane to reserve.”