Hooked (5 page)

She paused for a moment, bobbing her head back and
forth, before handing the phone to me. I was quivering. “Hello. Drew,” I said,
announcing myself to him.

“Well, well. I didn’t realize you were so
important.”

“Well, if you play your cards right, I’ll take that
last sentence as a compliment,” I said, raising my left eyebrow toward Mel. Mel
snickered. “Listen, Drew. Some things ran late. I’m closer to the stadium than
normal, so I thought I’d just meet you there. Sound kosher to you?”

Drew paused, trying to size me up. “Sounds good,
Molly. I’ll head over early and get us situated. You like Chicago dogs?”

My heart glimmered. I nearly spouted a very girlish,
“Oh yes!” But I composed myself. “I will be very hungry, yes. After this hard
day, all I want is a dog and a beer.”

“Old Style?” he asked me. My heart rumbled.

“What else?” I loved the way our voices sounded
together; I loved his laugh.

We said pleasant goodbyes, and I hung up the phone
swiftly, nearly cutting him off. My body was shivering. I started jumping up
and down. “Yes! Yes!” I called. “I sounded so important, so cool!”

“You did, Molly,” Mel said to me, winking. “You
did.”

She clapped her hands together and ushered me back
to the shower, where I took a quick one—hardly giving myself time to daydream
under the water stream, to think about the day ahead. I shrugged on a pretty
dress and a nice fall jacket for what was sure to be a chilly evening ahead. I
twirled in the studio, gazing at myself in every direction. Satisfied, I rushed
out the door, allowing my long blonde hair to wave behind me.

CHAPTER SIX

Cubs
stadium, situated in the messy haze of Wrigleyville, was crowded for game day.
I rushed from the train to the sidewalk, seeing the great stadium before me. I
felt like I was rushing headlong into my destiny; Drew. And I couldn’t focus on
anything else. I bumped my elbow into people; I scrambled around great lines
waiting to get into bars, pubs. They all wore Cubs gear and I realized, with a
sudden lurch in my stomach, that I hadn’t dressed up for the game. What would
he think of me?

But I didn’t have time. I pushed my way to the
front, to the ticket line, wondering how I would ever get in. I called him
automatically, bringing the phone to my ear and hearing his deep,
nearly-arrogant, confident voice on the other line. “Great, you’re here. I left
the ticket for you at the ticket stands. Just give them my name.”

He hung up, clearly busy with something else. I was
wide-eyed, like a child left alone in the rain. I waited in the line, pushing
my purse from my left side to my right. I was behind an old man, a diehard Cubs
fan. I wanted to tell him about my grandfather for some reason, but stopped
myself. I began playing with my hands, picking at my nails. The old man’s
wrinkled, crinkled wife turned around to look at me. “You’ll need to stop
picking your nails like that if you ever want to land a husband.” And then she
took her ticket from the stand and was gone.

Shocked, my eyes wide, I took the final step toward
the ticket man. “Hello—
“ I
began.

“Don’t worry about her. Comes here every game and
insults my heritage. What can I do for you?” This was the man on the other side
of the ticket booth.

I smiled at him, ruffling my hair. “Oh, yes. Thank
you. I couldn’t believe—anyway.” I paused, putting my hand on the counter. I
could hear the hustle of the people behind me, waiting for me. I had to compose
myself. “I’m actually looking for a ticket, held for me by a Drew—
“ I
paused, realizing that I had no idea what his last name
was. “Shit.” I looked down at my chomped nails. “I don’t know his last name.”

The man in the ticket booth began to laugh at me.
“Girl, you’re having a rough day. Okay. Let me see. A fellow—about six foot
four or so—handsome as hell—left a ticket under the name Drew Thompson. Do you
think that’s him?”

I waved my hand over my eyes. “He certainly is handsome.
I’m sure it’s him.”

The man smiled at me, revealing a single crooked
tooth. “It better be. Or I’ll regret helping you.” He was kidding, of course. I
felt his warmth emanating through my stomach. He handed me the ticket, and I
was so grateful, I wanted to kiss the glass between us. “Enjoy the game!” he
called.

“Thank you!” I called back, scurrying like mad to
get into the stadium. After a few security checks, I found myself running
through the lower section, where people flitted here and there, off to find
their seats. I had no idea where Drew would be. I slowed to a halt, tapping my
feet on the stone ground. Where the hell would this guy be? Frustrated, I arced
my neck this way, then that, searching for him in the enormous sea.

And then; a whistle.
I heard a whistle to the left. My head darted that way, spinning my entire body
with it. My dress flung around my knees. Before me, there by section
B,
stood Drew. He was dressed perfectly—like it was Easter
Sunday. His suit held fine touches of the bright blue and red of the Cubs. And
his tie was a perfect homage to the team. I walked toward him, brimming with
happiness. I had found him.

He leaned toward me, kissing me on the cheek. “Hey.
Glad to have found you.”

“I—How did you know where to find me?”

“I actually have been to this stadium more times
than I can count, just—long ago,” Drew explained, turning away, expecting me to
follow. We wound our way to the concession stand to the side of the great
field. From there, I could see the green stretch out and the players begin
their warm ups. I sighed, breathing in such beautiful air.

“Nothing like a day at the ball park,” Drew laughed,
eyeing my exhilaration. He turned toward the concessions person and ordered us
two Chicago Dogs and two Old Styles. He handed me the messy dog, covered with
relish, sport peppers and a hint of celery salt. There were several other
vegetables too.

I grinned up at him, gesturing toward the dog. “One
of my favorite things about Chicago,” I chortled. “How did you live in New York
without this sucker?”

Drew laughed, guiding us further down the stands. He
kept going, going. I could feel the harsh stone beneath my feet, making my
knees quake. I had lost a good deal of my dancer’s strength, I knew.

“Wow. Are we sitting actually on the field—with the
players?” I asked him, laughing.

Drew didn’t answer. He turned us left, into the very
front row, directly down the first base line. My heart leapt in my chest,
thinking that this—this right here, this seat, this Chicago Dog, this Old Style
beer—was my grandfather’s dream.
If he could see me now.
“Wow,” I breathed, sitting down next to him. “This is incredible.”

“About as good as it gets, I’d say,” Drew nodded,
looking out over the field. His blue eyes flitted over the players, over the
rest of the stands. “I can’t believe you’ve never been here before.”

“I can’t believe this is a part of your regular
life,” I gasped, taking a sip of the cool, refreshing Old Style in my hand. The
sun was high in the sky at this three o’clock start time, and I felt myself
sweating with the adrenaline of the day.

“So,” Drew began, turning toward me. All his
interest was fueled directly to my eyes, my face. He placed his hand on my knee
before taking it off quickly, out of respect. “I was surprised to hear from
your assistant today—“

I panicked, suddenly. I didn’t want him to know I
worked at the dance studio, not yet. It was still so strange. People were so
weird about me being a dancer—an actual, trained dancer, and I was so weird
about having failed as a “real” one. It was just too personal of a topic to
even discuss. I waved my hand over my face. “You know. She’s my assistant, yes.
But I don’t currently have a job. She’s helping me parse through the city,
discover where my talents should really lie.”

Drew nodded, a tiny wrinkle forming above his nose.
“I see. She’s putting your name out everywhere. What are you looking for?”

I bit my lip for just a moment, my mind rushing.
“You know. I studied journalism, public relations, that sort of thing in
college.
Which fits a broad range of jobs, of course.
”

Drew
nodded,
his eyes
bright. “Yes. I, myself, studied PR a good deal. A lucrative career, if you
know where to look.”

“Right,” I nodded. I tried to remember everything
that my roommate had told me in college about PR. Her homework had seemed so
boring, but the fact that she could do many different things outside of
college—beyond the realms of just dancing until your body gave out—was always
very interesting to me.

But I couldn’t sift through everything she had told me;
it had been another lifetime ago. “What about you?” I asked him. The game was
close to starting; the men were running from the field to their respective
dugouts. “I know you’re in Chicago to open up a bookstore—“

“Right,” Drew nodded. “I own a small chain of
bookstores—all mostly throughout Manhattan and Brooklyn. They’re called the
Femme Fatale bookstores. We sort of dim the lighting, make everything a little
darker in there—a little mysterious while you look at the books.”

“So you feel like you’re in a spy novel?” I chimed
in, rolling my head back a bit.

He nodded.
“Yeah.
But
mostly, they’re just regular bookstores.”

“Except they seem to be thriving,” I blurted in,
knowing that bookstores were generally on the decline in greater cities,
especially with the rise of e-books—airless readers.

He shrugged his shoulders, beginning to
unwrap
his Chicago dog. He took a long sip from his Old
Style. “Man, this tastes good. You know, my first drink ever was an Old Style,
at a pub down the street.”

“When you were twenty-one?” I asked him.

His eyes grew mischievous. “My grandfather—diehard
Cubs fan—brought me to the ballpark when I was seventeen, maybe early eighteen.
And he took me to that bar—his bar, he called it. And the bartender didn’t care
at all. Round here in Wrigleyville, the Old Style might as well come out of the
tap. We drink it like water.” He glugged it down for a moment before smashing
it back in the cup holder. The players were taking the field. The other
team—the St. Louis Cardinals—were up to bat. The age-old organ was playing
old-fashioned baseball music, and the entire crowd, all of the Cubs fans were
singing along.

I felt the amazing rush of having so many people
around you, rooted in the same belief, the same love. I sipped my Old Style,
eyeing Drew to the side as he looked out on the field. His face was bright, so
happy. He kept pointing things out to me; watch how he does that, Molly, or
look at that hit, Molly! We cheered the Cub boys on through their up to bat,
screaming wildly every time one of them hit the small ball into the outfield.
The Cardinals seemed no match for the great stadium’s power. Here in
Wrigleyville, there was a sense of magic that could not be beat.

During the end of the fifth inning, after the Cubs
scored their fourth run and they struck out their last batter, circus music
began to play throughout the stands. The crowd began to freak and scream with
happiness. I watched as the cotton candy man bobbed his great pink head
throughout the crowd, selling small satchels of sugar. I watched as a small
child, just a few seats away from me, crawled up on his grandfather’s lap and
pointed out at the field, his nose red from the sun. “What a wonderful place,”
I whispered to Drew.

“I’m glad you’re having fun. But—Oh! Watch out!”
Drew was pointing up to the great screen, where they had flashed the words
“MAKE OUT CAMERA!” Drew turned to me, his eyes bright. “What do you think about
that?”

I turned pink, shaking my head. “They surely won’t
land on us,” I sputtered, smiling. I watched as an older couple, both of them
with bright white hair, appeared on the camera and then turned to one another,
administering a brief, smooched kiss on each other’s lips. Another couple
appeared—a woman holding a baby and her husband directly next to her. They were
bickering. When someone pointed the screen out to them, they pushed each
other’s faces together briefly before the camera fled away.

And then;
I
saw myself.
On screen.
My blonde hair was glinting in
the
sunlight, and—on
screen—my mouth was open in wonder.
I turned swiftly toward Drew, who was already prepared. He came toward me, his
mouth open, his eyes closed. And I leaned into it as well. He started kissing
me deeply, so much
like
he had the evening before. His
tongue flipped against mine intimately. I could feel a hint of beard on his
cheek. I heard the people around us begin to cheer, “YEAH. GET IT!” as we
kissed and kissed. Drew’s hand was on my shoulder before he moved it up to my
cheek, playing with my ear. An internal desire to fuck him sprang up in me; it
was such a surprise, those feelings. I wanted to mount him there, in front of
everyone, in front of the entire stadium.

But then, Drew pulled back. He nipped at my lower
lip one final time before looking at me with slanted, bedroom eyes. “Wow,” he
murmured. “You are a really good kisser.”