Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing
kept flickering in with the tide
and looking around.
Black as a fisherman's boot,
with a white belly.
If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile
under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin,
which was rough
as a thousand sharpened nails.
And you know
what a smile means,
don't you?
━━━━━━
Okay, you know you are severely concussed but, like, the bruise kinda fits your look, right?
You echo this question to Dr. Peña, who levels a deeply unimpressed look at you in response, then resumes scribbling down your vitals.
Okay. Alright. You think it does and that's all that matters in the end, anyway.
You continue to eye the baseball-sized bruise sitting above your temple in the handheld mirror the nurse had given you. Since it's so fresh, it's still just a deep red, the area swollen and incredibly tender. You amend that when it purples, then it will fit your look. But until then, it just looks... really nasty.
Either way, you are just trying to stay positive. No one can blame you for that.
Because of course it is just your luck that you get knocked out (and consequently concussed) by the winning home-run of the World Series.
Bottom of the ninth, the sky is dark, the floodlights on, the atmosphere of Petco Park absolutely electric. You're just trying to get a good shot of the field with your camera and then boom.
Baseball, meet face.
You don't remember much after that.
Nothing, actually.
As soon as the ball had connected with your head, you were out, crumpling like a leaf. You were told you'd fallen backwards first, which explains the ache in your back, no doubt from roughly meeting the plastic of your seat, then you'd sort of... flopped forward, onto your face. Totally crushed your camera underneath you.
Your broken camera is probably the thing you are most upset about.
But the San Diego Padres won at least, right? That home-run broke the 4-4 tie — a walk-off home-run. Their first World Series win ever and their first World Series appearance since, like, the 80s or something. (You don't know, that's just what you heard on the news before Dr. Peña shut it off.)
In no small part due to their trailblazer of a catcher, a foreign player, actually, the only Japanese starting catcher in the Majors currently — Miyuki Kazuya.
"Good for them," you say idly.
Even if he is the guy to (technically) blame for concussing you.
Dr. Peña sighs deeply, then sets the clipboard down. "Follow my finger." He clicks on his penlight, shining it directly in your eyes.
You let out a colorful curse at the brightness, closing your eyes. The throbbing in your head increases sharply. Whew. Okay. You don't feel so good now. The world tilts on its axis. You clench your hands in the heavy hospital blanket over your lap.
"Sorry," he says, actually sounding apologetic for once, a semi-comforting hand laid on your arm. "I have to. Just take a breath."
You try.
He clips the penlight back to the breast pocket of his white coat when he finishes, looking particularly serious and doctor-like as he does.
"Am I gonna live, doc?"
"After a week of observation, most likely."
"A week? Is that a joke?"
He opens his mouth to respond, a slightly irked expression on his face, before a knock on the door interrupts him.
"Your sister," he sighs, going over to open the door.
Well, you suppose if your sister was a six-foot-something baseball player, then yes.
As it currently is, the awkward-looking man standing in your doorway is not your sister. Neither is the slightly shorter woman next to him, tapping away at her phone.
Sure, your sister is pretty, but this guy is something else. Even knowing that he and his team were probably up until the sunset celebrating their new championship, he looks good.
Dressed in grey joggers, a maroon hoodie, with a cream-colored cap tucked over windswept brown hair, he makes you both a little envious and a little insecure. Your sister had cleaned off most of your makeup while you were asleep, saving you the mess, but the bruise on your head doesn't do you much favors.
It does kind of go with your nails, though. So. You have that going for you.
Dr. Peña gives them the stink eye. "Can I help you?"
Miyuki Kazuya says your name in a questioning tone, eyes darting between you and your doctor.
"That's me!" you say cheerfully before Peña can reply. "What can I do for you?"
Reluctantly, Peña lets them in.
Miyuki looks incredibly uncertain of himself as he shuffles in. Needlessly, he introduces himself — "I know who you are, dude. Everyone does." — then his companion, his manager, Wendy. Dressed smartly in a cream-colored pantsuit that blends prettily with her brown skin, black hair pulled into a high ponytail, you are also a little bit envious and a little bit attracted to her equally heartbreakingly gorgeous looks.
It's both really nice and really sucky that you are currently, save for Peña, surrounded by ridiculously attractive people.
Ah, well. Such is life.
"I just wanted to apologize," he finally says, stepping closer to the bed, looking uncomfortable. "And make sure you were okay."
"Totally! I'm fine. No worries. You didn't have to come out like this."
He probably had way better things to be doing. Like recovering from his night of celebration. Or continuing it. Either one. He deserved it. You saw a replay of the walk-off home-run on the TV (again, before Peña killed your fun). You were far out in the stands, near left field and the bullpen, so you didn't get much of a close-up look at him but it was pretty cool. Professional athletes of any kind are impressive, you think. But for a guy like him who probably had to prove himself repeatedly to American fans and those on his team — it is admirable.
So, you really do mean it.
But the way he blinks, the way Peña sighs, and the way Wendy lifts her eyes from her phone, eyebrow raising, makes you think they don't see it your way.
"Fine?" Peña asks sullenly, glowering a little at you. "The reason you're staying a week for observation is because not only do you have a linear skull fracture at the point of impact, but you also have a cerebral contusion."
"And that... is not good."
"Brain bruise. Minimal swelling, no bleeding," he says sourly. "Not an issue, at the moment, not as far as we can see but it can become an issue."
"Well, if it's not presently an issue —"
"Do you even know what the exit velocity on that ball was?"
You open your mouth to state quite plainly no, you don't know, because you were busy, at the moment, losing consciousness, but someone else speaks first.
"A hundred-and-nineteen miles per hour."
You blink, looking at Miyuki, who stands a little stiffly. Beside him, Wendy is squinting at Peña.
Peña clears his throat, leveling another glare at you. "Yes. That. Do you even understand what happens to your brain when being impacted with objects going that speed?"
"Like a pinball machine, right? Just — boink."
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
You chuckle. "Relax. I'm not, like, actively dying."
"You could've died," he snaps. "Had that ball been an inch lower, you would've."
Wendy clears her throat. "Is that really appropriate?"
Oh. You get a look at the scandalized expressions on your peanut gallery's faces and snort.
"Oh, it's okay. The reason his bedside manner is super shitty is because he's my brother in law."
That helps.
You smile brightly as Hector groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, despite being a whole thirty-six years of age, he still lacks the emotional intelligence to properly convey his concern for my well-being and now it's awkward for all of us!"
"Okay, alright," he mutters. "I — yes. I apologize for the... lack of professionalism."
"Anyway," you chuckle, looking back to Miyuki and Wendy. "Why are you really here? Like I said, even if I'm not totally fine, you didn't need to show up."
"It was my home-run."
You grin. "Well, were you aiming for me?"
"Uh, no but —"
"Then it's fine. You shouldn't feel bad but if it's forgiveness you want, you got it, bud. Really just an occupational hazard of going to a baseball game."
Though, the more you think about it, the more you realize it might be less of a matter of feeling bad and more, in terms of PR, that it would not look good if he didn't show up for you.
Yeah. That makes more sense.
You don't hold it against him, though. That's just the way of the world.
If anything...
"Sooo, not to sound completely vain but is my concussion, like, a whole thing right now, or..."
"All over the news," Wendy confirms. "Especially since your lawyer confirmed your name a few hours ago and people put two and two together."
You give Hector a sidelong glance. "My lawyer, huh?"
Like hell. This is Hector and your sister's doing, you assume. You barely make enough to feed yourself, your pets, and pay rent. Though that is admittedly because of your own hand but still.
"It was necessary," he mutters, crossing his arms. "There was enough fuss when it happened at the stadium last night."
You glance at Miyuki. "Sorry to put a damper on your guys' fun."
He blinks, looking quite perturbed. A knock on the door interrupts your conversation.
"I have no idea why," comes the familiar voice of your sister as she steps inside, "but the lady in billing said everything was already taken care of —"
Your older sister stops short as she takes scope of your new visitors. Recognition hits immediately, glossy pink lips forming an O.
Miyuki clears his throat, nodding. "Right. That's me. It's, uh, the least I can do."
"Thanks, dude," you say brightly. You won't complain. Better him than Hector and your sister. Even if they do have the funds (and more) for what you imagine is going to be a ridiculously expensive bill.
Introductions go round again, your sister shaking each of their hands then falling back to Hector's side.
Miyuki looks back at you. "I was also told the camera you had with you was broken?"
"I'd say."
Your sister lifts the plastic bag of your belongings, passing it to you. Above your folded clothes and your tote bag sits your camera, the lens and screen thoroughly cracked.
Again. A little sad. Hector and your sister had gotten it for you two December's ago, a real update from the dinky little camera you'd bought secondhand a few years before that, when you wanted to get into photography.
"I can pay for a replacement," he says. "Or an upgrade entirely. I'd just like to —" he gestures awkwardly at you "— make it up to you."
"Well, sure. I hardly mind." Very kind of him. Even if it may be part of those aforementioned public relations. Not like you had the money to replace it and hey, if you could get a nice upgrade from this one, why not?
"That's very kind of you," your sister says appreciatively.
He shakes his head. "It's... the least I could do, I think."
"I don't think so," you say, smiling. "And like I said, I don't blame you for what happened. It was just an accident."
So, you wonder if it would be inappropriate to use his fame to help your cause.
Since he's doing... all of that...
"Still. So... if there's anything else I can do..."
You roll the hospital blanket under your fingers, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth thoughtfully.
"Well, actually," you start.
Your sister huffs your name but Hector, probably already seeing what you'd like to do, that smart jerk, merely rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, smiling faintly.
Even the look on Wendy's face makes you think she knows, too.
But Miyuki seems nothing short of eager as he nods for you to continue.
Man, he must feel really bad, huh?
Well.
"So, you see, I'm the host of a nighttime radio segment called Night Owl. You probably haven't heard about it since we run pretty late into the night and, well, most people like satellite radio these days or their regular old streaming platforms. It gets enough traffic for us to be up and running but it's getting a little slow."
Actually, the truth is, the company sees you as nearly obsolete. The end of your segment is nigh. Them cutting Jerry's paycheck is proof of it. But you aren't ready to accept that. The people you get to talk to and interact with in the dead of the night assure you that you will be missed.
Just... not by enough people for the company to care.
You smile ruefully. "To be entirely honest, I'm not sure if there is much intersection between our audiences but..."
"People were recognizing you," Wendy says. "Not many initially but as soon as news outlets got wind of that connection, they were talking about it, too."
"Oh, really? Sweet. Then, honestly, in that case, I don't think —"
"No," Miyuki interrupts, not unkindly. "I'll help. Not a problem. What should I —?"
"A picture will be fine," Wendy says. "We'll release a statement about your current status in tandem with your lawyer, which is —"
"Stable but she still needs to be monitored for several days for brain bruises and a skull fracture," Hector fills in.
She nods, tapping away at her phone, and your sister whips out her own phone to pass along the number for the lawyer.
You shift, plastic bag with your belongings crinkling in your lap. Curious, you dig into it, pushing aside your broken camera to open your tote bag. Your phone is mostly unharmed, as is the tube of sangria red liquid lipstick, which is excellent, because you think you'd be more upset if the tube had broken than if your phone had cracked. After all, you think Miyuki would be willing to replace the phone as well (given his eagerness to help you) but probably not the liquid lipstick, even if it is among your nicer ones.
Everything is in order, fortunately. You don't think someone would steal from you, especially since you were knocked out by a baseball prior, but still. The lapse in your memory between last night and then just an hour ago makes you a little... tetchy but everyone filled in most of the gaps. Ball meets face, paramedics are called (you're rolled out on a stretcher and everything, how dramatic), you get a high-speed ride to UC San Diego Medical Center in the ambulance (sirens and all).
Hector, an ER doctor here, got wind of your arrival just as he was getting ready to head home and stayed the rest of the night and this morning to monitor you. Your sister, a flight attendant, called off an early morning flight to Colorado to be with you. Jerry, your friend and your sound engineer at the studio, came as soon as he heard, too, last evening but you were in the ICU, then, so visiting hours were over at nine and he had to leave.
As soon as they started up again this morning at seven, he (and your sister) came back. He's somewhere down in the cafeteria, you think, grabbing a late breakfast.
"Ready?"
Miyuki's question jolts you and you realize he's expecting you to get ready or something, since you're digging around in your stuff.
You barely keep yourself from shaking your head — probably not a good idea with your headache.
"Oh, sorry, I'm ready. Just checking that everything is fine. No touch-ups. Looking like I feel — shit — will probably help my case," you say lightly, passing your bag back to your sister.
"Pathos," Wendy says in solemn agreement, shuffling back and lifting her phone.
Miyuki looks faintly amused as he takes up a post by the side of your bed.
You smile for a few pictures, Wendy's camera app shuttering loudly.
"Can I see?" you ask, leaning forward.
"Nope," Hector answers for you. "No screen time for the rest of your stay here."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not."
"It's okay, it's okay," your sister says quickly before you can keep pressing the issue. "I'll look at them and pick one out."
She and Wendy huddle together, swiping through the pictures. Miyuki stands awkwardly to the side as you pout at Hector.
"I can't even play some Tetris?"
"Why?"
"Well, I like Tetris, and also, isn't that supposed to lessen my chances of getting PTSD?"
"No, Tetris does not do that. All the studies looking at that had horrible methodological issues. Tiny sample sizes, failure to replicate. No validity and no reliability. You shouldn't believe everything you see on Twitter."
"Well, sure, because I have you to debunk it!"
"No."
"I can't even play it just for fun?"
"No. And no reading, either. You can't strain yourself for the next few days. It will help with your recovery."
"What about my puzzles?"
He purses his lips, brown eyes roving the room in thought. "Maybe. But big pieces, not little ones. Something easy."
"Alright, fair enough."
Hmm. If you get bored of that, maybe you can get him to cough up his Audible account and listen to some audiobooks. Not your preferred way of reading but you'll take anything to mitigate the boredom that will no doubt set in very quickly.
"So, you're getting out —?" Miyuki leaves the question hanging as he looks at you.
"A week from now, sooo... Wednesday, the second?"
Hector nods.
"Give us your phone number," Wendy says. "And we'll get in touch about the camera."
You rattle off the numbers to them, Wendy typing it into her phone.
"I appreciate all of this," you say, flashing Miyuki a smile.
He nods. "No problem. I hope you feel better soon."
"I hope so, too!"
They bid their goodbyes then step out of the room.
Your sister looks a little mischievous. "Those two sure were cute, huh?"
You snort, then wince at the throb in your head.
Hector grunts out reluctant agreement.
A knock on the door. Jerry Rodriguez, your friend and sound engineer, slips inside, holding a cup of coffee.
"Hey, Tee, I got you a cookie —"
"Mouser! You just missed it! Guess whose hospital bills are paid in full?"
He blinks rapidly, passing you the soft chocolate chip cookie wrapped in saran wrap. "Yeah, I was about to say — I think I just passed that guy who plays for the Padres."
"The very same guy who did this to me!" You gesture to your forehead.
"Oh, that was —? Wow. Wait, he's paying your bills?"
"And for a new camera! And also some nice promotion for Night Owl!"
"Sick." He high-fives you. "Speaking of —"
"She's off until she's discharged and even then, I think it's prudent to gradually ease back into working those shifts. A messy sleep schedule won't do your recovery any good," Hector nags.
"Look in the mirror, brother. Seriously. You were supposed to go home last night."
"Worry about yourself."
"I am." Your eyes sweep the room. Jerry, nibbling on his own cookie, eyes avoiding yours, your sister, sitting on a chair on your other side, watching you carefully, and Hector, a pinched expression on his face, looking exhausted, too, the circles under his eyes prominent, brown skin paler than usual.
You sigh. "Y'know, I am very aware I could've died. That I still can."
Your sister's face crumples before she composes herself, hand finding yours, careful of the IV line. Her nails glint a milky shade of white. Yours are black. It was only a few days ago the two of you had gone to a nail salon together — her treat.
"You aren't going to die," Hector says quietly, looking contrite. "Not on my watch."
Quite a sweet thought but the truth of the matter is, you very well could and he could do nothing about it.
You know. You know!
How had you felt a few hours ago, waking up with a pounding headache, vision blurry, feeling like someone else?
It was scary as shit.
All of this is terrifying. But if you succumbed to that kind of catastrophizing, then you wouldn't come back out.
Bad things happen.
You're still here, though. Stable, for the most part. Christ, you'd just been visited by one of the most famous baseball players in the country and he was paying not only your hospital bills but for a new camera, too. Your sister was here, Hector was here, and Jerry was here. Work would be taken care of — Jerry would take over and you'd have to drill it into him that he could, under no circumstances, use music beds, otherwise you'd disown him — and your pets would be okay, too. Jerry promised to go to your apartment and feed your Betta fish and your snail, Batman and Robin, until you were released.
"Well, I am aware of the suckiness of the situation. Believe me, I am. But come on... being hopeful — optimistic... think that's all any of us can do right now."
"You're right," Hector says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I am sorry. I was just..."
"Yeah. I know."
"You'll be okay," your sister murmurs. "So, we won't worry more than we need to."
You don't expect that to pan out but you appreciate the thought. And anyway, it was a balance. Too much optimism could fool you into a false sense of security. Too much worrying could put you into a hole you could never get back out of.
You would be fine.
Everything would be fine.
-
So, you aren't going to die from those brain bruises — so far — but you think you might die of boredom.
Granted, it is only your second day here and your sister brought you a few of your favorite puzzles and you were able to get Hector to cough up his Audible log-in info but mostly, you really want out of here.
You're cleared to walk around, so you've taken several trips out of your room, exploring the inpatient ward and other parts of the hospital. Though you have found yourself incredibly sensitive to any and all forms of bright lights, particularly sunlight. Nighttime walks are better since everything is dimmer.
You're sleeping a lot, too, finding yourself unusually tired. Hector says that's normal, that your body is healing. (You'd also thought they'd be waking you up every few hours to make sure you were okay but again, Hector mulishly informed you that that was a myth and that when studied, showed no real results; that if anything, it was better to let someone sleep than to bother them like that and plus, they were still monitoring your vitals.)
He also says the reason you're so tired is because of your shitty sleep schedule from working the show but, you digress.
That's where you are now. Eating a cup of orange jell-o, eyeing your partially finished puzzle of an assortment of anthropomorphic pumpkins (in honor of Halloween coming up) that is meant for kids but, like, who really cares?
You're alone now. Your sister is finally at home, dragging Hector with her. Jerry isn't here, either, likely resting after having to take command of Night Owl last night. Last night was his first time doing it. You slept through it since it was the smarter thing to do, even if you did worry, but you'd listened to it this morning and it went pretty well. Despite what he likes to say, your dear Mouser is good with the people. And he didn't use the music beds when he was talking like you told him not to.
He fielded a lot of questions about you and about Miyuki and the Padres, too. Your little promotion tactic worked incredibly well. Too well, maybe. You find yourself missing the studio, wishing you could take the reins again but the suspense of you eventually returning will probably work in the show's favor anyway.
Either way, your picture with Miyuki has been plastered not only all over the MLB and the San Diego Padres' socials, but also in the news outlets covering the story. Jerry says it's all over the news in Japan, too, which is... a little scary. Sounds silly, you know, since you wanted that promotion but you hadn't quite thought of the fact that it'd cross the pacific, too.
In any case, Night Owl was spotlighted time and time again and Miyuki Kazuya got a sweet little PR boost as, alongside your current status, they mentioned his generosity in paying your hospital bills. No mention of the camera, though. You aren't sure why. You wouldn't have minded if he did.
You're thinking about that as you finish off your jell-o and slot in another puzzle piece when someone knocks on your door.
You call out an absent-minded Come in!
You expect a nurse, another doctor, maybe even your sister or Jerry, but no.
Instead, it is Miyuki Kazuya shuffling inside, looking particularly awkward.
Your eyes widen. You were not expecting him. In fact, you didn't even think you'd ever see him again. You just expected they'd send you a camera and wash their hands of it. And that's fine! He's probably got better things to be doing...
Your eyes flicker to the cup he's holding in his hand, immediately recognizing where it's from.
"Wow. You went to In-N-Out and didn't get me anything?"
It's a little a corny but you can tell that you taking the first leap eases some of that awkwardness, his lips twitching.
"Sorry," he says. "I'll get you some next time."
"You better. That's a Double-Double with no onions and no pickles, and light-well fries."
"Light-well fries?"
"Dude. Don't tell me you're just getting the fries as they come. All soft and gross?"
He drifts further into the room. "I thought they were just like that."
"Well, they are, that's why you gotta make that request. Soggy fries aside, what's your take?"
"It's okay. Not mind-blowing but not the worst. I don't mind it."
You nod. "Fair enough."
In-N-Out is more a comfort food than anything. Open until one in the morning, you have made many a trips to the In-N-Out across the street at midnight, typically the midpoint in your segment when you and Jerry were craving something greasy.
"Anyway," you continue, setting your jell-o and your spoon down next to the incomplete puzzle on the table hovering above your lap. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you're taking back those offers for my bills and the camera. The camera I could do without, really, but those bills... can't do it. And to be honest, it wouldn't look great for you, either."
He snorts. "That's not why I'm here."
"No?"
Some part of him seems to become sheepish.
"I was, uh, in the area and thought... I'd come check on you?"
"Sounds like more of a question than a statement, bud."
"To check on you," he repeats, more firm this time. "And your... uh, brain." And the awkward uncertainty is back. Can't win 'em all.
You grin. "My brain is great, thanks for asking. Well, not great, I guess, but I'm not, like, actively dying. CT scans from yesterday and today show my lovely little brain bruises are not swelling, which definitely lowers the risk of me kicking the bucket. Spatial awareness is a little iffy sometimes but —" you gesture to the puzzle "— I'm working on it."
His eyes drift to your temple. You resist grimacing. By today, the bruise is... nasty. Nastier than before. In the throes of, well, being a bruise, it stands out by your hairline, deeply purple and vaguely baseball-shaped. You still think it goes with your look but mostly, it just gets a lot of sympathetic stares.
"Yeah, still have a headache but it's better. This thing looks worse than it feels for the most part. As for the fracture, well. That's gonna take a while to heal."
After your discharge next week Wednesday, you'll be expected to come in for another CT scan and X-ray in six weeks.
Something like guilt flashes across his face before it's gone. He clears his throat, feet shuffling.
You idly slot in another puzzle piece. "So, why are you really here, man?"
"Checking in," he repeats, then gestures to the chair by your bed questioningly.
You nod. He sits down.
Some part of you wants to insist, because surely there is more to this than that. If he wanted to check in, he could have his manager ask the hospital, ask your 'lawyer.' Hell, all of this is fairly straightforward. Your lawyer would release statements as information came. If things were fine, they'd just say something about you being discharged in stable condition on Wednesday. If not... well. They wouldn't just leave the public in the dark. Not a wise decision. Otherwise the media would fill in the gaps and you couldn't bank on anything good coming of that.
Though, considering in that worst case scenario you would be dead, it probably wouldn't matter much to you in the end.
Still. It's only been three days since the Padres won the World Series. You guess it could be for some more good press but he looks pretty nondescript with his ballcap over his hair.
You won't press, but...
"Avoiding your responsibilities?"
"I'd argue I'm actually being quite responsible right now. But for my press stuff," he shrugs, "maybe so."
"What's on the docket?"
"Magazines, interviews, talk shows. That kind of thing."
"Must be nice being here then, since you're just a few hours away from LA. Though you've got Fallon in New York. Are you going to be on Jimmy Fallon?" you pause, realizing how it might sound to him; you aren't trying to leak his schedule, just... wildly curious about what it must be like for him. "You don't have to answer that if you can't."
He waves a flippant hand. "Don't worry about it. As long as you don't leak anything to the press."
"No. And blackmail wouldn't work well in my favor, either," you say, grinning. "I'm just curious."
He lets out an amused exhale. "No, not Fallon. Kimmel, though, yeah. Him, Conan, Jon Stewart..."
"Ooh. The big names." You're sure the situation is the same with the magazines. TIME, GQ, Sports Illustrated, Men's Health... you haven't been able to watch the news but you've kept it on, listening to them talk about the Padres' win, your concussion, and Miyuki Kazuya's brilliant performance. From what you've heard, he is apparently nominated for National League MVP and a slew of other rewards.
"Don't you have a parade, too?"
"Saturday."
"That'll be fun."
"It'll be something."
You laugh. You still aren't sure what to make of him but whatever it is... you think you like it. It's fun. Exciting.
"So, then, when does the PR stuff end?"
"Few weeks. Then I'm done."
"Offseason, right?" At his nod, you continue. "What are your plans?"
He leans back in the seat, sipping at his drink. Ice sloshes around when he lets his arm fall, eyes flickering to the window covered by thick curtains. The light bothered you too much, even with the blinds down. Hector says you need to ease back into it, so they'll be taking the curtains off tomorrow.
"Not much," he says. "Probably just house hunting."
"Ooh, fun! My advice that I know is completely unsolicited but important to me for you to know and I won't ever mention again? Beachfront property. Preferably with a pool deck. The water's usually too cold but it is sure nice to look out at it, chilling on the sand."
"Beachfront? So, I can be swallowed by the ocean?"
"Oh, come on, we all know California is more likely to break off from the rest of the country before it sinks. It'd be worth it, either way. 'Cause on the beach, you have the ocean right in front of you."
"The ocean that might want to reclaim us."
"Hey, that's her prerogative. Can't do anything about it. But even if you're not a fan of the ocean, you've got some really nice sunsets since you're facing west. I mean, not even some. They're all great. And you'd get that everyday being on the beach."
"True," he concedes. "I don't know. Maybe."
"Can I ask where you are right now? Just a general vicinity."
"I don't know... you did say you were willing to blackmail me over my press schedule..."
"Aw, that was just a joke!"
"Hmm," he says, pretending to be thoughtful. "I don't know. I'm giving you a fair bit of power..."
"Hey, compared to you, with what is probably an army of lawyers and publicists? I'm just an ant!"
He snorts. "Yeah, alright. I'm in East Village. Close to Petco."
"Very downtown."
"Too downtown. Short walk away from the stadium but..."
"You wanna get away sometimes? Yeah, I get that. Well," you shoot him an impish grin. "Being on the beach gives you a balanced medium. You aren't downtown but you aren't all the way out in the 'burbs... and you get some sick views..."
"What's with you and the beach?"
"Dude. You're in San Diego, California. I'm not saying we have the greatest beaches in the world but they're nice! I like the ocean. Swimming. Chilling on the beach. It's not like Huntington or Venice."
"That is true."
"What, you're not a fan of the City of Angels?"
"Los Angeles is... okay," he says diplomatically.
"No, I know. It's an... acquired taste. I mean, you're house hunting here, so I take it you like San Diego more than LA."
"Not much of a contest if that's the comparison."
You laugh. "True! Okay, so... what other cities can you compare it to? Where have you been?"
"Well..."
For the next several hours, you talk. It's easy but it's not smooth, per se, which sounds contradicting but when the conversation gets going, it gets going. But then you run upon the occasional awkward silence. Which is fine. You can tell he's holding back sometimes, choosing politeness instead of the truth, and you think you understand why. He has a snarky way of communicating and you get glimpses of it through your time together. He can't just act like that with you, because even if you promised not to reveal any information he gives to you, there is no real guarantee.
Your knowledge of baseball is limited. Zero, actually. But you know of some — mostly Shohei Ohtani, the Angels' star player. You'd heard all about his arrival and trade a few years ago, the local news talking about the masses of Japanese media that followed him overseas and continues to watch him closely. For baseball, certainly, but for the opportunity to sniff out a scandal, too. American media is the same, if only a bit less intense.
And given that Miyuki Kazuya not only helped bring the San Diego Padres to the playoffs and then to the World Series, he also helped them win, well... the whole world is watching him now. Probably for the next few months.
You certainly aren't going to be talking to them, even if you do in fact have a long line of requests from news outlets, magazines, and reporters, both American and Japanese, for a small piece of your time. To talk about Miyuki, probably, and your experience.
You... are aware you could get more Night Owl promotion talking to them but... you've gotten enough now. Your discharge is an anticipated event, as well as your return to Night Owl's helm. That's enough. More than enough.
You also appreciate him coming here. He didn't have to, not at all, but he did. It's... kind of him.
So, no, you won't try to use his status for yourself.
(Not unless he suggests it again, which you would of course be fine with...)
For the rest of his time, he grills you on the best neighborhoods to live in, since you've lived in San Diego for most of your life. You live in a shitty apartment in Normal Heights; the neighborhood itself isn't so bad, though. A lively residential area with cafes, gastropubs, craft beer bars and diverse restaurants, especially along Adams Avenue. The nearby University Heights area offers Asian, Mexican and Ethiopian eateries but, well, it's also an area chock-full of young college students, so that might not be up his alley.
Mission Hills, however, might be. It's where your sister and brother-in-law live. Predominantly residential, Mission Hills is home to a wide variety of shops and restaurants. Pretty suburban but also not far from East Village, where Petco Park is; about fifteen minutes by car. It's also near the medical center where you currently are — UC San Diego Medical Center is east of the neighborhood, which is good for Hector. The airport, too, is southwest of the neighborhood, not far at all, which is good for your sister, a flight attendant with Delta.
You run through a few more neighborhoods, with him picking apart every little detail to know more, and you don't realize how much time has passed until your dinner is being delivered by one of the techs.
They must be in a hurry, though, because they drop it off for you without giving you a backward glance — and without looking at him, too. You can see his shoulders relax a little when they hurry out without preamble.
You had thought so earlier but this just confirms it: he isn't here for some more good press. And it doesn't make sense, either, considering what he told you of his already established press requirements that will only bolster his status.
He's here to... well, you aren't sure. Check in? Maybe. But he isn't here for good press. The sudden tension in his body when the attendant came in tells you that, that he doesn't want to be recognized.
The thought is warming. It is always nice to talk to people — you wouldn't have your job if that wasn't the case.
"I should get going," he says, a tad awkwardly as he stands, picking up his empty In-N-Out cup from the floor. "Let you eat and stuff."
"Sure. Thanks for stopping by. It was really nice talking to you."
He pauses, blinking, amber brown eyes surprised before the look is quickly gone. He ducks his head, adjusting his cap.
"Yeah. Thanks for letting me encroach on your recovery."
You grin. "Sure."
He gives you an awkward wave then slips out of the room. It's hard to budge the smile from your face as you pull the table with your tray toward you.
How unexpected.
━━━━━━ author's note
literally impossible for me not to mention shohei ohtani once when writing abt this baseball stuff. sorry. he is just so cool. way cooler than miyuki thats for sure
anyway... welcome. welcome. i hope you all enjoy. this will not be long At All and yes those little pieces of text at the beginning are important to the story. its more obvious here with the book's title being dogfish but yes, it is based off the poem by the same name by mary oliver.
there is a playlist for this story as well!! you can find it on my tumblr at mangoisms, under the navigation and for this story's masterpost :D
i hope you guys enjoy!