Chapter 17
“I’ve been to baseball games before,” Andy said.
“Not like this, you haven’t,” D’ante promised. He leaned out the kitchen door. “Scooter! You need to go have some fun, man.”
Faintly, from Scooter’s office, came the response, “Fun? What’s that?”
Kat leaned around D’ante. “Andy hasn’t been to a Tides game yet! You will take him.”
“So you want me to torture the poor guy?” Scooter appeared in the office doorway, hair sticking up in all directions as if he’d been shoving it back repeatedly. “The Tides are terrible. Like, horrible, horrible baseball. D’ante’s nephew’s T-ball team plays better.” He brightened a bit. “Is it dollar-dog this week? That’s always worth it.”
“So next time I owe you, I’ll bring you tickets to one of Jody’s games. Tides is what I got right now,” D’ante said. “Man up and go watch some bad baseball, yell insults at the third baseman, and eat hot dogs that are guaranteed to give you heartburn.”
“I’m not sure manning up is required,” Scooter said mildly. He flicked a glance at Andy. “If you want, I mean, I don’t…Kat’s pretty good at a game, too. Babushka power!” Which made Kat grin and Jason sling a tomato stem in Scooter’s direction.
“Stop trying to give away my girl,” Jason said. “I paid good money for her.”
“What good money is this, I never see this good money,” Kat complained, thickening her accent until it was more like something from a bad spy movie, her eyes twinkling. “Seriously, you’ve been working too hard,” she told Scooter. “Go. We can survive the lunch rush without you for a change.”
“They’re your tickets, Andy,” Scooter said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know I’ve only been here for a week,” Andy said, “but I already know better than to argue with Kat.” He grinned. “Besides, baseball isn’t any fun by yourself. Let’s do it.”
Scooter held his hand out to Kat. “Gimme your Tide card. I hate parking at Harbor Park. We’ll take the light rail in.”
Kat dug out a blue and white plastic metro pass. She said something in Ukrainian and Scooter answered her in the same language, then shoved at her shoulder. “C’mon, we’ll have to scoot, the game starts at one. Not that it’ll be tragedy if we miss the first inning.”
Andy grinned and handed his apron off to D’ante. “Have fun. There’s a pack of old ladies who’ve been coming in for lunch the last three days and they try to grab my ass every single time I walk by. They’re gonna love you.”
Scooter’s truck was a lot more comfortable now that the air conditioning was working again. He pushed a CD into the player. Scooter’s musical tastes seemed to be a combination of loud, awful country, and eighties pop, but he did have a nice singing voice. Even if he was singing, oh, my God, was that Hall and Oates? Jesus. Andy stared out the window, attempting to smother a snicker.
“And I can see you try-yi-yi-ing not to laugh,” Scooter sang, grinning, “but fuck youuuuuu this song is great.”
Andy gave up and cackled. “What the hell is wrong with you people and music down here?” he demanded.
“I don’t have anyone I need to impress,” Scooter said. “I like what I like. Eighties music makes me happy. Who’re we playin’ today? Or, more precisely, which terrible team is going to kick our even worse asses?”
“Louisville…Bats? Is that a real team? How can that be a real team?” Andy was almost offended on the team’s behalf.
Scooter grinned. “Hey, Richmond’s team is the Flying Squirrels, so…minor league ball. It’s…a thing. Not necessarily a good thing, but a thing.”
“And yet, you agreed to go with me,” Andy pointed out.
“Eh, it’s fun. I used to go to Mudcat games with Jase when we were kids. Crawl under the bleachers and steal popcorn when the ushers weren’t lookin’. Course, we got thrown out more often than we got to see a complete game, too. Jason never can keep his mouth shut when he sees a bad call.”
“Color me not-surprised.” Jason did have a tendency to rant and rave about things. Andy eyed the tickets. “Is this the baseball bats, or the flying kind, I wonder.”
“Flying kind.” Scooter pulled into a commuter lot. The light rail for Virginia Beach’s sister-city was not what Andy would really consider public transportation: a single train line that ran from one side of Norfolk to the other. (More or less, anyway; Andy still couldn’t figure out how to tell when they’d crossed from one city to the other.) The platform was white and sparkling clean, and there was a weird modern-art sculpture in the grass lot around the platform. The only familiar thing about it was that the few people who used it stared at their phones while they were waiting.