Page 21 of Fly

“Oh, that’s…” He stared at me with dark, dark eyes. Such stunning eyes. “Is he better now?”

“Yeah, lots. He’s on meds that work beautifully—combined with a great therapist. He’s married now, has kids, and has a booming career as a horror writer. He’s told me a few times that the monsters on his pages come from the dark times of his depression.”

“Yeah, I can so see that. My head is… well, there’s some shit in it.” He dropped his gaze back to the cat.

“We all have that shit in our heads,” I affirmed, tapping my temple as his attention darted to me once more. “You should see the lists I run through before a game, or before I go to bed, or while I’m taking a shower. What to wear, what my workout routine will be, what color socks I’ll wear to the ballpark, because that is incredibly important.”

He nodded. “Sock color determines if you have a good game or not. It’s been scientifically proven with at least one clinical study.” The tone of his voice was lighter now, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a tiny gleam of amusement in his pretty eyes. “Conducted in Ottawa on no less than forty hockey players.”

I laughed, and his mouth curled into a shy smile. “Overseen by forty baseball players. I only wear purple to the ballpark.”

“I wear socks with smiling yellow suns.”

Phil appeared then, grunting as he lowered himself into his favorite chair. “You two talking about game day superstitions?” We both nodded while the gurgle of the coffee pot floated into the shop. “Every player has them. Even the great ones.” Phil glanced over at Jari. “You know the story about the 1894 Orioles?” Jari shook his head, his cheeks now a healthy pink, his breathing calm. “Seems every member of that roster drank a glass of turkey gravy before batting practice.” Jari made a face that cracked me up. “Then there are those pitchers who like to write symbols in the dirt of the pitching mound.”

“Not me,” I was quick to clarify. “I have a no-talking-to-me-if-I’m-throwing-a-no-hitter belief, in case the words spoken to me will jinx me,” I chimed up while the shop filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

“I won’t use a stick that’s not taped right. I need a candy cane wrap,” Jari said, his cheeks glowing red. It looked amazing on him.

“There’s the one about Willie Stargell…” Phil said as I stared at Jari with open admiration. He glanced at me from Phil, deep into his story about a great Pirates player, and mouthed a silent “Thank You.”

Yeah, I was willing to sit here all day surrounded by moldy cards, cracked catcher’s mitts, and funky-smelling cleats as long as Jari was sitting here, calm and relaxed, with me.