“Sit.” The stadium officer points to a chair. There’s a table with two chairs on one side and one on the other. There’s even a surveillance window on the wall, like an episode of Law & Order. This has got to be a joke.
I sit. What else am I supposed to do? Make a run for it? I’m not a run-for-it kind of girl. Besides, I’ve done nothing wrong. I am not a criminal. I’m a second-grade teacher. Maybe something awful happened to Cal? Maybe he tripped and hit his head. Stadium seating involves a lot of stairs. Or maybe he got shanked while in line for a cheesesteak. With a plastic knife. It happens. I think I saw it once on TV. What if they need me to provide medical information? I don’t know any medical information about Cal, I’ve met the guy twice.
I glance at the two-way mirror on the wall and wonder if someone is looking at me. I stuff my thumbs through the holes in the sleeves of my shirt and rest my folded elbows on the table in front of me and wait. And wait some more. Maybe they forgot about me? I wonder if I can just get up and leave? That would be rude though. Cal might need me. Unless he ditched me here, in which case I am not helping him.
The door opens and a man walks in. Not the stadium security who brought me here, someone new. He’s in jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt. The shirt is fitted. Fitted quite nicely, I can’t help but notice. Dude’s got some guns under that shirt. Guns? What the heck is wrong with me? I’m spending too much time with seven-year-olds.
He tosses a notepad onto the table and pushes the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing forearms lined with muscle. My eyes trail down and I note that he has nice hands. Smooth, even fingernails. Men too often overlook their fingernails. Bitten nails are the worst. He’s got strong hands, I can tell. I’m certain if I were to shake his hand they would be dry and slightly calloused, but firm and strong.
I stop slouching on the table and sit up. He’s… impressively good-looking. Picture every sexual fantasy you’ve ever had about a male model kind of good-looking. Only better, because he’s not a twenty-year-old wearing skinny jeans. His hair is much like his nails, perfectly trimmed. Thick and dark. He’s got a hint of a five o’clock shadow and I’m instantly curious what it would feel like under my fingertips.
“Special Agent Gallagher,” he says, removing what looks like a wallet from his back pocket and flashing it at me as he takes a seat across from me. No, that’s not a wallet, it’s a badge. “Name?”
Wait. What just happened?
“You’re a cop?” I spit out, stunned. I’m suddenly getting a sick feeling this has nothing to do with Cal choking on a cheesesteak.
“No, I’m a federal agent. Your name?” he repeats, pen poised over a notepad.
“Chloe Scott.”
“Miss Scott, you have the tickets?” he asks, jotting my name down onto the pad. It’s regular-sized. Not one of those tiny spiral ones that fit into a pocket like you see on TV. How will he get these notes back to his office? I’m not sure why this fascinates me in this moment, but it does.
I dig the tickets out of my pocket and slide them across the table, watching him as I do so. His eyes never leave me and it’s making me nervous. And then I remind myself I probably should be nervous because I think I’m being questioned.
“Are you going to handcuff me?” I blurt. Why did I just ask him that? I don’t even see any handcuffs.
“No.” He tilts his head to the side, as if considering it. “Did you want me to?” he asks slowly, eyeing me. I can see a hint of a dimple in his cheek and the skin around his eyes creases as he stares at me. He’s amused.
“No.” I shake my head, eyes wide. Well, maybe a little bit. Not, like, right now or anything.
“Where did you get these tickets, Miss Scott?”
“I didn’t get the tickets,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m here with a date. My date got the tickets.”
“Hmm.” He runs his index finger across his bottom lip. They’re nice lips. I hate that I have to note that at this moment, but it is what it is. He sits back and stares at me, silent. Why is he staring at me? I think he’s trying to break me, like good cop-bad cop. Except it’s just him. That, or he’s thinking.
“I’ll need to see your ID as well,” he finally says.
“Um, sure.” I unzip the tiny wristlet I brought to the game. This stadium doesn’t allow bags inside so I ditched my purse at home and brought this. Wait, I never put my ID in here. Cash, a credit card, my house key, phone and a Chapstick. Don’t panic, Chloe, I’m sure you won’t be the only person who forgot their ID. While being questioned by the Fed.
“I don’t have it,” I admit and try not to bite my lip.
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms across his chest, watching me, eyes narrowed. “So you don’t have any ID on you?”
“You know how they don’t allow bags at this stadium,” I say. “I threw my stuff in this”—I hold up my wristlet—“on the way out the door. It’s not like much fits,” I add, as I empty it out across the table. My key clatters against the metal table as the Chapstick hits the table and rolls towards him before I can grab it. He unfolds his arms and slaps a hand over it before it hits the edge. Then picks it up. I think he’s going to hand it back, but instead he rolls it slowly between his fingers and examines it.
“Classic Strawberry,” he reads from the label and then his gaze flicks to my lips. At least I think it does, it happens so fast. He rolls the tube again between his fingers before standing it up on the table in front of me so it won’t roll.
“Thanks,” I tell him. When he doesn’t respond after a long pause I keep talking. “I don’t understand what is happening,” I say, shaking my head in confusion. “Am I in some kind of trouble? Where is Cal?”
“Who’s Cal?” he asks, eyebrows raised in question. This seems to interest him.
“My date. I came here with him.” I point my thumb behind me to indicate the stadium and I realize my thumb is still shoved through the stupid hole in the sleeve. I yank the sleeve lower and slide my thumb out. “Why am I here?” I ask, shaking my head. I’m starting to get frazzled now. “I am not a criminal. I’m a second-grade teacher on a really, really bad date. It didn’t start that bad, I’ve had worse. But it’s taken a definite turn into”—I blow out a breath—“lousy.” I flop back into the folding chair and it squeaks for a moment before the room is silent.
I sit. What else am I supposed to do? Make a run for it? I’m not a run-for-it kind of girl. Besides, I’ve done nothing wrong. I am not a criminal. I’m a second-grade teacher. Maybe something awful happened to Cal? Maybe he tripped and hit his head. Stadium seating involves a lot of stairs. Or maybe he got shanked while in line for a cheesesteak. With a plastic knife. It happens. I think I saw it once on TV. What if they need me to provide medical information? I don’t know any medical information about Cal, I’ve met the guy twice.
I glance at the two-way mirror on the wall and wonder if someone is looking at me. I stuff my thumbs through the holes in the sleeves of my shirt and rest my folded elbows on the table in front of me and wait. And wait some more. Maybe they forgot about me? I wonder if I can just get up and leave? That would be rude though. Cal might need me. Unless he ditched me here, in which case I am not helping him.
The door opens and a man walks in. Not the stadium security who brought me here, someone new. He’s in jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt. The shirt is fitted. Fitted quite nicely, I can’t help but notice. Dude’s got some guns under that shirt. Guns? What the heck is wrong with me? I’m spending too much time with seven-year-olds.
He tosses a notepad onto the table and pushes the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing forearms lined with muscle. My eyes trail down and I note that he has nice hands. Smooth, even fingernails. Men too often overlook their fingernails. Bitten nails are the worst. He’s got strong hands, I can tell. I’m certain if I were to shake his hand they would be dry and slightly calloused, but firm and strong.
I stop slouching on the table and sit up. He’s… impressively good-looking. Picture every sexual fantasy you’ve ever had about a male model kind of good-looking. Only better, because he’s not a twenty-year-old wearing skinny jeans. His hair is much like his nails, perfectly trimmed. Thick and dark. He’s got a hint of a five o’clock shadow and I’m instantly curious what it would feel like under my fingertips.
“Special Agent Gallagher,” he says, removing what looks like a wallet from his back pocket and flashing it at me as he takes a seat across from me. No, that’s not a wallet, it’s a badge. “Name?”
Wait. What just happened?
“You’re a cop?” I spit out, stunned. I’m suddenly getting a sick feeling this has nothing to do with Cal choking on a cheesesteak.
“No, I’m a federal agent. Your name?” he repeats, pen poised over a notepad.
“Chloe Scott.”
“Miss Scott, you have the tickets?” he asks, jotting my name down onto the pad. It’s regular-sized. Not one of those tiny spiral ones that fit into a pocket like you see on TV. How will he get these notes back to his office? I’m not sure why this fascinates me in this moment, but it does.
I dig the tickets out of my pocket and slide them across the table, watching him as I do so. His eyes never leave me and it’s making me nervous. And then I remind myself I probably should be nervous because I think I’m being questioned.
“Are you going to handcuff me?” I blurt. Why did I just ask him that? I don’t even see any handcuffs.
“No.” He tilts his head to the side, as if considering it. “Did you want me to?” he asks slowly, eyeing me. I can see a hint of a dimple in his cheek and the skin around his eyes creases as he stares at me. He’s amused.
“No.” I shake my head, eyes wide. Well, maybe a little bit. Not, like, right now or anything.
“Where did you get these tickets, Miss Scott?”
“I didn’t get the tickets,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m here with a date. My date got the tickets.”
“Hmm.” He runs his index finger across his bottom lip. They’re nice lips. I hate that I have to note that at this moment, but it is what it is. He sits back and stares at me, silent. Why is he staring at me? I think he’s trying to break me, like good cop-bad cop. Except it’s just him. That, or he’s thinking.
“I’ll need to see your ID as well,” he finally says.
“Um, sure.” I unzip the tiny wristlet I brought to the game. This stadium doesn’t allow bags inside so I ditched my purse at home and brought this. Wait, I never put my ID in here. Cash, a credit card, my house key, phone and a Chapstick. Don’t panic, Chloe, I’m sure you won’t be the only person who forgot their ID. While being questioned by the Fed.
“I don’t have it,” I admit and try not to bite my lip.
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms across his chest, watching me, eyes narrowed. “So you don’t have any ID on you?”
“You know how they don’t allow bags at this stadium,” I say. “I threw my stuff in this”—I hold up my wristlet—“on the way out the door. It’s not like much fits,” I add, as I empty it out across the table. My key clatters against the metal table as the Chapstick hits the table and rolls towards him before I can grab it. He unfolds his arms and slaps a hand over it before it hits the edge. Then picks it up. I think he’s going to hand it back, but instead he rolls it slowly between his fingers and examines it.
“Classic Strawberry,” he reads from the label and then his gaze flicks to my lips. At least I think it does, it happens so fast. He rolls the tube again between his fingers before standing it up on the table in front of me so it won’t roll.
“Thanks,” I tell him. When he doesn’t respond after a long pause I keep talking. “I don’t understand what is happening,” I say, shaking my head in confusion. “Am I in some kind of trouble? Where is Cal?”
“Who’s Cal?” he asks, eyebrows raised in question. This seems to interest him.
“My date. I came here with him.” I point my thumb behind me to indicate the stadium and I realize my thumb is still shoved through the stupid hole in the sleeve. I yank the sleeve lower and slide my thumb out. “Why am I here?” I ask, shaking my head. I’m starting to get frazzled now. “I am not a criminal. I’m a second-grade teacher on a really, really bad date. It didn’t start that bad, I’ve had worse. But it’s taken a definite turn into”—I blow out a breath—“lousy.” I flop back into the folding chair and it squeaks for a moment before the room is silent.
