The Lineup(15)

Growing serious, Natalie says, “I want you to find love, the kind of love I share with Ansel, the kind of love Mom and Dad have. You deserve it, because you’re a kind and giving soul, but because of that, you need to make sure the girl you go out with is in it for you, not for the jersey you wear. I just want you to be cautious, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I get that.” I lean against the counter, my forearms propping me up. “But you never know, maybe this Dorothy Domico is someone special.”

“Or she’s an eighty-year-old grandma who used all her social security to buy a date with you.”

Smiling, I say, “I can get into the granny thing. Wrinkles are a turn-on.”

“You’re so fucked up.” She laughs and throws a carrot at my head, nailing me between the eyes.

I rub the offended spot and say, “You know, we might need you on the Rebels with an accurate arm like that if the general manager doesn’t pick up some strong arms for next season.”

“More time with my big brother? I think I’ll pass.”

“Such a punk.” I chuckle and bite into another carrot.





I slam the door to Knox’s apartment and stand there, anger rolling through my body like a tidal wave. Carson and Knox are both sitting on the couch, playing MLB The Show 19, PlayStation’s sanctioned professional baseball game. When the slam of the door cuts through the surround sound of their game—they like to play as themselves, such idiots—they turn toward me, the game put on pause.

“Dude, why are you slamming doors?” Knox asks.

I stomp toward them and flop on one of the armchairs perpendicular to the couch. “Because I’m pissed.”

“This seems like it’s going to be a moment,” Carson whispers, but not quiet enough. “Should I get beers?”

“Get them for everyone,” I say, flailing my arm in the air. “I have wings being delivered shortly.”

“And mozzarella sticks?” Carson asks, desperate for his stupid cheese sticks.

“You know I ordered them,” I huff. “Because I’m a considerate fuck.”

“That you are.” Knox leans back on the couch and takes a beer from Carson. I do the same. He’s a good man and has popped open the tops already. “So . . . do you want to talk about it?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh, I thought you were just being dramatic for no fucking reason,” Knox replies sarcastically.

“I get the need to be snarky, that’s how we are with each other.” I set my feet on the coffee table in front of me, stretching out. “But please, not in my time of need.”

“Jesus Christ,” Carson murmurs, resting his arm on the side of the couch and getting comfortable. “Just get on with it. We’re two innings away from killing the Rebels in the World Series.”

Of course that’s who they’d be playing. At least I’m not on the team since I was just traded, or else they’d have me doing stupid shit. They did that when I was in Tampa and sent videos of me running in circles on the field. They’re really fucking mature.

“So you know how I did that Charity Hustle thing?”

“Yeah,” they both reply.

“Well, a winner was picked and we were supposed to meet tomorrow night, but the girl cancelled and according to the PR team, she doesn’t want to set up another date.”

Knox looks away while Carson snorts to himself.

“This isn’t funny. Why the hell do you think she’d do that? She has me questioning every last thing I’ve done over the past week. Did I post something wrong on my Instagram? I know I’m a little braggy when it comes to my potato salad, but my presentation with the potato skins was on point, so how could I not post about that?” I mean, I could have posted sweaty, post-workout pics of my muscles, but I showed self-control. You’d think any female would be happy I was bragging about food and not my ripped bod. Can you see my eye-roll here?

“I don’t know about you”—Carson holds his chest—“but personally, I found the potato salad to be incredibly offensive.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say, slouching more in my chair. “I don’t get it. Why would she cancel when she donated so much money?”

“Do you know anything about her?” Carson asks while Knox stays strangely silent.

“Just that her name is Dorothy Domico, and she donated ten thousand dollars.”

“Domico, Domico,” Carson repeats, putting emphasis behind the last name. “Why is that name so familiar?”

Knox coughs into his hand, muttering something with it, but I can’t quite understand him.

“Hey, what’s Dottie’s last name?” Carson pokes Knox in the side.

“Anyone need more beer?” Knox asks, standing abruptly.

“I’m nursing mine,” I say.

“I swear it’s Dottie Domico. Right?” Carson is still trying to decipher this poor girl’s name. “Have you ever met Dottie?” Carson asks me.

“Uh, no. Pretty sure I’d remember that name. Is she a cleat chaser?”

“Nah, she’s cool. One of Emory’s best friends. She was in my grade, so a year ahead of you. I swear you’ve met her before. Hey, Knox, what’s Dottie’s last name?”