Page 44 of The Battery
“Sounds like we found the one then, didn’t we.”
He mouthed the word “yeah,” which I think he meant to say. Instead, it came out barely a whisper.
All I have to do is touch his lips and he’s mine.
I put a firm grip on his hips. An unmistakable gesture. No pretend checking for the tailoring.
We stared. I froze in the moment, caught between what I wanted and what I needed. Cody froze, caught in whatever mental turmoil I had likely cast him into. It patently wasn’t fair. I berate him, ostracize him, then include him and tease him. None of that added up to what would be considered fair.
I dropped my hands. I saw a piece of him wilt, a hope in his eyes that had been glistening now a faded echo, like a rushing sound in a canyon.
The moment passed like fog moving out to the sea—slowly. I held his gaze as we both recognized the passing of it. Without words, I needed him to see my need and my ability to master it. I had told him no strings. I meant it. I wouldn’t force his hand, though I knew he’d be willing.
Again, Cody adjusted the lapels and cocked his head to give me a feigned look of impertinence. “So now I’ll look fly when we fly, right?”
Another win for Cody. I snorted out a stupid laugh. The joke was so dumb it was perfect.
“We’re not done yet, Hill. We still have plenty more places to go.”
With the moment passed, we both settled back into our distance.
Not ships in the night, but ships in the day. In sight and out of reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cody
We ate dinnerthat night at a classic Boston tavern. I pushed the limits of what I was comfortable with spending, despite Leo’s insistence. I would be locked into pre-arbitration for the first three years while playing for the Riders. After that, my salary would be open to negotiation. Not that almost three-quarters of a million a year was awful. Already I was making money people could only dream of. Leo sensed my hesitation toward the end of the afternoon, when the trunk of the Mercedes was really piling up.
Leo took us to a spot called Corner Wharf Tavern, a place along the Harborwalk in the North End. Apparently, his assistant had called ahead and secured us a spot. With the July heat and the setting sun, the place was bound to be jammed with people. We arrived in our new clothes after changing at one of the stores. Leo wore beige chinos that hugged every inch of his powerful legs, the hem ending just above his ankles. Bright, white sneakers covered his feet. Up top he wore a midnight-blue button-down linen shirt; long-sleeved to cover his tattoos like the pants, but with the top three buttons undone because Leo was Leo and liked to show a little. He even popped into a barbershop to refresh the fade of his hair and beard.
I, on the other hand, wore brand new shorts that were too short for my liking, and a short-sleeved button-down the color of the sky. I had a feeling Leo wanted to at least lean into anonymity, since he was far more popular than I was. Not to mention a former Brawler and likely a bitter enemy of manyNew England fans for years. He slipped on a black ballcap as we approached the tavern, ruining his perfectly coiffed hair.
We wedged into the corner of the bar where massive, open windows gave view to Boston Harbor. AC pumped out something fierce despite the open windows, and a turbulent mix of heat and cool swirled around us. I wasn’t mad about it. The tavern itself was seemingly carved out of a single chunk of dark wood, the horseshoe bar a comfortable place to sit with cushioned stools. Leo had me sit at the very last one against the window, with him next to me, as if he would protect me from the rest of the bar. I would have called it chivalrous but this most certainly was not a date. So.
We both ordered lite beer and burgers with pub fries. While waiting for the food to come, we drained two pints each. I blamed it on the heat. Life was feeling mighty fine by the time the third pint showed up. That was when we received a polite interruption. Both of us turned to see a young kid and his mother wedged between the open-windowed wall behind us and the occupied stools next to us.
The boy, who could not have been older than eight, held a baseball in one hand and a pen in the other. Leo spun and said, “Hey there, little man.” I about melted at his lightened tone.
“Mr. Papadopoulos,” the kid said without fumbling through Leo’s last name, “will you sign my baseball?”
“Of course I will,” Leo said as he reached down to take up the item and sign. “So you guys don’t hate me then, right?”
“Aw, no way,” the kid said, his eyes glued to the ball. “You’ve been so awesome. I watch every game to see if you’re gonna fight someone.”
Leo snickered at that and handed the ball and pen back. “I only do that if someone deserves it. Do you think the other players have deserved it yet?”
The boy handed the pen to his mother, who tucked it into her purse. “Um… no?” He looked up to his mother, as if she could provide the right answer.
She mouthed a “thank you” to both of us and turned the boy around to get absorbed back into the crowd of the tavern.
Leo spun on his stool to take a sip of his beer. Caught me staring. Then lowered the beer.
“What?”
I shrugged a little. “Nothing. That was adorable.”
He raised the beer back to his lips. “Give it a year and you’ll be in the same boat.” He chugged a few swallows. “Don’t get me started on the ones obsessed with selfies, though.” He shook his head. “I’ll take a kid with a ball and pen any day over all those fucking pictures.”
