Given that it was a holiday, no one was on the roads. At least not at this time of night or in this general direction. A complete anomaly for Atlanta, with its notoriously terrible traffic. I put on a nice mix of jazz, ranging from Billy Eckstine to…
“Carmen McRae,” said Ari. “My dad used to love some Carmen McRae. He said her voice sounded like she made love to the notes. Caressed them. Made them breakfast in the morning.”
I laughed. “Your dad really had a way with words. You’re sure he was a utility worker and not a poet?”
“Nope, totally and truly a blue-collar guy,” Ari assured me. “But blue-collar guys can be poetic too.”
Typically, Thanksgiving in Atlanta is mild, but this year an arctic blast had taken over at sundown. The windows of my Porsche were struggling to stay defrosted. I looked over at Ari and saw that she was making hearts and circles on the misty fog of my window. That made my heart beat a little faster than usual. Maybe I childishly hoped one of those hearts were meant for me.
We exited the highway, and I eased into the lane that led directly to Truist Park. Ari turned to me, confused. I tried to hide my smile as best as I could.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see,” I said. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course.” She put her hand on my knee. Even through my jeans, I felt the warmth of her touch. I wanted it to stay there. Make a home there.
I parked the car in the massive stadium parking lot. Ari looked around, confused. “What are we doing here? Season’s over. There’s no game.”
“I know.”
Ari put on her warm down coat, pulling the hood over her curly poof, and I laughed because the hood and her hair made her look a little cone-headed. But she was still beautiful, regardless.
We walked toward the stadium, where my buddy Sean was standing outside.
“Dude. I’m sitting here freezing my ass off! I thought you’d never show up.” Sean was frail, pale, and a fiery redhead. Originally from Boston, he should have been used to the cold.
“Sean, when have I ever stood you up?” We hugged and shook hands. “Ari, this is Sean O’Malley. He helped build this stadium with his construction firm. We’ve worked on a lot of projects in the city together. Sean, this is Ari, my…” I hesitated, trying to find the right words, and settled on, “She’s my partner on the soccer stadium.”
Sean looked at me and smirked. He extended his hand toward Ari, and she shook it.
“And the girl who’s been to almost every classic stadium in the MLB. Impressive.”
Ari looked over at me. If it weren’t so cold and she wasn’t so brown, I’d have assumed she was blushing. She put her head down and smiled. “Porter told you that. Well, yes. All the classic ones.”
“Fenway? Astrodome? Wrigley?” asked Sean, playfully quizzing Ari.
Ari shook her head. “Of course. We even went over to Toronto to see the SkyDome after a trip to Shea Stadium.”
“Wow, Porter. Marry this one!” said Sean, his accent still thick even after all these years down south. “Even though you don’t know dick about baseball.”
I smiled and scratched my head. The thought of Ari as a bride flashed in my head for a millisecond. She’d be a beauty. I brushed it off.
“Ah, let’s just get inside, Sean. I’m freezing my nuts off.”
“Well. Porter tells me you haven’t had a chance to see Truist Park. You’re not one of those ‘Fuck Cobb’ enthusiasts, are you?” Sean asked Ari as we walked through the eerily quiet corridors.
“Well, I must admit,” Ari began, “maybe slightly. I mean, I grew up in the West End. The old stadium was a stone’s throw away. I was sad when it moved. Folks like me, and die-hard fans, didn’t get it.”
“I hear you,” said Sean. “But I hope this all-access private tour, courtesy of Porter, makes up for it. You can add Truist Park to your list of stadiums.” He winked at me.
Ari looked over at me and whispered, “When did you set this all up?”
I smiled. “A man has his secrets. Besides, this could be pretty good recon for our own stadium design, right?”
Ari took my hand in hers and squeezed it. I interlaced my fingers in hers and felt a pulsating rhythm between us. It felt as if my heart was literally in her hands.
“Hey! I heard that,” said Sean. “Don’t go stealing these designs for your fancy, Spanish-wine-drinking soccer fans.” We all laughed, the sound echoing in the empty lower atrium.