Sausage Guy uses his tongs to flip over the links of meat. Black charred marks dash across the plump red meat. “For you?”
“I’ll have the same.”
I turn around and smirk at him. “Copycat.”
“I happen to love Fenway dogs.”
Dah-gs.
“Hey!” The sausage guy says, straightening up. “Aren’t you that guy from that cooking show?”
I watch James’s face go from easy-sexy-comfort to just plain shocked. While he doesn’t exactly have a way with words, James’s isn’t what I’d call shy. I guess being caught off guard and being recognized on a hot dog line really put a shock into him. “D—Uh—Yeah, that’s me.”
“I thought I recognized you, man. I’m Tom, nice to meet you. That’s fuckin’ awesome, bro. Ten
thousand
dollars.” He sets up a tray with two warm buns and slaps our sausages right on top. “You really brought it home, you know. My girlfriend’s like ‘Only people from New York win.’ Fuckin’, do you think I have a shot? I’d get my own food truck and just,
boom
, drive all across the country. What’d you do with your cash?”
James’s shock on his expression-o-meter keeps getting higher and higher. His perfect, plump lips are parted and his bright green eyes are wide, like he’s sorting through his thoughts before he can form a coherent sentence.
Because James looks all kinds of uncomfortable holding up the line, which I guess is a habit of his, I decide to take matters into my own hands.
“
James is the Executive Chef at a new restaurant opening up by the Waterfront.”
“Get out!” Tom adjusts his ball cap.
A flash appears out of nowhere. Cheers blast from inside the stadium. Someone behind us shouts, “Hey, hurry it up, will ya?”
“It’s called The Star,” I tell Tom, handing him some cash. “We open on the 28
th
!”
Now that I’ve got beer, pretzels, and two giant sausages stacked right on top of the other, I make a break for the condiment stand.
“Well, that was wicked weird,” he says, taking one of the beers and drinking half of it in one long gulp.
I try not to laugh, but it’s hard.
He licks fluffy white foam from his upper lip and that does something delicious to my insides. “What’s so funny?”
“Here I am thinking I’m the one who’s anti-social, and you literally just stood there while that guy fawned over you.”
He frowns, the dip in the middle of his forehead more and more pronounced. “I never said I was social or anti-social.”
“You were stunned, my friend.”
He purses his lips and keeps chugging the beer. I pump a healthy helping of mustard and ketchup on the sausages.
“So how does it feel to be famous?” I poke him in his stomach. If someone did that to me, it would be like poking memory foam. My soft belly would bounce right back. But when I do it to James, all I find is hard, hard muscle.
James smiles that perfectly dazzling smile that makes my head all kinds of confused. “Actually, I love being
that guy from that cooking show
. It gives me a sense of accomplishment.
“You could be ‘Aren’t you that guy from those wanted posters?’ Or ‘Aren’t you that guy from the STD commercials?’ I’m just trying to be a friend here.”
Saying the words before I can have a good chance to weigh their meaning, I find myself taking one of the other beers and drinking it the same way James does. It’s like, ‘Hey! Did you put your foot in your mouth? Have a brewski!’
“You want to be friends?”
I meet his stark green eyes from above my cup. I find that the larger a cup is, the better it is to hide the blush of shame that comes with speaking my mind. I shrug, lowering my beer so he can hear me. “Sure, you’re okay. Even though you said before you can’t be friends with someone who looks like me.”
“That’s not what I said at all.” He scratches the back of his head. I know an indecisive look when I see one. I’m the Queen of Indecisive Land.
“You’ve got—” He leans down, and with every inch that he gets closer to my face, my heart hammers in my chest. I lick the cold from my lips. Then his thumb, his beautiful, calloused thumb, brushes across my upper lip. “Beerstache.”
I want to dip my face in all of the beers just so he will do that again. “James—”
He turns around, cradling our baseball feast, and looks at me. People wearing red and white zoom past him, completely unaware of the gorgeous statue they’re walking past. But I’m aware. I see him. James Hughes. I have his attention. His sea-green eyes are waiting for me to say something, but my lips are still burning from his touch. No matter what I say, there is no way a man like this wants anything to do with a girl like me. I sigh, and lick my lips again. We’re missing the game, a loud cheer is followed by the fake-out groan of a false hope, but he isn’t rushing me. He’s just waiting for me to speak.
“Lucky?” James says.
Then: “Lucky!” Bradley shouts, trotting down a ramp in his khaki pants and crisp white button down. The thick gold watch on his wrist is blinding, catching the stadium light in the flashiest piece of jewelry on someone who isn’t a rapper or Elton John.
“Who did you have to kill for that thing?” I point at his wrist.
He pretends to check the time and smiles. “Early birthday present.”
His birthday isn’t until November, but I let it go. Bradley’s family is this great long lineage of Massachusetts doctors—everyone is a doctor of something. His father is an OB/GYN, his mother is a cardiologist, his brother is a pediatrician. I think they can trace one of their ancestors back to a physician in the Civil War. At least, that’s the story his dad likes to tell. Bradley always spent holidays at my house since no one in his family is ever home.
James stands behind Bradley. I can see his eyes just over the top of Bradley’s blonde head. “I’m going to take these back to the guys.”
Bradley turns around, just noticing the massiveness that is James Hughes. They do that thing guys do when they somehow measure each other up by standing up a little straighter and making eye contact.
“Hey,” Bradley says, lifting his chin in greeting.
“Hey,” James says.
I close the distance to them in two steps, sloshing beer in the process. I’ll be surprised if I make it back to our seats with any beer at all.
“James, Bradley. Bradley, James.”
Bradley takes a nacho from the tray James is holding. It drips with gooey cheese all the way to Bradley’s open mouth. I watch James’s face flood with the following emotion: surprise. His sea-green eyes widen. What-the-fuck-ery. His lips part to say so. Then rage. His sea-green eyes get squinty with anger.
“What are you doing, Brad?” I say, taking one huge step between them. James huffs behind me, like a great big bull who just saw red.
“I came to get you. It’s not cold up in the box and there’s way better food. You can bring your cook friend.” Bradley gives James a borderline-friendly smirk. “Oh you guys don’t like to be called cooks right? Sorry,
chef
.”
“Bradley Thorton…” I say with warning in my voice. “Thanks, but we’re with work people.”
He stands with arms at his waist, puffing his chest out. “Hope it’s worth ditching me.”
I groan. “Shut up. Why don’t you come
slum
with the rest of us? There’s a bunch of empty seats. Is Sky with you?”
Bradley deflates. “No, we had a fight.”
“You were shoving frosting down each other’s throats the other day. What the hell happened?”
A cheer goes up from the stadium followed by a hip-hop song I don’t know the lyrics to.
“Just stuff,” he says.
“Very specific.” I adjust the beer tray in my hands. “I have to go get this stuff back. James let’s—”
But when I turn to him, James is already gone. There’s a swell of people walking from gate to concession stand to bathroom to the round charging stations, because god forbid you can’t take a selfie at Fenway.
“Oh look. Your cook is gone.”
“Don’t be an ass.” I walk ahead of him.
Bradley picks up his stride to keep up pace with me. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you like him now? Jesus, are you wearing makeup? You said he was a total dick to you. I’m just being sympathetic to my best friend.”
“
Argh.
” I find our gate and make my way up the steps. The loud crowd of college guys seems to have multiplied like bunnies. I hear someone say,
Take the fucking cap off, Yankee,
and,
Kimbrel, you suck diiiiiiick!
“We have a truce thing going. I have to play nice while we get the restaurant up and running. It’s bad enough that my mom just picked up and went to New York for a few days. She says it’s business, but I think she’s lining up husband #5.”
When we get to our row James isn’t there. He’s moved a row down to where the rest of the kitchen guys are. He glances back at me and I can’t read his face. He doesn’t smile but he doesn’t look mad either. He just glares at Bradley for a moment and then looks back at the game. The guys descend on me and claim their beers and pretzels.
“Felicity!” Bradley plants a kiss on her cheek. Bradley takes James’s old seat. “This girl totally saved me last month. I was late for class and my car was in the shop.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I feel something wet sprinkle on my back. When I turn around one of the college bros is tossing his beer in the air. He shoots down on his seat when a security guard in a canary yellow jacket gives him a warning glare. When the security turns around, Frat Boy #1 points a drunken finger at me. And my mom wondered why I didn’t date any nice boys in college.
While Bradley fills Felicity in some information about his summer plans, I sit back and watch the stadium go insane. I don’t know anything about baseball. I only know to cheer when they start running around the diamond and even then, the stop-and-go of it doesn’t hold my attention.
Unlike James. He holds my attention. I stare at the back of his head, the soft wave of his thick, dark hair. The black ink that peeks out from the collar of his shirt. Usually I find tattoos boring, but because I can’t see it, it just makes me want to know what it is that much more. I bury my face in my beer. Popcorn rains down on me but I don’t turn around. I hold my middle finger high in the air. I fucking
hate
frat boys.
James turns around and looks up at my birdie, then at my face. He smirks. “Can’t take you anywhere.”
He offers me the tray of nearly depleted nachos. The tortilla is soggy, but I need something to do to stop myself from letting the warmth of his eyes spread through me.
“What the fuck?” Bradley stands, holding his arms out. His shirt is splattered with beer. He reaches into his pocket, his shiny new iPhone vibrates and flashes in his hand. His angry face goes to a smile in a split second. He waves a quick goodbye to Felicity and me and goes back down the steps with the phone pressed to his ear.
But the beer shower doesn’t stop and I can’t tell if I’m more drenched in drizzle or beer. Frat Boy #2 laughs and shouts. “Your boyfriend left ’cause he’s a
pussy
.”
Felicity cranes her neck for security, but there’s another problem on the other side of our row. Is it a full moon or something?
“Do you want to go?” she asks me.
I have no interest in the game, but I’m not about to let some dumb boys scare me off. “No.”
I feel a hand try to grab my cap. I smack it away and stand to face him. Frat Boy #1 and his bulbous nose. He’s got the acne of a thirteen year old and the wrinkles of a thirty year old.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” I stick a finger in his face.
James stands like a lightning rod behind me. His beautiful face is marred with an angry frown. In a swift move he steps over his seat and into my row, then the one behind me. His fists grab the guy spraying the beer. The guy drops the plastic cup and it splashes on me anyway.
“Apologize,” James growls. He’s not much taller than Drunk Frat Boy, but James wins in the muscle department. His shoulders are tense, holding on to the guy’s shirt.
“Fuck off, pretty boy.” He shoves James in the chest.
The change in James is so sudden that it takes me a minute to process what’s happening. James breathes hard and fast, as if he has to contemplate what would be worse, walking away or pursuing the fight.
“Yeah,” Frat Boy #1 snarks. “That’s what I
thought
.”
His boys get rowdy and cheer him on. James catches my eye and I want to tell him it’s okay. It’s not worth it. But he breaks the connection. It’s like he’s trying so hard to stop from doing what he’s about to do, but a darker part of him won’t let him. In one swift jab, he knocks the guy back into his seat.
“James!”
Frat Boys #2 and #3 descend on top of James. He stumbles back, tripping on an armrest. People stand and crane their necks in our direction. Two yellow jackets start making their way up to break up the fight. Behind me Felicity is freaking out. The rest of the kitchen guys trip over their seats to rush to James’s side, but with people getting up and out of their seats, their passage is blocked. All I have in hands is an empty cup of beer. Frat Boy #1 is slowly getting back up, his nose gushing with blood while the other two bring their fists down at James’s sides and thighs. Felicity screams and people snap photos.
I do the only thing I can think of and I kick at the nearest one. I kick him from the back as hard as I can. He yells out and turns to face me. But when he sees I’m a girl, he hesitates. The hesitation is momentary. I can see it in his eye that he doesn’t care. So I take the keys in my pocket and grip them between my fingers. I punch him in the gut.
I can hear a big “Ohhhh!” coming from the crown and when I turn around, I can see our faces magnified on the jumbotron. James, his face covered in blood, pushes his opponent on the cement steps. The sound of his fist on the guys face makes me cringe.
“James!”
His fist stops mid-air. His whole body is shaking and bloody. He looks up at me, at the people looking over at us. The Braves hit a home run and the entire stadium shudders with a groan.
“James!” I press my hands on his back and feel him relax.
“I’m sorry,” he says to me, not to the guy. “I don’t know—”