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Indya is a fast learner and extremely intelligent. I have explained the rules of the game and all the players’ positions, even some signals that we use in the outfield. She picked up oneverything quickly and even started asking insightful questions that showed she was genuinely interested. During our baseball learning sessions, she would often challenge me with scenarios and ask how I would handle them on the field. It was clear she was not just listening but actively engaging and wanting to understand the game more deeply.
We had been dating for a couple of weeks when I took her to dinner at Legends, I couldn’t believe that after almost a year of being here, she still had never eaten at Legends. I had to make sure I remedied that issue really quick.
I started out telling her about that whole concept of the game, this way, she had some idea of what I was talking about when we really got in there. I was explaining to her that in baseball we use a lot of non-verbal signals, so in a way we have our own brand of sign language. She lit up the room with the smile that she gave me, and as I told her about some of the signals the coach sends us in the outfield and how they are different each time a new player is up to bat.
“Are all your signals non-verbal?” Indya’s leaning forward against the table, her head slightly tilted as she asks her first question of the night.
I want to make sure that she understands each position and signal that way, when she does finally come to watch me play, she will know what is going on instead of thinking we are a bunch of grown ass men grabbing our dicks and rubbing our chest and heads.
“We as outfielders have verbal and non-verbal signals. If there is a fly ball, and one of us is going for it we’ll yell, ‘got it’ so the rest of us can hear so we don’t collide with each other. But if for instance I say, ‘got it’ and so does Simms, who plays left field, he backs off because I have priority because I have the better overall view of the field.”
“That makes sense. So, who is your favorite player of all time? What or who made you want to play baseball when you were five years old? I feel like there is a great story that I desperately need to hear,” Indya says, while taking a sip of her wine.
“Hands down, Willie Mays. He played the same position as I do, center field, he did some amazing things in his life and baseball. He played professional baseball from 1953 to 1973, he didn’t get to play for the same team his entire career, like I hope to do, but man, he was amazing. Personally, I loved when he played for the San Francisco Giants. It's rare to find someone who is great at hitting and a defense position like center field, and he did that when he was with the San Fran Giants, no doubt. Mays is who I strive to be as a player.”
I pause as the waiter refills Indya’s wine and my water, then sets down the main course. My plate consists of grilled salmon, steamed vegetables, and a side salad. Indya decided to go with the chicken marsala with a side of creamy risotto and a capri salad. We both pick up our forks and start on the salads.
“As to what got me into baseball, well, that’s a bit of a tough question to answer,” I begin, glancing at her. “I’ve loved baseball for as long as I can remember. Even before I was old enough to play, I was out in the backyard with my brother and sister and all the neighborhood kids. My brother, Evander—Van, as we call him—likes to say my success is thanks to him. Now that I think about it, he probably is the one who got me into playing in the first place. We’re only a couple of years apart, and I followed him around like I was his shadow.” My mind drifts to snippets of my childhood; it was always the three of us.
Indya smiles softly. “I think it’s great that you and your siblings are as close now as you were when you were younger.”
I wonder if she was like that with her siblings growing up. She doesn’t talk much about her childhood, but I know shehas an older brother and two younger sisters. “What about you? Were you as close with your siblings then as you are now?”
Indya pales at my question, looking everywhere but at me. Did I say something wrong? Did she see someone she didn’t want to see? I turn my head in the direction she’s looking, but there’s no one there.
“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,” I say gently. “I just want you to know that this thing between us isn’t something I’m taking lightly. I have a feeling we’re building something great. So, while you may not be ready to share your past with me, know that I’m a very patient man. I do want to know what made you the person you are today.”
She just nods and goes back to eating, stopping the conversation altogether. We spend the rest of our dinner in a weird silence. After we pay, I take her hand and lead her to my car, a Raven Black with Springtime Yellow rally stripes, 1965 Ford Mustang Shelby GT350 with all black vinyl interior.
Every time I look at this muscled beauty, I feel a sense of pride and accomplishment at the hard work I put in to make my dreams a reality. She is my pride and joy, my first big purchase after being drafted. I give the door a little caress before opening it and letting Indya get settled. Then I close the passenger door and round the front to the driver’s side.
“I’m sorry if my questions ruined the evening,” I say, my voice softening. “I just thought since you were my girlfriend, I could ask you anything, and vice versa. If you don’t want to answer something, just tell me. Don’t go quiet on me.” At this point, I feel like I’m begging, but I don’t give a fuck. My feelings for this girl are growing by the day, and I’m just waiting for her to catch up.
A little over a week has passed since that dinner, and we’ve covered a lot of ground, but we still haven’t talked about her childhood or anything before a couple of years into college.She knows way more about me than I do about her, that’s for sure.
We’ve been doing what she likes to call “dating,” while I just call it what it is and tell everyone she’s my girlfriend. She doesn’t seem to mind, so I’ll keep doing it unless she says otherwise. We’re taking things slower than I’d like. We’ve been seeing each other for almost a month—three weeks and two days, but who is counting—and the only thing I’ve done with her is hold her hand. Hence, the taking it slow part. I need to get my mouth on her and my hands, and my, uh, well, you know.
She finally invited me over to her apartment for dinner, so I get to meet the infamous Amara. From what Indya has told me, I know she works for Riverside Financial and is taking online classes to move up, which is amazing. Indya also said that she’s blunt—doesn’t hold her tongue on anything. If it’s in her mind, it’s coming out of her mouth. She says Amara is loud, crazy, and an all-around good time. I can tell they’re close, not just because they’re roommates, but the way Indya talks about her. It’s the exact way I talk about my siblings. I’m glad Indya has someone like Amara in her life.
I have a couple of hours before I need to head to Indya and Amara’s apartment, so I decide to grab a shower and choose what I’m going to wear. Indya told me to dress for comfort because we might go to the park after dinner to feed the ducks. I thought that was a little odd—three grown adults hanging out at the pond in the park feeding the ducks, alongside the kids who go there with parents our age. I don’t think I’ve fed ducks at the pond since I was a child. Still, she didn’t grow up here like I did. Maybe Indya just wants to enjoy the town for all it has to offer, and next on her list is feeding the ducks. So, I’ll be tossing duck food right along with her.
After I shower, I decide to skip shaving. We’ve been on a winning streak, and I don’t want to mess with the mojo. Athletesand their superstitions—it’s a real thing, I swear. Midway through my first season, our first baseman, Ramon Ortiz, had this note his grandmother wrote him when he played his first T-ball game at five years old. He’s thirty-eight now, so this was a couple of years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
Ortiz starts unloading his game bag while we’re playing the Mariners, and suddenly he’s cursing and ripping things from his locker, threatening other players because his good luck charm is missing. We lost that game, badly. Turns out, he’d folded it up and put it in the pocket of his dress pants, and his wife washed them, destroying the letter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man cry so hard. Losing someone as close as Ortiz was to his grandmother, especially when she passed away unexpectedly, would definitely hit hard. She hadn’t told anyone she had stage four breast cancer, and the treatments weren’t working. She only had a short time left.
I think about what happened that day while I’m showering, and it’s still on my mind as I get dressed in a pair of dark jeans and one of my favorite graphic tees. Hopefully, Indya doesn’t think I’m childish when it comes to clothing. If I’m not in workout clothes, my uniform, or a suit for an event, I’m rocking jeans and graphic tees. Since Indya said Amara is all about fun and dark humor, I chose one that’s in my top five favorite shirts. It’s a soft heather gray fitted crew neck with a single sperm in a square and beneath it says, “Here is a really old picture of me.” I laughed so hard when I saw this shirt, I knew I had to grab it. I even bought one for Van, and he gets to wear it all the time, which makes me kind of jealous.
After playing a couple of games in my ‘man cave,’ I check the time and see it’s time to go. I never understood why time flies when playing video games, but I guess COD will do that to you. I check myself in the large mirror that hangs in the dining room to ensure I’m presentable. On my way to the elevator door that actsas my front door, I think to myself,I am fucking nervous.I press the call button, and the doors open only seconds later. I step in and press the button for the underground garage. I have my own section, as does everyone else who lives here, but I only keep one of my cars here, and it’s not the Shelby GT350—that’s my “I’m trying to impress you” ride. The one I leave here is practical, a 2021 Chevy Silverado Black Widow. It has a six-inch suspension lift, so it’s easier for me to get in and out of with my six-foot-two frame, glossy black interior trim, red interior lights, and dark tinted windows.
The truck belonged to my brother, and when he decided to sell it, I bought it from him because it had everything I wanted when I was looking for my first car as a teenager.
I pull into the apartment complex, parking near the doors closest to Indya’s apartment. The buildings are old but well taken care of. I haven’t been inside one of these apartments since high school. A couple of my buddies lived here, and we’d hang out and play video games after school. If I remember correctly, the next building over is where I went to my first party. Now that was a good time. I smile to myself as the memory filters through my mind. I push the button Indya told me belonged to them, waiting to be let in the main door. An unfamiliar voice comes through the metal box next to the door, “Yeah?”
I clear my throat, trying to break up the nerves that made a sudden reappearance when the mystery person, who I hope is Amara and not the wrong apartment, responds.
“Hey, it’s Atlas. Is Indya home?”
The intercom crackles. “Who?”
