Dean’s jaw falls. “Numberthree? That’s bullshit! I’m Troy’s biggest fucking fan. I literally have his used underwear framed on my altar!”
Bella almost chokes on her popcorn as Garrett pats her back while Troy bolts upright, hollering to anyone who will hear him, “Nope, nope! Security! Anyone? Someone, please escort this lunatic out.”
Sarina shushes Troy, pulling him back down to her side while the rest of us shake with laughter. The rest of us, except for Mala, who is covering her face with her hands, shaking her head. God bless the woman.
Hudson mutters without glancing away from the screen. “It would have been more fitting for you to be number two.”
“Oh, hardy-har-har,” Dean mocks, rolling his eyes. “Look at the old geezer pulling out jokes from elementary school. When was that for you again? 1922?”
The opening credits fade, and the group falls silent as Patton comes on the screen. He looks larger than life, standing on the pitcher’s mound in a crisp Boston Breakers uniform. The stadium lights beam across the screen, catching the sweat rolling down his temple as he kisses a photograph in his hands before placing it in his pocket—a ritual Troy was known to do of kissing his daughter’s picture. In his last World Series game, however,that picture included two more people he loved: my sister and nephew.
My heart swells, practically demanding to be let out. My God, the man looks unfairly good out there, like he was born to play this role. The crowd roars as the Brooklyn Bats’ slugger steps up to the plate. It doesn’t take a genius to see the rivalry between the two teams through the screen.
The camera cuts to Patton, his jaw locked and eyes sharp, as he winds up for a curveball that Troy taught him. Even knowing how this scene ends—with the legendary pitcher sustaining a potentially career-ending injury—my stomach still rolls.
Beside me, the real Patton pulls me closer, placing a kiss on my temple.
For the next few minutes, the group is quiet and immersed in the movie, but I can’t help admiring the man next to me. The man who was once my teenage best friend with huge dreams of Broadway lights and silver screens. The man who achieved all those dreams, and now lives with me in a modest home, far from the glitz and glamour of Hollywood.
He has more money than he’d be able to spend in several lifetimes, yet not once in the time I’ve known him has he ever been hungry for it, preferring to drive his truck most days, wearing the watch his foster parents gave him for his high school graduation instead of the countless Rolexes actors of his caliber flaunt on their wrist.
That’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy the occasional splurge, but money was never his goal. His drive was always for the craft itself, to become the best at it. So much so that, once upon a time, he lost me to it.
But now, finally, I think we can all coexist the way I always imagined.
And thensheappears, the actress playing Sarina and Patton’s counterpart in the movie.
“Oh, my gosh. She’s so pretty,” the real Sarina says beside me, dipping a french fry into mustard before bringing it to her mouth. “I loved her inBridgerton, but she’s even prettier here.”
She being Simone Ashley.
All long legs and beautiful curls, she struts to the baseball field with a little boy who’s supposed to be Rome, and banters with my husband with all the haughtiness of British royalty. The chemistry between them is so palpable that, for a decently long moment, I forget that I’m watching a film.
“Damn, Nisha,” Dean whisper-yells from the end. “I think you might have competition.”
“Not even close,” Patton clips beside me, brushing his hand over mine, but I’m already too far inside my head.
Heat burns the tips of my ears and a haze of green clouds my vision as I shift in my seat, pulling away from Patton. Is it completely irrational that I feel a burning need to jump into that screen and gouge out the eyes of the woman daring to touch my husband? Yes. But try telling that to the pregnancy-hormone-fueled territorial beast that’s taken over my brain.
And yes, I know I said husband. For all intents and purposes, she doesn’t need to know he’s my ex. All she needs to know is that he’smine.
Logically, I know it’s part of his job and that natural chemistry sells romance flicks. But it’s the hypotheticals that have me in a chokehold.
What if they aren’t faking it? What if he finds her prettier, easier to be with, or worse, less of a hormonal mess than me? I mean, I literally bawled when I saw Vajayjay, Beaver, and Snatch yesterday, snuggled up with each other in their cat bed at the salon. If that doesn’t scream mental patient, I don’t know what does.
But before I have more time to spiral, Patton rises to his feet, tugging me up with him.
“Wh–where are we going?” I whisper.
But he doesn’t answer, speaking to no one in particular as he starts to make his way down the aisle with me in tow. “Excuse us. We’ll be right back.”
“But there’s still an hour left,” I protest, following after him.
A minute later, I’m being ushered into another theater. This one is silent, empty, and pitch-dark.
“Patton—” I start, half-question, half-demand, when he turns me around so I face the wall.
Without preamble, he threads our fingers together, places both my hands above my head, and tugs on my hip so my ass meets his groin. A second later, the heat of his body closes in around my back, enveloping me, pinning me against the wall without any force.
