This was becoming a bad habit for Hannah. She pondered her predicament as she basked in the glory of her hard-fought victory in the office prank war against Eureka and Tar, cuddling with Mac’s back pressed against her chest as he lay half-dead in her arms.
Am I… Dependent on Mac Cuddles now? We only started sharing a bed like last week. I only started waking up early to help myself to extra cuddles like a few days ago… Can I EVER sleep alone again? Am I loving this TOO much? This is compromising… But he’s so CUTE!
“Nngh. Mornin’,” Her beautiful, perfect, cherubic Babyboy stirred as he woke, her little spoon jangling like it’s always been for the past week.
Oh my God, Mac’s so LAZY today. Heheheheh! I love him so much.
Hannah giggled softly to herself. Mac turned around, returning her embrace and shining eyes.
“Hannah?”
“Yeah?”
“I really thought I was gonna die last night… Please help me up? I need to make us breakfast, else we’ll be late for work,” Mac confessed.
Hannah interjected with their cruel reality. “Mac. It’s past noon. I already texted the rest of the crew. They’re in on the joke now as well. You know how huge that is? We have the most powerful operatives in the Bay on our side, fully committed to helping us gaslight the public about our relationship status, Babyboy. All we have to do today is return Tar’s record and pick up a gift from her… We won.”
Mac creaked into a love-stoned smile. “Then why does it feel like Cupid ran me over with a Komatsu D575A-3SD Super Dozer running on Love instead of diesel that you bought for him with your infinite money? Cheryl, I haven’t even hit thirty yet and I feel like this. Breathe on me wrong right now and I’m actually gonna die. You need to take responsibility for this.”
She pecked his construction-brained forehead.
“Oh Davey, you’ll be back to normal by this evening. The Giants need us there at The Phone Booth if they’re to stand any chance at extending their win streak. C’mon. We can break the kiss cam record… Your first big league game, Maaaaac. C’mon. Let’s go Giaaaaants,” Hannah purred, tracing languid, luxurious circles with her thumb on his cheek.
“Phone booth? First big league… OH. OH.” Mac perked up, then laid low again: his marked-up neck, busted abs, and sore hips gave him the gentle suggestion to snuggle into Hannah’s arms once again.
“Tar’s so cool. But I need a Gatorade, some coffee, a small can of Red Bull, and a large bowl of the number five from Pho 7777 right now if I wanna rally back for this evening. Should we drive up or should we take Caltrain? Oh, and you don’t have any Giants gear. We’re gonna need to get you a cap there… And we’re gonna need to cram and practice our PR responses when somebody calls us out on being in love in public. Man, I need to thank Tar next time I see her. She really just made the best 24 hours of my life even better,” he mumbled into her chest.
Hannah bit her lip.
He’s so sexy… My little trooper. How did I bag this man?
“Say less, Babyboy. Your AWESOME GIRLFRIEND is on the case!”
Mac covered his ears with a pillow and scrunched his eyes. “Hannah… Loud…”
How cute…
“Ah, sorry!” Hannah put a hand over her mouth. “I’ll make sure to get you hoisin sauce, sriracha, bean sprouts, lime wedges, and jalapeno slices as well,” she whispered.
Seeing the opening, Mac stole her lips for just a moment.
“Mmh. Love you too. I’ll think of the rest of our plans while you’re out. Stay safe, okay?”
“Don’t die on me. Help’s on the way soon.”
He smirked, and Oklahoma Mac made his long-awaited return, tagging in for his low-health alter-ego.
“Daaaarlin’… even if’n I did, my ghost’d haul my corpse up ta the Booth jus’ so I could watch that first pitch with ya,” Mac drawled, making sure to slow down for every vowel as if they were poorly-paved speed bumps in a Walmart parking lot.
Hannah widened her eyes as Cupid drybrushed her blushes on in the low light, the Sun shining through the edges of the blackout curtains serving as his studio lights.
This guy… He’s so unfair! It’s already SO HARD to leave this bed but he goes and attacks me with that? When they show us on kiss cam, you’ll be FRENCH TOAST, Mac. I’ll blow your little mind on our way to setting a record that will stand until the heat death of the universe. Mark my words.
---
Hannah steadied Mac with a hand on his waist as they navigated the crowded concourses of The Phone Booth in their matching aviators, the ticket stubs in her front pocket secured for historic preservation. Her mind compiled a status report on his condition.
Legs? Newborn Bambi on a frozen pond. Hips? Probably a set of strained flexors. Back? Looked a bit tweaked but nothing a bit of stretching couldn’t fix. Neck? My expert application of concealer hid most of the damage. Mind and soul? He’s watching his first Giants game at the Booth with his favorite person. Eh, it’s not bad enough to tell him to RTB. Mac would want us to push on.
Mac “snuck” yet another peek up at her. Her poker face cracked.
This is dangerous. Now that we’re together, I blush way more whenever he looks at me. Focus on something else. Think about baseball instead of his annoying, irresistible beam of a smirk. Uhh… Hat? Right. He mentioned needing to get me a Giants hat… His is so old, crusty, and a little tattered, but he looks so RAVISHING with it perched just so on his silly little head…
An idea bulb rendered in the corner of her vision and flashed.
Oh, so NOW they work. These frickin’ Truthseers. Always just tinting my vision pink whenever I so much as look at my Babyboy… I KNEW I should’ve just sprung for Infravisions, but I’m a cocky little shit. Wait… Lemme read that notification.
Hannah read it. Abusing her cybernetic enhancements, she flashed an imperceptible-to-the-human eye evil smirk.
“Steal his hat and never let him have it back?” New plans, girl. It would feel wrong to have him get me a new hat, especially considering what I did to him last night. Operation: Boyfriend Hat starts NOW. First step? Get him a fresh fitted cap from the team store.
He hesitated before shaking it off and beaming up at her once again.
Hmm, what was that? My lenses NEVER work on him, but maybe it’s better if I can’t read his emotions all the time… Feels like an invasion of privacy. He’s always kept it real with me, why would I have any reason to doubt him?
Mac caught her crashing jumbo jet of a thought and landed it on the field with the nose wheel on the rubber of the pitcher’s mound like Superman.
“Talk to me, Cheer Captain. I know that look, even from behind your shades. What’s on your mind?” Mac asked, his grip on her shoulder tightening just a little.
Hannah flustered. “Uhh… Hat.”
He tilted his head, knitting his eyebrows before releasing the tension. “Oh right! Need to get you one. I knew I was forgetting something. Thanks for reminding me.” Another Heart Attack trademark grin.
He’s so damn good at doing that. I need backup…
“Help me get to the merch stand? Gotta be quick if we don’t wanna miss the national anthem and the first pitch.”
“I have a better idea.” Hannah crouched down, her arms behind her, waiting for Mac to pass her the baton of his jellied legs. “Climb aboard.”
“H-Hannah… This is kinda embarrassing.” Mac stuttered, his knees wobbling.
She checked over her shoulder, her tone shifting from command to quiet request. “Who cares? Let them talk. Just let me spoil you a little. You’ve been so good to me despite the bullshit I pulled these past few weeks. You know I’m good for it. Besides, you don’t look too hot, Babyboy. Sorry not sorry for last night, by the way. Heheh!”
Mac pinked in the misty Bay air of the breezeway.
“You’re right. I can barely walk. This is faster and safer,” Mac admitted. “Here. Wear my hat for a second, I don’t wanna lose it knocking my head on a doorway. You’re pretty tall. And pretty.”
Did he just… Give me his hat and a compliment at the same time? This is SO UNFAIR.
Hannah glitched out, her enhanced reflexes whipping her head back and forth like an errant robodog who just clawed their way out of the brisk waters of McCovey Cove after falling in while chasing a cybercat.
If you get too hype, he’ll think you’re weird. Play it cool, Sinclair.
Mac clambered aboard, his hands finding her shoulders.
“Readyreadyreadyready one TWO!” Hannah hit a clean squat, lifting her man up with ease.
Sheesh, there was room for improvement there. I need to hit the gym harder. Mac’s cooking is just too damn delicious. Ooh, maybe I can even drag him along next time… Gonna turn Mac from kinda jacked into prime Frank Gore… Mmmmm. No. Focus. Another day. Let’s save that note in the back of my mind.
A rude voice coming from behind interrupted their moment. “Damn bro. Your girl’s carrying you AND she’s wearing some busted-ass minor league throwback cap? Pick a struggle.”
They turned around.
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Animals…
Mac looked down at Hannah. “Uhh…”
Hannah shot a knowing glance back.
C’mon Heart Attack, just say the word and I’ll do it.
“You have control, Hannah. My verbal weapons are offline right now and you have bigger and better toys anyways. Make it count, Darlin’.”
“I have control. Now get behind me. I’ll handle this.”
Hannah put on the face she used when she was about to take a life and flexed her whole body and soul. Putting on her ritziest valley girl snarl, forged in the social trenches of Mt. Hamilton Preparatory Academy and Duke University, Hannah went in for the kill shot.
“Doyers, huh? Ugh. It’s like, SO not cool to litter here. That bottomless PIT of human vapidity you all call L.A.’s only about ten hours away on 5 by Greyhound if you can afford the return ticket, but I’m assuming you can’t, so best advice is that the nearest trash compactor chute is just behind you. Go. In. Peace.” Then, taking the verse back to the forming chorus, she pointed at the man’s scraggly beard and tipped him with a French lesson. “Et rase ces poils pubiens de ton menton. Tu ne sais pas te laisser pousser la barbe, mon cher.”
Silence fell.
“Dayum! YAY YAY WORLDSTAR! YAY YAY WOOOORLDSTAAAAR! HE JUST GOT ROASTED BY A CLASSY LADY SPEAKING LANGUAGES I’M TOO BROKE TO EVEN UNDERSTAND! Dayum! Dayum! DAYUM! HE LEAKIN’! HE LEAKIN’! She jus’ said that you don’t even belong in a TAX BRACKET, FOO! I think she called you FUGLY in French! And she RIGHT! HaHAAAA!” a street-level color commentator in the crowd ad-libbed, holding up his phone.
A small crowd of rubberneckers sucked in their teeth and jeered. “OOOOOOOOOOOOH!”
A mustachioed Mexican man shorter than Mac in a straw Giants sombrero piped in. “?AY AY AY AY AY! ?YA WEY POR FAVOR! ?Ya está muerto!”
“Daebak!” A group of young Korean women visiting San Francisco gasped as they held their AirPods to their ears, observing the uncut glory of the man being slingshotted across the social, economic, political, and cultural event horizon with their built-in automatic translators. “Ai ya…”
“Kalb! Who speaks to honorable, civilized people like that? Ant ashgar min rabat hamal,” a disgusted Arab uncle grunted, not even bothering to look as he walked past.
More international delegates piled on.
“Lerne bitte ein Manieren… Idiot. Wissen Sie überhaupt, wo Sie sind?”
“S?te g?te… Fan j?vla… J?vla fan…”
“Ay PUCHA! Ang PANGET talaga! At GAGO naman… Grabe, wala ba talaga siyang masabing matino? Tumabi ka diyan! Patay kang bata ka… HAYSUSmaryjosep.”
“Che stupido…”
“Wat die FOK is aan die gang binne in jou kop? FOKKOL! Bra, jy’s ‘n fokken FLOP.”
“Ty pozor dlya svoyey sem’i.”
“Arrey bhai, tera mooh dekh ke toh doodh bhi phat jaaye.”
“Ye couldnae march a straight line if William Wallace himself booted ye up the arse, ya glaikit, shan wee bawbag. The English widnae need muskets tae drop ye. Ye’d jus’ trip o’er yer own pish-stained boots an' impale yersel' on yer own sword.”
Then a white, middle-aged Jamaican dad with his family administered the coup de grace as he covered his son’s ears. “Mi cyaan believe dis BOMBOCLAAT fool come outta L.A. fi chat shit to a prince weh him Amazon warrior girl fren did a carry. Mi swear, dis sicko inna dis?”
An usher eavesdropping nearby broke his neutrality, muttering under his breath “Oh my God, bruh… Big Shake’s gon’ be so AMPED when his algorithm finds that joint and straight YEETS that patrol car-ass fool into a BLAST FURNACE… Is’sa wrap, dawg.” He shook his head in secondhand shame, pausing for breath, before reading out the rest of his verdict. “Tch! This some ‘fumeiyo no mae no shi’ type shit… My brother in Christ, ain’t no WAY you building a cabin in the woods and living the rest of your days in peace after this, I’m sorry. Shiiii, dear ol’ Shakey finna be WYLIN tonight like it’s 2006 and we poppin’ bottles in the club working our brand-new 32K Ultra HD Jumbotron decked out with an automatic upscaler and the latest hype systems locked and loaded, ooooooohWEE!”
The usher made the sign of the cross and chuckled towards Mecca, simmering down as he greeted and sat the next fans belonging to his section. “Not even religious… But I felt that in my SOUL. Some Dodgers fans never learn…”
The goatee-wielding, Pit Viper-rocking, backwards Dodger cap-wearing pond slime in a blue shirt put his hands up like he was about to get triple-tased by a trio of hypoglycemic fatass rent-a-pigs waddling after him in the parking lot at Chavez Ravine in media res of a perpetual drunken brawl, fueled by far too many N$33 micheladas that were found to be wanting, after the first rain of the season, making the ground a Slip ’N Slide made of asphalt and rebar-reinforced concrete.
“Never mind! I will seek God now.” He slumped his shoulders and turned to dust, his ashes scattering into the crowd, who was now calling in coordinates down to eight decimals to chain-drop 3-ton bombs of vicious mockeries on his psyche’s devastated husk.
Chill… That was NOT playing it cool.
Looking up again, Hannah checked Mac for emotional damage. “Are you okay? Sorry about that, Mac. Didn’t want him ruining our day. Might have gone a little overboard.”
“…You’re so cool, I didn’t know you could speak French. It’s beautiful. Please speak more French at home?” Mac replied, patting her head. Bits of the man’s shattered spirit painted his dumb, beautiful, awestruck face.
Blushing and looking away, Hannah started walking again, parting the Black and Orange Sea of cheering onlookers. “Aww… Sure I can. Come on. I have a surprise for you when we get to the team store.”
“What kinda surprise?”
“You’ll see. I think you’ll really like this idea. But close your eyes when we get there and stay like that until we get to our seats. No peeping!”
A wry smile formed under Mac’s sunglasses. He saluted her. “No peeping. Yes ma’am.”
---
Mac and Hannah watched from directly behind as the groundskeepers stood on a temporary driver’s stand on the roof of the away dugout, controlling their ARRMA-powered rakes and sweepers in effortless, graceful drifts on the infield dirt in perfect formation, Nor-Cal Hobbies calling from a séance preserved in the amber of the glory days; back when nitromethane engines were still legal and they used real dirt outdoors two locations ago.
The eldest groundskeeper spoke for them all. “Man, take me back to the old days in Union City… Racing on carpet and plywood in a warehouse in San Jose just isn’t the same. Haaaah…”
Break time’s over, Sinclair. Middle of the fifth. This is when they start putting couples up on kiss cam. Better get ready.
Pretending to yawn, Hannah put her arm around Mac in his fresh fitted. Mac leaned in.
“You're so cheesy. First you surprise me with a new hat and now this? Weren’t those my jobs tonight?”
“… Shut it. It’s cold.”
The moment arrived.
Big Shake’s old-timey Skynet tones boomed over the loudspeakers as Mac and Hannah’s image flashed on the big screen. “GIVE IT UP FOR THE COUPLE BEHIND THE ROAST OF THE CENTURY! YOU KNOW WHAT TO SAAAAAAAAAAY!”
42,000 people ERUPTED into a chant. “KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!”
Hannah glanced at Mac’s lips, and then back at Mac. Without a word, she locked them together and stood them up with one arm, fist pumping with the other, closing her eyes as she melted into it.
“UOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!”
Mac’s legs found their rightful place around her waist as they made out for a stadium-record 77 seconds. They broke apart, a small strand of spit still connecting them before falling away, a fragment of a lost comet burning up as it entered the atmosphere.
As the cheering died down, Mac and Hannah waved to the crowd one last time before taking their seats again.
SMAAAAAAASH! Under them, a Gatorade cooler screamed from its soul as a baseball bat met its face. Mac chuckled.
“Aww, are y'all afraid of a little kiss between coworkers? Come on boys! Surely you’ve kissed SOMEONE before.” He heckled, taking a smug sip of his Anchor Steam.
“COWORKERS?!?!” The whole away dugout cried out in unison.
“Fucking FOCUS! They were clearly put there by the Giants to psyche us out!” the manager barked.
Mac readied, aimed, and fired another, more massive psychic boomerang made of polished, sharpened Lexan at the away dugout for the decapitation strike. “It’s my first game here, dudes! I’m having so much fun, even if you’re holding a two-run lead that we can EASILY overcome! You really just rage bought N$6B worth of pitchers on 15-year deferred contracts without thinking about what you needed and it shows. Even here of all places! You guys sure make our massive outfield seem so TINY! Same ol’ sorry-ass Dodgers… Even your rings sit on a pile of money that would make God Himself blush. Small-ass club.”
“AUUUUUUUUUUUUGH!” a hotshot Dominican outfielder threw down his hat and stomped on it.
Mac is SCARY when he’s heckling baseball players. Glad I’m not them.
Hannah smirked. “Glad you got your energy back, Babyboy. Told you you’d be back to normal by tonight.”
“Why did I ever doubt you? C’mere.” Mac tried, and failed to put his arm around Hannah.
“How cute… Here.” Hannah turned her knees towards Mac and hunched down in accommodation.
Big Shake’s all-seeing eye over the Booth picked up on the vibe shift once more, blaring 2016 montage parody airhorns as he needle-dropped Information Society’s What’s on Your Mind (Pure Energy), uncorking the fresh MP4 from his library and pouring it out for the crowd as if it was a bottle of ‘88 Chateau Lafite Rothschild: it was finally time to enjoy a glass of the best Dodgers whine with 42,000 fellow certified sommeliers in savagery.
“YET ANOTHER MASSIVE DODGERS L DETECTED. MAX DISRESPECT! THE COUPLE SAT BEHIND THE AWAY DUGOUT HAVE JUST DONE IT AGAIN! SHALL I ROLL THE TAPE? I’M LOVING THIS ONE, GIANTS FAITHFUL. MIGHT EVEN BE A REEEEEEEMIX! YOU KNOW WHAT TO SAAAAAAAAAAY!”
Mac and Hannah joined the chant as a surge of home crowd, 80s rave-energy swept through the stadium, blowing and browning out some floodlights on the roof of the nosebleeds. “SHAKE ‘EM DOWN! SHAKE ‘EM DOWN! SHAKE ‘EM DOWN!”
Then another moment: Out of the corner of her lenses, she spotted a familiar Indian man wearing an oversized hot-pink button-down shirt and a matching Giants adjustable cap in a suite overlooking the left foul line.
Wait, Rajiv? What’s he doing he—
Rajiv produced a gray SwissGear duffel leaking a brown, viscous substance and presented it to his audience, all wearing black T-shirts, black pants, and black tactical caps, all embroidered with cartoon patches of a singular, unique brunch menu item on the front.
This RAT FUCK sure loves to play with everybody in the Bay… And the Brunch Illuminati? They will PAY for ruining this date.
Hannah slipped out of Mac’s arm. “Mac.”
“Huh? What’s up? Cramped?”
“I’m so sorry to ruin our night out at the park, but I need you to text the fan safety line and report that suite overlooking the left foul line. Rajiv was in there handing off a leaking duffel bag full of God-knows-what off to some Brunch Illuminati goons,” Hannah apologized.
“C’mon, don’t say that. You didn’t ruin it, Hannah. I had so much fun tonight! We can always go to another Giants game, but people will get hurt if we don’t do something. I’ll call Eureka, Tar, and Gordon as well. All hands on deck. Lemme handle the comms, and you do the scary stuff,” Mac reassured her as he pulled out his phone with one hand while squeezing her hand back with the other one.
Hannah wiped away a forming tear and smiled at Mac. “I love you. Professionally. But we’ve been shirking work. Guess this is karma for fooling around on company time…”
He returned her love with the chuckle he knew she worshipped. “Guess so. Love you too, work wife. Let’s go save brunch.”
Overhearing their last exchange, the anguished screams of the haunted outfielder followed them as they got up from their seats hand in hand. “AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH! ?Ay, Dios mío! ?Por favor, para!”
“Coworkers… ?Esto es de verdad o qué?” he asked, knowing God would just tell him to think for two seconds.
His newfound suffering would torment him for the rest of his life.
