Hex on the Ex (5 page)

Nick parked in the season ticket lot behind the bleachers. We walked hand in hand to the right-field entrance to the Grandstand to meet Dave and Robin outside the souvenir shop.

Robin waved at us over the crowd, her shoulder-length blonde hair glistening under the stadium lights. She carried her rounded curves like an asset, and more than one set of male eyes turned to check out her worn jeans and V-neck tee as she pulled Dave toward us. His Dodger T-shirt fit snug over the belly of his 220-pound frame, with extra pounds courtesy of Robin’s excellent home cooking, no doubt.

“Excuse me?” Robin pointed to Nick’s cap. “A Cubs’ hat? What is your area code, sir?”

“Eight-one-eight,” Nick said, grinning down at her. “However, I was born in the three-one-two and raised at Wrigley Field.”

“You know why Nick studies the occult, don’t you?” Dave said. “He’s on a mission to learn how to reverse the Curse of the Billy Goat.”

“What’s that?” Robin said with a giggle.

“A very sad story,” Nick said. “In 1945, a tavern owner got thrown out of a World Series game at Wrigley Field because the stink of his pet goat bothered the fans. He got so upset over the insult to the goat that he put a curse on the Cubs and swore they would never win another World Series.
The Cubs didn’t win that game and they haven’t won a World Series since.”

“Are you really searching for a reverse for the curse?” Robin said.

“Always,” Nick said with a serious nod. “But don’t worry, I’ll be gracious when they win tonight.”

“We’re not worried about your sorry Midwest team, pal. We’ll even dry your tears after the Dodgers win,” Dave said. “First team to third base buys a round of beer.”

“You’re on,” Nick said. “I hope you’re thirsty, because Cubs take the first at bat.”

“What’s in the bag?” I said, pointing to the white plastic pouch in Robin’s hand.

“While we were waiting for you, Dave bought souvenir shirts for your mom and us girls.” She opened the bag and showed me three pink T-shirts, each with a silver-glittered Dodger logo on the chest.

I slowed down to let Nick and Dave pass through the security checkpoint first. “Pink? You let him buy us pink T-shirts?”

Robin put a finger to her lips. “Please don’t say anything. Dave picked them out. If he thinks I love the shirt, he’ll feel confident buying me gifts. He says making me happy makes him happy. Getting presents makes me happy.”

“Pink doesn’t make me happy,” I said.

“Why?” Robin squeezed the bag tight to her waist. “The shirt is cute.”

“To you, sure. You look good in pink. I’m not wearing that thing.”

“A little cranky tonight, Liz? Are you edgy about being at the game with Nick when Jarret might pitch?”

“No. Jarret will be on the field. He’s too far away to cause friction.”

“Then why the mood?”

“Remember when I told you about Laycee Huber, my old neighbor in Atlanta? The one Jarret—” I stopped to show my ticket and open my purse for the security guards.

“Slept with?” Robin said, passing through the gate.

“Right. She’s in town. I saw her at the gym this morning.”

“Ugh. Way to start the day, Liz.”

Robin and I caught up with Nick and Dave at the Field Box entrance and the four of us wove our way through the thick stream of fans searching for their seats and lining up for food at the concession stands. Fifteen minutes to game time, the stands were less than half full with the rest of the fans stuck outside in traffic or being L.A. fashionably late. We took two sets of escalators up to the MVP Loge Boxes to Section 103 and the seats reserved for Dodger players’ friends and family. Jarret gave my parents tickets in the fifth row above and behind home plate with a sweeping view of the entire field.

“Finally,” Mom said after we filed to our seats. “Nick, you sit next to Walter. Dave, you sit—”

“Vivian, stop telling everyone what to do.” My dad, in a gray Chicago Cubs T-shirt matching his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, hugged Robin and me then shook Nick’s hand.

“Good to see you, Walter,” Nick said. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” Dad beamed with excitement. “I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than at a Cub’s game—”

“Dodger game,” Mom and Dave said in unison.

“With my family and close friends,” Dad said. “Nick, I
hope you’re ready for a battle tonight. I’m not sure about Robin, but Dave, Liz, and Viv don’t take losing lightly.”

“We’ll see who leaves here happy. Game’s not over until the last out,” Dave said.

Robin and Mom left to change into the “lucky” pink T-shirts Dave bought. I begged off, claiming I wanted to stay to hear the lineup and the national anthem.

“Superstitious?” Nick said.

I smiled up at him, aware that Nick, Dave, and Dad all insisted on being in their seats for the first pitch. “I can’t let you and Dad take the advantage for your team. I’m staying to even up the Dodger numbers for Dave.”

Fans waved white rally towels at the end of the anthem as the Dodger players took their places on the field and the first Cub batter stepped to the plate.

At the top of the second inning with the score tied at zero, Nick stood. “First round of beer and dogs is on me. Who’s in?”

Five hands waved. I volunteered to help, following Nick up the steps and across the crowded aisle to the concession stand. As we took our places at the end of the line, I heard my name called. I turned. Laycee Huber and Kyle Stanger pushed toward us through the crush of people. It was too late to duck. Thank God I hadn’t donned the pink T-shirt. Laycee wore the identical pink Dodger shirt with the silver-glittered logo stretched across her breasts. Though we measured the same height barefoot, she towered over me in three-inch heels peeking from beneath the hem of her skintight white pants. Her shoulder-length wavy brown hair dipped over her forehead from a side part.

“Sugar, we haven’t seen each other in a month of Sundays
and now twice in the same day. But then, neither one of us were much for church, were we?” Laycee flashed a dimpled smile my way then settled her eyes on Nick. “And who is this? Why Liz, I think you’ve outdone yourself.”

I nodded up at Nick with a grin. He slid an affectionate arm around my waist as I made the introductions. Kyle grunted back a
hello
. Laycee took in Nick like a predator eyeing her prey.

She turned to Kyle. “Kyle honey, I’m absolutely parched. Will you get me something cold to drink while I talk to Liz for a minute?” She took me by the elbow, tugging me away from Nick and across the aisle behind the last row of seats.

I shook Laycee’s hand off my arm. “I want to get back to Nick. What’s so important?”

“You asked what brought me to town. Well, I have huge, huge, huge news to tell you. Kyle trains Billy Miles, a producer for the ATTAGIRL Network. You know, the network that runs
Atlanta Wife Life
?”

“And?” I glanced over her shoulder, trying to spot Nick in the concession line.

“When Kyle told me Billy knew the casting director for next season, I told Forrest I was going to visit you then hopped on a little ol’ plane out here. Kyle introduced me to Billy this morning, and after I use my Southern charm on him up in the suite tonight, you can bet I’ll be auditioning for the show tomorrow.” She winked at me.

“Why are you telling me this?” I tensed, irritated she had concocted a visit to me as an excuse to carry out her scheme, a scheme I knew her husband wouldn’t like at all. Her narcissistic lack of boundaries was limitless. “And why would
you tell Forrest you came out here to see me? You and I haven’t talked in years and it’s still not long enough for me. I don’t care what you do on your own, but I’ll be damned if you use me as an excuse to your husband while you bed-hop your way onto a TV show.” I turned to walk away.

She grabbed my arm. “Don’t tell me you’re still upset about—”

“My alleged
friend
having sex with my husband?”

“Oh, please. You think I was the only one? You’d have to move to the desert to escape all the women Jarret bedded while you were married.”

“This conversation is over. You’re dead to me.” I spun around, straight into Kyle and the beer in his hand.

K
yle’s cup of beer hit me full frontal, soaking my white T-shirt, splattering him, and spraying the two men passing us in the aisle. Laycee stalked toward the escalator, unscathed.

“Whoa, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you.” Kyle pulled out a napkin while his eyes tracked Laycee through the crowd.

Pinching the hem of my T-shirt, I pulled the sopping material away from my body before the beer soaked my bra. “I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

Nick appeared through the crowd, balancing a tray stacked with beer and hot dogs. “What the…?”

“We had a collision,” Kyle said.

“Go find your date, Kyle. Nick and I can handle this,” I said, fanning my shirt.

Kyle apologized again then shouldered into the streaming crowd and disappeared.

“Nick, will you ask Robin to meet me in the ladies’ room with the other pink shirt?”

“What happened?”

“If I had known a full cup of beer was right behind me, I would have thrown it in Laycee’s face. But the beer had other plans. Get Robin, will you? I’m drenched.”

Good thing the night air was warm, because the beer and my wet T-shirt were ice-cold. As I wove through the crowd and entered the restroom, I heard a loud cheer come from the stands. I found an empty stall and pulled the soaked fabric over my head. Standing in my bra, a calm fell over me. At least I had the chance to tell Laycee what I thought of her. Cathartic.

“Liz? Are you in here?” Robin’s voice echoed through the concrete walls and metal stalls.

“Over here,” I said, opening the door a crack.

“You missed everything. The Dodgers just scored a run.”

“Me, too. A deep fly onto my center field.”

“Huh?”

“Baseball talk. I crashed into a beer. The shirt, please?”

Fortunately, my bra was dry enough to keep on. I wiped the residual beer off my skin with the dry side of my white shirt, dropped the wet tee into the plastic bag Robin handed me, and then slid into the new pink T-shirt. I recapped my run-in with Laycee for her on our way back to the seats.

“My only question is why you ever hung out with someone like her in the first place? She doesn’t sound like the type of women you’re close with,” Robin said.

“Proximity. Loneliness. I spent a lot of time working, and didn’t make a lot of female friends in Atlanta. Laycee lived right next door to us. I doubt if I’ll ever see her again. At least, I hope not.”

Nick had saved two hot dogs and beers for us. After enduring a mini-lecture from Mom about missing an inning then getting the play-by-play recap from Dad and Dave, I settled down to watch the game.

At the top of the seventh inning with the score tied at one, the Cubs loaded the bases with two outs. Their ace left-handed batter came to the plate. The Dodger manager took a time-out and brought Jarret, his ace left-handed specialist, out of the bullpen. After three warm-up pitches from the mound, Jarret easily struck out the batter and retired the side.

Jarret’s skill as a left-handed reliever extended his career beyond the life of normal pitchers. He usually worked only one or two innings, leaving his arm always rested. At thirty-nine, even his chronic sore shoulder didn’t hamper his performance.

“Jarret’s in good form today,” Dave said. “There are three lefties batting in the eighth. I bet they leave him in.”

“If they do, he’ll have to bat. The Dodgers are near the bottom of the batting order.” Nick turned to Dad. “Gee, it would be just awful to see Jarret strike out, wouldn’t it, Walter?”

Everyone except sports-clueless Robin turned at Nick’s snide remark. Dave leered. Mom sneered. Dad chuckled. I enjoyed Nick’s heresy. Jarret’s shoddy behavior during our marriage got set aside whenever our family came to see him pitch. Dave, who usually ignored my ex, let his Dodger
loyalty soften his feelings toward Jarret only if and when Jarret got in the game. Mom, taken by Jarret’s Midwest boyish charm, liked having a celebrity in the family and still referred to him as her son-in-law. She watched him on the field, enchanted.

I had spent fifteen years rooting for Jarret. I knew how much pitching well meant to him. He made a lousy husband and a sometimes irritating ex, but his skill on the mound demanded respect.

Although the sun had set, the temperature registered seventy-four on the scoreboard as we sang two choruses of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for the seventh-inning stretch. As we sat down, the first Dodger batter walked to the plate. Jarret followed him out of the dugout with his bat, and took a few practice swings in the warm-up circle.

The lead batter got to first base on a walk. Jarret came to the plate, took another practice swing, then set his stance. He swung at the first pitch and missed. He let the second pitch pass him for a called strike. One more strike and he would be out.

Mom, Dave, Robin, and I stood. A heart-pounding rush of nervous energy coursed through me.

The next pitch crossed the plate dead center. Jarret swung, and the ball and his bat connected with a sweet
crack
. The ball flew high just inside the first-base foul line and over the head of the first baseman. And as the outfielder leaped to the wall to make the catch, the ball cleared the fence and bounced into the second row of the right-field bleachers for a two-run home run.

The stadium erupted into a massive, earsplitting cheer. Jarret circled the bases toward home. Two women stormed
down our aisle, screaming and waving their arms, and as he crossed home plate, they hugged each other. Mom, Dave, Robin and I exchanged high fives, and fans throughout the stadium circled rally towels, baseball caps, and fists in the air.

Dad and Nick slumped in silence, arms crossed.

Jarret took off his batting helmet and disappeared into the dugout while the crowd continued to roar. Home runs by pitchers were a rarity. This was the second one I had seen Jarret hit in fifteen years.

The two women who rushed the aisle pumped their fists and jumped up and down, yelling with the rest of the stadium for Jarret to come out for a bow. As they turned, chanting Jarret’s name at the Dodger dugout, I recognized both women from the gym. Gretchen, the brunette from this morning, and a nameless, streaked blonde I saw yesterday. Screaming for Jarret at high pitch, Gretchen wasn’t kidding about being a baseball fan.