“Are they all Bobcats fans?”
“We’re all baseball fans. Gary—the guy right behind me—keeps an email list, and he buys our tickets so we’re all together.” He squeezed my hand. “Relax. They’ll love you as much as I do.”
Well, that was cold comfort, given that there was nothing real—at least on his part—about our relationship. But I smiled anyway, because that’s what cowards do. We hide our emotions under a smile. As we cheered on Rob, Gary abruptly shoved a beer forward to Jake.
“Here you go, Jake. Do you think the Bobcats can pull it out this year?”
“You betcha. Just look at Rob go!” He took the beer and pushed it to me. “Thanks, Gary.”
Gary grinned, and then both men were on their feet roaring as Rob hit one home run after another. He’d be hard to beat.
I was cheering, too, until the woman on my left tapped my arm. I turned, and she pressed another beer into my hand, pointing at Jake and giving me a thumbs-up. Okay, I guess that meant I was supposed to give it to Jake.
When he turned to me, I handed it over and then gestured to the woman on my left. He grinned his thanks at her, lifting the beer and pressing it to his lips. But he didn’t drink it. I could tell because he didn’t swallow. Then we were both jumping up and down as Rob continued to blow away the competition. The baseballs flew into the stands, one after another. One even came close to us, but Jake didn’t even attempt to catch it. A teenager a few rows back made the catch and gleefully held it up.
“Look! Look! I caught it before you did!” he screamed at Jake.
“You sure did!” he said, smiling.
“Sign it for me?”
“Sure.” Jake pulled out the pen he always carried, just in case, while the boy and his father scrambled through the seats to come closer. And sure enough, while Jake was signing the baseball, the father gestured to a vendor carrying beers.
“Have one on us,” the dad said, but Jake shook his head.
“I should be buying for you. Your son is the one who made the catch.”
“That’s ’cause it was hit right to us. Please,” he said, nodding toward the vendor. Jake sighed, then nodded and was once again handed another cup.
That was three beers in less than five minutes. And from the looks of all the people around us, there would be no stopping the flow of refreshments, mainly of the liquid variety, though not all. One happy family bought nachos just so their son could share them with Jake. A teen girl handed him a pretzel the size of my two hands, which Jake held up while she took selfies of the two of them. He was clearly a fan favorite, although it was also clear that many of the people were longtime friends. I heard several stories of how they’d known he’d be a great ballplayer long before he ever hit the major leagues. They had opinions on everything Jake did, from hitting, to fielding, to how he managed the press. I didn’t understand a lot of it, but Jake was in his element. He laughed with people and posed for pictures, even as he tried to refuse the beers.
He was in the midst of smiling for another picture when I first heard the cheers. Rob had finished hitting and was sitting in first place so far, but there were still a number of other batters up after him. So while Jake was both smiling for the camera and cheering for his teammate, I was listening to the cries behind me.“Pops! Pops!”
I turned, wondering if there could be another Pops that everyone seemed to know. Nope. Jake’s father was here. And he was clearly a favorite among the regulars. While I watched, he finished the beer he was carrying, and before he could toss it aside, another one was shoved into his hand. He laughed and was very grateful, even as people pointed down at Jake, directing Pops to our seats.
I touched Jake’s arm, squeezing to get his attention. He turned to me, a question in his eyes. I motioned up the stands toward Pops and got a firsthand glimpse of his reaction to seeing his father.
Fury in a flash fire of reaction. It was quickly masked, but the anger had been real. Then his expression smoothed out, his lips curved into a slight smile, and his eyes became hooded.
Ouch. So maybe Jake’s relationship with his father was more strained than I’d thought. Pops finally made it down to our seats, accompanied by a chorus of greetings from the people around us.
“Jake said you couldn’t make it this year,” Gary said.
Pops smacked his lips as he finished another beer. “He only got a ticket for the pretty girl,” he said as he winked at me. “But it turns out I can get a ticket all on my own!”
“Of course you can,” Gary said with a grin as he offered up some nachos.
Pops took a bite as he leaned against the hand railing. “So what do you think of my boy’s team this year? Definitely getting a pennant, right?”
Gary and Pops talked baseball while Jake stood there, stiffly watching. The next hitter in the Home Run Derby came out and the crowd responded, but Jake kept his eyes on his father. Eventually there was a pause in the baseball talk, and he broke into the conversation to ask, “How did you get here, Pops? Did Larry come?”
Was there hope in his voice? I couldn’t tell.
“Just me. Drove up this morning.”
“By yourself. Do you have a hotel room?”
“Nah. I’ll figure that out tonight.”
