His hand went out and touched my upper thigh. “Donotapologize. This isn’t your wrongdoing, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have assumed you were free. I can figure out another time.”
I leaned back into Rome as he canceled the date on his phone. “So. Another stepoutside, eh?”
“If you can believe it,” Rome said through a light chuckle. He proceeded to explain to me how he continued to make smaller steps forward with his team members. A few married and coupled teammates had asked to go on double dates if he wasseeing someone special.
I hinted at a greater purpose for Rome’s coming out—fully, not just within a specific net. I could feel him retreat when I brought it up, the concept of making the truth of his life known to the media, to the public.
In due time. I didn’t know if he was already aware, because I sure as hell was. It was the next step for him and I knew he would one day have the courage.
Like all good things, we would have to wait.
Chapter Seventeen
Alex
AFTERALMOSTSEVENweeks of knowing Rome, I finally bit the bullet. I googled his salary with the New England Riders. Why? Well, he was currently in Austin and today was the last of four games with the Lone Stars. He said that this could be “the one,” indicating the Riders clinching a spot in postseason. And he wanted me to be there. How would I get there? Our texts after last night’s game said it all.
Rome:I can’t express how important tomorrow’s game will be. I really, really, REALLY want you to be there. I’m sorry if you have something scheduled, but this is really important to me. Can you make it?
Me:Rome… you’re in Texas. I’m in Mass. I mean I can start looking at flights?
Rome:Never mind that. Do you have anything scheduled? Are you free?
Me:I’m free, yeah. But Rome…
Rome:Be at Logan at 8am.
Me:What? What flight are you looking at? I haven’t even looked it up yet.
Rome:I’m chartering a jet for you. It departs at 8am. You’ll geta call from the service I use. They can pick you up and drive you right to the tarmac.
Rome:Oh, also. There will be a surprise waiting in the jet.
Rome:Okay?
Rome:This is a really, really important game and nothing would make me happier than having you there.
Me:Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.
And I was. A black town car picked me up a little after seven in the morning and drove me all the way to Boston Logan Airport. We bypassed security, bypassed everything, and practically drove onto the tarmac where the driver opened my door for me. I stared up at a slick, white jet with red decals. The door was still closed and I had a moment to appreciate the splendor while the driver unloaded my bags from the trunk.
Which was when I finally stepped over a privacy line (though it was public info) that I told myself not to. I discovered that Romolo Moretti was one of the highest paid players in all of MLB. Top twenty, to be exact. The top three made my eyes pop out of my head, which helped qualm the building storm as I scrolled to Number Sixteen of the New England Riders.
Thirty million dollars a year. I almost vomited. I knew he made good money, obviously. Butthirty fucking million? He couldbuya jet with that kind of money. There was no need to charter one. Among so many other of his life choices.
Thirty million, I repeated to myself. That was just for the current year. How much had he made the year before, and the year before that? I could continue to research and tally it all up but, again, it felt like some strange invasion of privacy.
I hated that my mind went there, but I thought of Ricky. He had just started to turn the corner of pulling down a million a year. His life had been so removed from mine that I never really shared in the wealth and, as I thought of it, the man nevershowered me with any type of gifts.
The stair ramp to the jet lowered and a flight attendant popped out and waved at me to join her. The driver brought my bags up first and handed them to the flight attendant. Her name tag read CLAIRE, a tall woman with raven dark hair and ruby lips.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Edwards,” Claire said. Her voice had the slightest hint of a European accent I couldn’t put my finger on. “I’ve been instructed to have you make your way to the rear of the plane through the door. If you will?” she gestured with a perfectly manicured hand.
“Um. Thanks.”
I ambled through the plane, my eyes targeted luxurious, white leather seating with gold threading. Only two rows of swiveling chairs lined the front, with a long and deep couch along both sides toward the back. The air smelled faintly of men’s cologne. I had a curious thought as I reached a sliding wooden door at the rear of the plane.
The ramp wasn’t lowered when I arrived, I thought. In the movies, the stairs were always down and waiting for people to walk up them. Did that mean the jet had justarrived?
