That was tempting but also not the right thing to do. Dylan had a biological parent and I had to do what Diana refused to do when she was alive—give Tate a chance to be a dad if he wanted it.
Now I rock from foot to foot as I wait for the customs agent to return with someone who can decide what happens next. My brain goes straight into panic mode. I will not let them take him from me. There will be an international incident if they try. It would be a shame if I survived a car wreck just to die at the hands of customs and immigration, but I will risk getting shot to keep Dylan out of the system.
The customs agent comes back and hands me the documents, with an additional stamped thing he staples into Dylan's passport. "He can only be in the country for three months."
“Okay yeah.”
“When do his parents join him?”
“His dad is already here,” I say. “I’m delivering him and his dad is an American citizen so he’ll get the baby’s US passport. He was just born in the UK.”
“Okay.” The guy doesn’t seem to give a shit, which is fine by me. “If he gets that passport, he can stay, obviously. You file the paperwork online.”
Next hurdle, baggage claim. I immediately head straight for a cart, so I can load up all the bags I have to collect. But I am stopped by the crowd at the exit door from customs. It’s all friends and family of the arriving passengers, and a few drivers holding signs with names. And one of those signs says Mallory Echolls.
I walk over to the guy in the black suit and cap. “Hi. I’m Mallory.”
He looks at me and blinks. “Oh. I wasn’t informed there would be a baby. I… I don’t have a car seat in the limo.”
“It’s okay. I brought one,” I reply and then his words sink in. “There’s a limo? For me? Why?”
He smiles, and I realize this is Los Angeles. The dude has probably driven actual real-life celebrities and now he's got some country bumpkin with a baby and he thinks I'm adorably naive. "Mr. Tate Garrison hired me to drive you to the Quake Arena. You'll arrive after the game starts but apparently, if I drop you at Gate E, the player entrance, they'll escort you inside and you will be able to watch the game from the friends and family lounge."
Oh. Wow. I blink and nod and then freeze. Oh shit.
“I don’t want to watch the game,” I say. He stares, more confused than ever.
“Umm… okay well I was paid to deliver you to the arena.”
“He didn’t tell me that he was doing this.”
“Probably a surprise.” The driver is starting to look slightly disgruntled. “Look, I would say call him but if he’s a hockey player and there’s a game… I mean I don’t watch hockey. I’m a basketball fan myself, but I don’t think they answer phones during games, right?”
I nod. Dylan lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh. Okay so this is unexpected but the driver part is a blessing. One step at a time, Mallory, I repeat the mantra I've had echoing in my head since I woke up in the upside-down car. "Okay well, we need a cart. I have lots of bags."
He nods, drops his sign, and marches to the carts. Forty minutes later my bags are loaded in his limo, which is actually a blackout SUV, not some eighties stretch job. I had to put one of the bags in the front passenger seat because they didn't all fit in the trunk, but the driver doesn't seem to mind. I get Dylan strapped into the back of his car seat and belt myself in next to him. The ride is long because of the traffic, but the driver is nice, and after a little bit of small talk leaves me alone. He's stocked the back with water and I plug in my phone to one of his charging cables sip water and watch LA's scenery fly by.
I’ve only ever been here once before, but I was and still am amazed by how flat and grid-like it is. Until it isn’t. Los Angeles can feel like blocks and blocks of concrete buildings and boulevards and then suddenly, bam, there's a breathtaking ocean. Or bam, there are rolling hills and jungle-like canyons. It's chaotic and beautiful, overwhelming and zen. It's one extreme or the other, which is why I've never met anyone who says Los Angeles is just okay. They either love it or hate it.
Tate loves it, which when he first came back to Silver Bay after his rookie season, surprised me. He’s a small-town Maine boy through and through but loved LA. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about it was why I agreed to go when Diana wanted to visit him. She wanted sex. I wanted to see what made his eyes light up.
“Okay, so I was told to deliver you to this gate. They’re expecting you,” the driver says as he pulls into the parking lot for the arena, which is in downtown Los Angeles. “I will unload the bags while you talk to security. They should have a badge for you, and the kid I guess.”
“Not the kid,” I mutter as I unbuckle my seat belt and reach over to undo Dylan’s harnesses. “The kid is a surprise guest.”
“Oookaayyy…” He clearly thinks something is utterly sketchy about this now, and I don’t blame him.
I leave the driver to unload my stuff and walk to the big dude in a black security shirt at the barrier at the entrance. “I’m Mallory Echolls.”
“Right. Guest of Tate Garrison.” The guy nods. “Sadly you missed the whole game. The third ends in two minutes, but you can still go in and wait for him in the lounge. He will be expecting you.”
He glances up at the sleeping blob that is Dylan. I’ve strapped him to my chest again in his Baby Bjorn. “I forgot to mention I was bringing a guest,” I say.
“He’s too little to get his own badge anyway,” the guy replies and slides a badge at me.
I take it with tentative fingers. “I don’t want to go to the lounge. Is there somewhere private I could wait for Tate?”
“I… I mean…”
