Page 18 of Run Home

I reach back up, attempting to gather his curls enough to shove them under the hat. After a couple of attempts, I throw up my hands. “Oh well. We’re going to have to hope no one looks at you too closely.”

Adrian clears his throat as he takes the hat back and returns it to his head. “I could shave the goatee real quick,” he says.

“No!” I exclaim. I’m caught off guard by the strength of my own voice. Quieter, I say, “No. Don’t shave it. The goatee looks good.”

That melty quality returns to Adrian’s eyes, and this time, I’m the one to blink. I turn away and command, “Diamond studs—out.”

Adrian makes an over-the-top sigh of exasperation. “You’re killing my vibe.”

Raising an eyebrow, I say, “That’s literally the whole point.”

He tsks but removes the studs from his earlobes, placing them on the bottom of the jewelry hanger holding the various chains. He turns back to me with his hands aloft and asks, “Happy?”

I nod. “My work here is done. Put on a jacket to cover up your iconic tattoos, and you’re as blend-in-able as you’re gonna be.”

All of our work to make him unidentifiable would be a moot point if he doesn’t hide his left arm. He was asked in an interview about the tattoos a few years ago, and I remember his explanation of how he merged his two homes in the design. He missed his family and homeland after moving to Kansas City, so he covered the top side of his forearm and part of his bicep with an intricate pattern of palm leaves. The arch of eight stars from the Venezuelan flag overlays the tips of the palm branches on his bicep.

But after a couple of years playing for the Crowns, he started to feel at home with a second family. So he added the Latin words “Ad Astra” from the Kansas state motto meaning “to the stars” under the arching stars at the top. At the bottom of the design along his wrist, he added the curved stitches of a baseball seam, stitching together baseball in Kansas with his homeland of Venezuela.

However, there’s another tattoo on his inner wrist and forearm—scripted Spanish words that he got more recently. I’m suddenly curious to know why the words were significant enough to ink onto his body permanently.

I’m distracted by Adrian sliding said tattooed arm into the sleeve of a black leather jacket.

“Seriously? Black leather? After all the dadifying we just did?” I deadpan.

“What do you want me to do? It’s not like I have any dad jackets lying around. I don’t think I would even know what qualifies as a dad jacket,” Adrian defends.

Sighing, I say, “It’s fine. Better to have the arm covered up, even by that. Let’s get going.”

“You want a ride to the school?” Adrian asks as he flips the light off in the closet.

“Won’t you need to drive straight to the stadium after?” I respond.

“Oh, yeah. You’re right. I guess I’ll meet you over there. You can walk out to your car through the garage, though,” he says.

After turning off the rest of the lights and the sound system, Adrian opens the door to the three-car garage.

“Please tell me you’re taking the black truck or SUV and not the orange sports car,” I remark.

Adrian huffs with mock offense. “Of course I’m driving the truck. What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

“I don’t know that you want me to answer that question, menso,” I reply with a playful grin. “Park on the street along the south side of the school, and Danae is going to let us in the back of the building.”

As I drive to Danae and Jason’s school, I mull over the time in Adrian’s house. The small glimpse into his home—his colorful bedroom and organized closet—showed a side of him I’ve never seen before.

I’m irrationally hopeful to see that side again.

Chapter eight

Adrian

Ifollow Sam’s car all the way to the elementary school, replaying the moments we just had together.

Sam in my house. In my bedroom. Choosing my outfit.

Her fingers in my hair.

My imagination wants to rearrange the dots to make it a more domestic, intimate scene than the reality.