“Ha ha, very clever,” I remark as I fold up the White Castle container filled with shit someone left for me. I scan the player lot and catch two of the guys, outfielders like me, fold into one another with laughter.
I hold up the box and shout, “Nice one!” But under my breath, I call them pricks as I carry their gift to the dumpster by the alleyway.
I get in my car after tossing my gear in the trunk. I miss how easy it was to move from the apartment complex to the stadium back in Sweetwater. Small towns mean everything is close. Walkable. I guess I got spoiled by never having to drive. The Bearcats are just north of the city, and simply getting out of the stadium parking lot is a chore.
All will be worth it when I make it to Wrigley.
Scott pitched me the idea of Chicago as more of a sure thing than it’s turning out to be, and I’d be lying if I said his sales pitch that I’d get called up quickly didn’t help sway my decision. But also, my leaving will make the pathway to Texas easier for Colby. It’s not fair. But it’s the truth. And we’ve gotten pretty creative about staying connected while we’re apart. Technology and video calls make this kind of life easier. And it helps that we’re both fighting for our summit in this game. We understand the long hours the other person has to commit. And the frustrations.
I press the call button on the touchscreen in my car, and it rings through the speakers four times before a breathless Colby picks up.
“Hey, sorry. Walking,” she says.
“For exercise, or are you late for something? Did I interrupt?”
When my trade went through, Colby demanded she be allowed to do her job. She should have been allowed regardless, but with me not around to give anyone an excuse, the staff was hard-pressed not to cut her loose with the hitters.
“I was late for something. But I’m good. I have time.”
The sun is setting here, but Colby gets an extra forty minutes of daylight even though we’re in the same time zone. We tested it one night while I sat out on the hood of my car and she stayed behind in the stadium stands in Sweetwater.
“Be safe out there. You working late?” It was an off day for the team, so she’s not coming home from a game.
“Just fitting in everything I can. Yeah. I’m good though. I want to hear about your day.”
She still sounds like she’s racing for something, and there’s chatter behind her, like she’s in a mall or something, but there aren’t any shopping malls in Sweetwater.
“Colby, if you’re busy, I can?—”
“Fine. I wanted to surprise you, but I can’t figure out how to order rideshare, or where I go for it. O’Hare is nuts! Can you pick me up?”
I stop in the middle of the road, and an enormous SUV swerves around me, the guy blasting his horn as he shakes a fist out his window. I’m pretty sure he just said, “I will fuck you up.”
He has to catch me first.
I flip around in the middle of traffic and head toward O’Hare, a giant grin spreading to my ears as my heart pounds so hard I think it’s lifting my ass off the seat with every beat.
“You’re here?”
Colby laughs, then muffles the phone as she says, “Excuse me,” to someone.
“I’m here. And I remember why I like wide-open spaces. Apparently, everyone decided to come to Chicago today. How long until you get here?”
I stop hard at an intersection and type in the directions on my phone.
“Eleven minutes,” I say.
“Great. I have to pee. Terminal three, arrivals. I’m wearing a bright red polo shirt. Love you!”
She ends the call too fast for me to say it back, so I hold the words on the tip of my tongue. That way I can save them for when I see her.
I speed a bit. I speeda lot. And end up getting to the arrivals area in eight minutes flat. As promised, Colby is waving at mefrom the end of the curbside pick-up area, her bright red shirt impossible to miss.
I pull over in a striped area marked with yellow paint. I’m sure I’m not supposed to park here, but damn, this traffic is nuts. I hop around the front of my car and pick her up in my arms, swirling her around until her feet land in the street.
“This is the best day ever,” I say, snagging her carryon roller bag. I whisk it around to the trunk, and deposit it on my way back to the driver’s seat. Colby gets in the passenger seat, and we’re out of the no-go zone before one of those transportation cops gets a chance to whistle at us.
“How did you pull this off? There’s a home game tomorrow, isn’t there? Or was it cancelled? Shit . . . you didn’t get fired, did you? Fuck that system if they fired you, Colby?—”
