“Everything okay in there, Con?” Rachel laughs as she taps on my bedroom door.
In my ogre-like clumsiness, I stub my toe on the foot of the bed as I go to let her in. Hopping on one foot, I open the door. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just running late.” I scoop up a few things and make my way into the bathroom. After a lightning fast shower, I’m dressed and ready to go. With a mouthful of toothpaste, I look out into the living room and see that Dylan’s not here yet. After grabbing my sneakers, I flop down on the couch next to Rachel. “Dylan wants me to meet his friends tonight. Any chance you want to tag along.”
“I don’t know, Con. I don’t want to impose. Besides, I don’t even know them.” Even though she objects, I know I’ll get her to go.
“So what. Neither do I. Come on. Dinner and few drinks. Some laughs with some good people. You know you want to,” I tease.
She doesn’t need any more convincing. “Okay, sure. Sounds like fun.”
Dylan buzzes up to the apartment just as I finish tying my shoes. I pop a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m out. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
She returns her attention to the home improvement show on TV, calling out, “Have fun,” just as I slip through the door, balancing a box on my hip
He’s waiting for me on the front steps, his back facing the entrance. I steal up behind him, and wrap my free arm around his waist. He turns in my arms and greets me with a quick kiss. “Hey, you all ready?”
“Yeah, let’s do this.”
“What’s in the box?” Dylan asks as I drop it into the back seat.
My eyes rove over him from head to toe, as I scratch my chin. “Nah, you don’t look a thing like Brad Pitt.” I make a lame-ass reference to his “what’s in the box?” question and he rolls his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”
As we get into his car, he waves at Mrs. Keating who’s peaking at us through a partially opened curtain. “Do you think we intrigue or confuse her?” Dylan asks as we pull away from the building.
“Eh, she’s harmless. Based on the look that was just on her face, I’d say she’s definitely not disgusted.”
By the time we get to the little league field, the boys are already out on the field, running their laps. I pull the box out of the back seat and Dylan unloads the equipment from the trunk. The boys race over to help us. “Coach Michelson! You’re back,” Brett calls out excitedly.
“Yep.” The rest of the boys pipe down as I begin to speak. “Sorry about last week, guys. Something came up at work,” on the word “work” I shoot Dylan a pained look, hoping he knows exactly what I’m getting at. “But I promise no matter what goes on at work, from here on out, I won’t miss a practice or a game. In fact,” I drop the box at my feet and kneel before it, “I got you these to show you just how committed I am to this team.”
Reaching into the box, the boys look on with rapt attention. I pull out a bright orange and black jersey with the word “Tigers” emblazoned across the chest. Holding it up against my chest, it looks tiny – the perfect reminder of just how meaningful this all is. I turn the jersey around to show them the back. “Cool!” Brett calls out. “That one’s mine!” He scrambles to the front of the small crowd and grabs the jersey from my hand. “It’s got my name on it and everything.” The way Brett looks down at the piece of clothing in his hand can only be described as a look of pure and utter appreciation. He inspects it, checking over every fiber of the fabric, every stitch holding it together. A gigantic smile lights up Brett’s face as he puts on the jersey.
“Here you go!” I call out the names from the shirts, tossing them at their rightful owner, each greeted with a smile as bright as Brett’s.
“Now that’s what a winning team looks like.” Dylan’s approval is full of pride, as he stands there with his arms crossed, scanning over his team. “All right, you guys know the drill, warm ups then batting. Hop to it!” With more bounce than they had when we arrived, the boys sprint across the field.
“Thanks for that.” Dylan nudges me in arm – a simple sign of affection that goes straight to my heart.
“Of course.” I nudge him back. “Besides, I did it for them.”
I’ll go ahead and chalk it up to Dylan’s newfound willingness to give us a chance, but this practice feels all kinds of different from the last one. An air of ease and comfort makes the time pass even more quickly than it did last time. Catching on to mine and Dylan’s little streak of competitiveness, the boys challenge us to compete in a little homerun derby for the last ten minutes of practice. Even with his bum shoulder, I’m impressed with Dylan’s ability to easily lift the ball and send it skyrocketing out of the park. Watching him smile, hearing his laughter, seeing his kindness in action – my heart soars just as high at the ball he’s just hit.
When the bus pulls in to pick the boys up, they actually moan in protest. Dylan huddles them up for one last pep-talk. “Okay, now remember our last game of the season is on Wednesday. Are you guys excited?” Loud and raucous screams fill my ears as the boys show just how excited they are.
“You’ll be there, right, Coach Michelson?” Brett’s more than hopeful face shines brightly as he looks up at me.
“No chance I’d miss it.” I ruffle a hand through his hair and he falls in line with the rest of the boys to board the bus.
Five minutes later, we have the rest of the gear packed up and we’re pulling away from the field. Dylan’s hand moves from the steering wheel, reaches across the center console, and pulls mine from my lap. He rests our locked-together hands on my leg. It’s simple act – one I’m sure many people do rather subconsciously, holding the hand of the person they’re dating.
But with Dylan, I know it means more. It’s a chance he’s never been willing to take. I pull our joined hands up to my lips and plant a kiss there. “Thank you,” I say against his skin.
He pulls a confused face. “For?”
“Taking a chance on me.”
His face softens and the confused look morphs to one of deep-rooted emotion. “I’m the thankful one.”
We stop a deli on the way back to my apartment to grab lunch. It’s a nice causal afternoon, one that a few years ago, I would have thought was fairly mundane. But something about carrying a bag of sandwiches and chips into my home, to share a meal with a man who’s coming to mean a lot to me and my only remaining family, hits a chord.
