When It Hooks You (It #1) (9 page)

“Goodbye,” he said. She didn’t look up from her screen, but in her peripheral vision, she saw him spin on his heel and stay hidden behind the plant until the elevator dinged and took him away.

Ten minutes later, with Mrs. Beneficence ferried to her attorney’s office, Trish’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

What was that?

Who is this?

Adam Helms

Oh

I repeat—what was that?

What was what?

In the office. Why could we hardly talk to each other?

I didn’t realize you wanted to talk.

I didn’t want to not talk.

Huh?

I don’t know what I’m saying.

A few seconds passed with Trish not knowing how to respond. Her phone buzzed again.

I want to see you.

Her heart thudded against her ribcage, and her cold bitch mode melted away to be replaced by coy flirt.

You just did, silly.

Again. I want to see you again. I’m in town through the weekend. Are you available to do something tomorrow?

Yes. Until about 7. What do you want to do?

Something non-touristy. You decide.

Ok. Let me think about it. I have your number now so I’ll text you where to meet.

Great. See you tomorrow.

CU then. Bye.

Bye.

The next afternoon, Adam and Trish met at the Fullerton CTA station. As had been forecasted, the June day was sunny and humid, so she’d chosen a short, strapless, cotton sundress and tucked sunscreen in her straw hobo bag. She’d pulled her long hair up into a messy twist. Keeping their plans a surprise, Trish had merely told Adam to dress casually and be prepared for lots of fresh air.

Right on time, he showed up in a white polo shirt and long, army green walking shorts. He wore Topsider shoes with no socks. It was her first time seeing him in anything other than a suit and shiny dress shoes. Even his hairstyle was more relaxed, with a heavier dose of free wisps falling onto his forehead.

“If this were nineteen eighty-six, I’d call you preppy,” Trish teased.

“If this were any era, I’d call you stunning.” Coming from another guy, it would’ve sounded like a line, but Adam had said it without an accompanying leer or wolfish grin. It was a simple statement, elegant and sincere, like him. “Where are we going?”

“You said non-touristy. Therefore, we won’t be boarding the northbound train to Wrigley Field. We’re going to the Southside, baby. The Cubs might be Chicago’s lovable losers, but the White Sox are Chicago’s loveable winners.” She gave him a wink, and he responded with a grin. “Who’s your team?” she asked. “Orioles?”

“I don’t follow baseball, actually.”

“Oh. Would you rather do something else?”

“No, no. I asked you to make the plans and this is certainly something I’d never do on my own. Let’s see what these White Sox are all about,” he said as a train rattled toward them.

Once settled in their seats, Trish asked, “So what’s keeping you in Chicago this weekend?”

“I’ve got a meeting in Cleveland on Monday. Rather than pinball around, it was either spend the weekend there or spend it here.”

“Glad you chose here.” She smiled.

“We’ll see how I feel about that after this baseball game.” His hazel eyes lit with a teasing spark.

On impulse, Trish reached over to wrap her hand around the back of his. He stiffened. After a moment he relaxed and spread his fingers enough for hers to slip between. Yet he still didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the contact, giving her the impression he hadn’t had his hand held in a very long time.

They arrived at their stop and walked to the main gate of U.S. Cellular Field. She directed him to a monument celebrating the 2005 Chicago White Sox championship. “See? Winners.”

Adam stepped closer to the sculpture, his eyes roving the graphics. “It’s so strange to me.”

“Baseball?”

“No. The local pride that surrounds any professional sports team. You’ve clearly thrown in your lot with this lot, and while I find your loyalty admirable, I don’t understand it. It’s only a business, isn’t it? It’s not like every member of the team is a native son of Chicago or even the Midwest. They’re people who excel at what they do and were recruited by the business that’s the Chicago White Sox. Yet locals flock around them like they’re some kind of brethren rather than employees doing their jobs.” He continued staring at the monument, either not aware of or simply not bothered by irritated glances from baseball fans scattered nearby.

“I already bought the tickets online,” Trish said, more amused by this off-the-wall observation than offended, “but I’ll offer one more time—do you want to ditch the game and do something else?”

Leisurely, his gaze meandered over to her, combing up her body and resting on her face. The longer he looked, the more heated his iridescent irises seemed to become, as if an unfed hunger burned within them. He gave his head a small shake, bringing the temperature down to a simmer. “Let’s go in,” he said. “We’re already here.”

“Okay then.” Trish swallowed, buying herself a moment to recompose after his sultry examination.

He stepped next to her, tickling his hand down the inside of her forearm to thread his fingers through hers. The stiffness she’d felt in his touch on the train was gone, though she still felt a hint of hesitation. Trish held onto him through the turnstiles and all the way to the beer stand, where she reached into her bag. “I’ll get the first round.”

He clamped his hand around her wrist to stop her. “You bought the tickets. Concessions are on me.” He bought their drinks, and they wove through the throng, crossing the massive concrete oasis to emerge back into glaring sunlight. It seemed brighter and hotter inside the fishbowl of the stadium than it had been outside of it. Adam pulled on his mirrored aviators when they reached the bottom of the steps that led to their seats.

“Good idea.” Trish maneuvered her pink tortoise-shell shades onto her face. A few minutes later, they plopped into their mid-level seats. The players warmed up while more and more fans filtered into the stands. A welcome breeze and more sips of the icy beer helped cut the heat of the day. Adam’s eyes feasted on the lively scene before them—the bright green stripes of the field, the arched scoreboard topped with candy-like decorations, and the constant parade of cotton candy, hot dogs, and giant foam fingers.

Trish was content to watch him enjoy the scene. When he eased back into his seat and glanced at her, she asked, “Does the whole thing still mystify you?”

“Yes. But I’m beginning to see how this is more than watching someone do a job.”

“Have you never been to a professional baseball game before?”

“I have, but it’s always been work. Usually in a skybox, either schmoozing or being schmoozed. I’ve never come strictly for fun.”

“Not even with your dad when you were a kid?”

He shook his head. “Not even then. How about you? What makes you such a fan?”

“Um…” She sucked in her lips and looked at the vast blue sweep of the sky. Only a few strips of wispy clouds broke the solid block of color. “I’m from a long line of Sox fans, so I sort of inherited it. Plus I like the underdog nature of the team. It’s not easy being the bastard brother of the beloved Cubbies.”

“I see.” He nodded, taking a slow sip as his mirrored lenses stayed steadily pointed toward her, his beautiful, pale eyes studying her from underneath.

“What do you see?” She sat forward, turning more deliberately toward him.

“The team. It’s become like a character for you. You assign it a backstory and personality traits, and it becomes something bigger to you than what it actually is.”

She wrinkled her nose in skepticism. An eruption of cheers circled the stands as the players trotted onto the field and the announcers took to the microphones. “Puzzle away at it all you want, Mr. Deep Thinker. These people like-a da White Sox. Some things in life are beyond explanation.”

His forehead pinched slightly and the corners of his mouth tilted down. “Yes, I suppose that’s only too true.”

She reached to mold her palm over the back of his hand and give it a squeeze. She saw a persistent heaviness in Adam Helms. He was like a man tied at the ankles being held in the suffocating depths of the ocean, weighted down by an old sadness. Every smile felt to Trish as if he was breaking through the surface for a gasp of much needed levity. She wanted to give him more of those moments, maybe even make them last a little longer. “I’m gonna turn you into a believer by the end of the game.”

He flipped his hand around so they were palm to palm and squeezed her back. “You’re welcome to try.”

They kept their focus on the game for the first couple of innings. Trish pointed out nuances she thought he might find interesting, and he asked occasional questions. Under her tutelage, Adam did an excellent job flagging down the beer vendor during the third inning. By the fourth, Trish noticed he’d become more interested in studying his program than watching the players.

“Time for a field trip,” she said, folding his program shut and standing.

“Where to?” he asked, remaining in his seat and looking up at her.

“Just a walkabout.”

He set the program under his seat and followed Trish down the steps. They stood at the rail for a while, watching fans across the way pose with the furry, green mascot. They then wandered to the centerfield plaza, going from sculpture to sculpture of White Sox legends. While Adam read one of the plaques, Trish studied his mellow, almost tired, expression. She stepped behind and to the side of him, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “This feels sorta touristy, doesn’t it?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “It’s fine. But yes, it does.”

“I’ve failed.” She curved around him and buried her face in his chest. Even in the midst of a humid Chicago day he smelled fresh and clean, with just a hint of a pleasant, natural musk. Somehow the warmth of his body was soothing against the uncomfortable heat of the external temperature.

He threaded his fingers through her hair and guided her face up so it was only a few inches from his. “I don’t believe you’ve ever failed at anything.” The deep intonations of his voice vibrated through her, distracting her enough that it took a moment for the actual words he’d spoken to sink in.

Her eyes creased at the corners in question. “That’s an odd thing to say, considering our very first interaction.”

His hand trailed down her cheek, tickling as it went. He stopped at her jaw, cupping the side of her face. “After hearing my unconventional thoughts on baseball, I’m not sure why my saying odd things would continue to surprise you.”

She let out a small laugh but was careful not to move too much and disturb his gentle hold on her. She looped her arms around his lean waist, staying silent as they stared at each other. Through the darkened lenses of her sunglasses, she tried to peer through the reflective surface of his. She hoped to see more of the heated desire she’d detected outside the stadium.

Though they stood in the middle of a bustling plaza, the moment was ripe for a first kiss. With every tingling cell of her body, Trish willed him to chance it.

“Where are these famous cheese fries you told me about earlier?” he asked, lowering his hand and killing her hopes.

She let her arms slip from his waist, forcing her tone to stay upbeat to mask her disappointment. She usually wasn’t shy about making the first move but deemed it wise to proceed cautiously with this one. She’d let him set the pace. “They’re not cheese fries—they’re Irish
nachos.”

“Please tell me there’s no corned beef on them.”

“Nope.” She laughed. “But you’ll go home with a tacky souvenir mini-helmet.”

They located the counter selling the loaded fries and brought them back to their seats, arriving at the bottom of the sixth inning. The game got exciting in the seventh with a three-run homer, giving the Sox back the lead. Adam grinned when the multicolored candies above the scoreboard whirred. Daytime fireworks banged in the background. Trish wondered if perhaps she hadn’t failed at showing him a good time, after all. During the next inning, they watched the home team pull further ahead.

By the top of the ninth, Trish didn’t want to push Adam’s intro to baseball any further. “Do you want to hit it before this mass of humanity swarms the exits?” she asked.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

Adam grabbed the tiny helmet, still half filled with potatoes and gobs of unnaturally yellow cheese, and they trotted down the steps. As they rounded the corner, he deposited the souvenir into a trash can. Trish hadn’t realistically expected him to carry the disgusting thing around with him, but when she heard it crunch against crumpled wrappers and other discarded waste, she realized she’d wanted him to
want
to keep it as a reminder of their day together.