The Lineup(16)

“When are those wings showing up?” Knox calls from the kitchen.

“Ten minutes,” I call out before dragging my hand over my face. “I don’t know, man. I feel like a dipshit, like this girl goes and donates a crap ton of money but doesn’t want to go on a date with me. I feel like I owe it to her. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money to just throw away.”

“Maybe she really liked the cause but is too nervous to cash in on the date,” Knox says from the kitchen.

Carson snaps his fingers. “It is Dottie Domico, because I remember saying, like the sugar? And she said, ‘No, that’s Domino.’” Carson twists his body over the couch. “It’s Dottie Domico, right, Knox?”

“Want me to cut up some vegetables to go with the wings?”

“Sure,” I call out, scratching my chin. “I don’t know, should I at least send her some flowers and signed gear as a thank you?”

“I think I’m friends with Dottie on Instagram,” Carson continues. Christ, why won’t he get a clue? When he goes down a rabbit trail, he can’t seem to come out of it. “Did you get a picture of her?”

“No,” I answer. “Natalie suggested she’s an old woman who doesn’t really want to show her face or has the energy to go on a date. If she’s old, I’ll go to her. The elderly love me, as I’m an entertaining dickhead when I want to be.”

“Yeah, I was right, Dottie Domico,” Carson says.

“What do you think, Knox?” I call out as he busies himself in the kitchen. “Think she’s old?”

“Dottie is always donating to shit,” Carson says. “Hey Knox, did Emory say anything about Dottie donating?”

“Why are you so hung up on Emory’s friend?” I finally ask. “Like a twenty-nine-year-old could really drop ten thousand dollars on a fundraiser. Use your fucking head, man.”

“She’s rich, dude. She’s a VP or something. Right, Knox?”

We both turn toward him to find him buried into the chopping of celery. It is not like him to remain mute on any occasion or subject, so what’s his deal tonight?

“Hey, we’re talking to you,” Carson calls out.

“I know, and I chose not to answer.”

What the hell?

He knows something . . .

Obvious, I know, but I might have been hit in the head with foul balls for far too many years, so it takes me a few more minutes to catch up.

“What are you not telling us?” I say, hopping onto the arm of my chair.

“I think I’ll go meet the wing person in the lobby instead of having the concierge bring up our food.” Knox wipes off his hands and beelines for the door despite not having a shirt or shoes on.

But Carson is quicker, hurdling over the couch and straight to the door where he blocks Knox. “Oh no, you don’t, you have some explaining to do.”

I join them at the door. What is Knox hiding?

Arms crossed over my chest, I say, “Do you know Dorothy Domico?”

He pulls on the back of his neck with both hands. Guilty is written all over him. “Doesn’t everyone know her?” he asks.

I reach out and snag his nipple with my index finger and thumb. He yelps, smacks my hand away, and steps backward. “What the fuck, dude?”

“Stop avoiding the question and tell us what you know.”

“She threatened to wish a one-fifty batting average on me,” Knox says, looking pathetic and panicked all at once. “One fucking fifty.”

Carson leans against the door, arms crossed as well. “You are the least superstitious person I know.”

It’s true, when every other Brentwood baseball player believed in the power of the locker room and how if you took your girl back there to do the deed, you’d end up together forever, Knox pushed it off as a bunch of bullshit.

“You don’t know Dottie, she’s powerful.” He whispers, “She knows people.”

“Well, Christ, if she knows people, then we shouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.” Carson rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you don’t want to say anything because one of Emory’s friends seems like a threat to you, then just nod or shake your head to our questions, and that way you’re not actually saying anything.”

Finger poised to make a point, I say, “Body language counts as a universal—”

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Carson says to me. “Don’t you want to know more about Dottie?”

He has a point.

“Sorry. Proceed.”

“Thank you.” Turning back to Knox, Carson asks, “Did Dottie donate to Jason’s fundraiser?”

He nods yes.

“Is she the Dorothy Domico that won the date?”

Yes.

“Did you know she was cancelling the date?”

Yes.

“Do you know why?”

No.

“Are you lying to us?”

No.

Carson taps his chin and then asks, “Why did she donate the money?”

“That’s not a yes or no question,” Knox says.

“I’m sick of this shit. Be a man and tell us what you know.”

“Was it from my potato salad post?”

“No one cares about your potato salad,” Knox groans and walks back to the living room where we follow him.