Page 30 of Run Home
After Sam enters the number into her phone, I flag down one of the ushers to escort Marcia out to the valet station. Sam tells her, “It was so lovely meeting you. I’m looking forward to more of your stories.”
Marcia pauses to take my hand in hers and gives it a firm squeeze with a sharp look in her eyes. I place a hand over my heart, hoping she understands my meaning. As soon as she walks away, I turn to Sam. “Are you up for some time on the dance floor?”
Smiling, Sam replies, “What kind of plus-one would I be if I let you tear up the dance floor alone?”
Before she can stand, I extend a hand under the premise of helping her to her feet. I fully intend to hang on until we reach the dance floor, though. Sam places her hand in mine, and the sensation demands all my attention. Marcia advised me not to miss out on too many moments, and I’m going to start mentally cataloging every one I can get.
Unfortunately, we barely make it a few feet before we’re interrupted by two couples from a different table stopping to ask for photos. Sam offers photography services and takes their phones, so I paste on a classic Adrian Ortiz grin as I pose with the couples together and then individually.
The stop for photos unleashes a torrent of more requests, and Sam smiles graciously and takes blasts of photos for person after person. Usually, I enjoy these moments. I’m often the last player sticking around for photos with waiting fans. But tonight, my smile is more forced.
Because these fans are keeping me from my moments with Sam.
Finally, there’s no one else lined up for photos, but I spot a couple weaving through tables in our direction. I grab Sam’s hand and pull her to the dance floor before we can get detained again.
The music is still upbeat, so I don’t have a valid reason to hold on to Sam’s hand once we start dancing. One of the football players is already on the dance floor drawing a lot of attention, so we blend into the crowd. When I went out to clubs with teammates or other friends, I was the one playing to the crowd, getting the fun going for everyone around us. But tonight, all my focus is on Sam, regardless of how many other people are dancing.
When the band starts a Latin-inspired song, I loosen the bow tie around my neck and take Sam’s hands to lead her through some Venezuelan salsa moves. I demonstrate the basic cross-back-and-kick rhythm, and she’s a natural following along with her hips swaying, laughing when she makes a misstep. Between the crowd, the dancing, and Sam’s proximity, sweat is already beading, so I take off my suit jacket, tossing it onto the closest chair.
Once she has a good grasp of the basics, I start leading her through various turns, watching the joy on her face grow with each spin. Although faintly aware of bystanders cheering around us, I’m zeroed in on Sam’s beaming smile and bright blue irises. The light in her eyes could brighten the whole sky—at least, my whole sky.
Sensing the end of the song coming with the punctuating beats of the music, I dramatically dip Sam in time with the final note. There’s applause around us, and even the lead vocalist of the band smiles and points our direction. After returning Sam upright, I grin and clap my hands toward the band, showing them appreciation for the well-done music.
They unknowingly reward my gratitude by transitioning to a slow love song. I don’t miss a beat in placing both hands lightly on the small of Sam’s back, pulling her a touch closer to me. As the lead male vocalist begins singing the slowed-down acoustic version of “Stargazing” by Myles Smith, I think about how I wish time would stand still right now. Sam rests her hands right behind my neck, still breathing deeply after the brisk salsa.
I haven’t caught my breath since she opened the door at Griffin’s house. She’s gorgeous wearing a T-shirt and a Crowns ball cap, or oversized sweatpants and a hoodie, or a full winter parka. But Sam in this dress tonight—I may never recover.
She didn’t know that I was wearing a navy suit, and I don’t know if she purposely chose the baby blue to match the Crowns’ alternate uniform color. But it draws out the blue in her eyes to such a piercing degree, it’s almost like looking into the waters of Isla Larga in Venezuela. The fitted style of the sparkling dress highlights the curve of her waist—a curve that’s currently beneath my hands. My fingertips brush the bare skin of her back between the laces of her dress, and I can’t resist moving my hands a little closer together to rest my fingers on that skin as I stare into her eyes.
When Marcia mistook Sam for my wife, I had a split second of elation. Milliseconds of my heart soaring to the stars, imagining that very possibility.
And then Sam laughed. Shot my heart right out of the sky, crashing back to reality. With Marcia’s admonition in the back of my mind, I test the waters with some honesty.
“I already told you at the house that you look stunning, and Marcia told you that you look beautiful. But that’s not near enough, so allow me to say it again—you’re breathtaking, Sam,” I say, loud enough for only her to hear.
Her cheeks pinken, and she looks down at my shirt briefly before returning her eyes to mine. “Thank you. It’s kinda fun to have an excuse to get all dressed up.” She smiles wryly and adds, “I have a lot of boring all-black outfits in my future as a hairdresser.”
Quirking my lips to one side, I say, “All black happens to be my favorite color combination.” Sam laughs, and my smile softens as I add, “But black might be getting dethroned by blue now. Or green. Depending on the day.”
I don’t know if Sam is following where I’m leading with my disguised confession—that her blue-green eyes are my favorite of anything colorful in the world. She bites one corner of her lip, tilting her head in thought. I’d be sorely tempted to kiss her if we were alone rather than in a room crowded with strangers. Let’s be honest—the temptation is there, but I fight it off.
“I’m not sure why you decided to ask me to come tonight,” Sam says with a short pause. Perhaps giving me the opportunity to jump in and explain exactly why. But I don’t. So she continues, “But I really enjoyed hearing you share how baseball was so meaningful to you as a kid. I had fun watching you entertain and dodge questions and take countless photo requests. And I especially enjoyed ignoring the rest of the table while chatting with Marcia.”
I break eye contact long enough to tip my head back in a full laugh, then lock my gaze back on hers. I’d place a confident bet that Sam’s eyes dip to my mouth, but maybe that’s just because my eyes are constantly drawn to her lips. She looks back up to me and says, “Thanks for inviting me. I’m glad I could be your plus-one tonight.”
My thumb moves of its own volition, caressing a circle against Sam’s back, and she shivers in response. Neither one of us is cold right now, but my arms reflexively pull her closer as our swaying slows. When her thumb traces a line along the side of my neck, I almost stop swaying altogether to bend my lips to hers.
Just when I think my self-control and situational awareness might be completely out the window—just when I’m almost convinced that Sam’s might be too—the drums pound and cymbals crash as the band launches into a cover of “WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!” by RAYE, and the crowd whoops with renewed energy.
Sam’s hands drop from their place around my neck, and she smiles tightly as we join the crowd in singing along and dancing.
She doesn’t make much eye contact with me during this song.
After a few more turns around the dance floor and dozens more photos with fans, our time at the gala comes to an end. They raised over three hundred thousand dollars over the course of the event, so I’d say that counts as a successful night.
I also got to experience the high of slow dancing with Sam, and that absolutely counts as a successful night.
It’s after ten when we drive away from the convention center. I have practice tomorrow before our evening game, and Sam has school in the morning. Logically, I should take her straight home so we can both get some sleep.
