I shoot a look at Brenner beneath Russo’s square jaw. “Tonight? What’s tonight?”
Russo’s voice rumbles against my ribs. “It’s a surprise.”
I quirk a brow at Brenner. “Obviously.”
“It’s a surprise,” Brenner repeats lamely.
“Okay, but does this amazing surprise happen to be a location?”
Brenner sags, defeated. He knows it’s impossible to surprise me by taking me anywhere secret. Even with a blindfold on, earplugs in, and my nose pinched shut, I would still know exactly where I was, anywhere in Detroit, simply by using my foxy sense of direction. He caves immediately. “It’s Comerica Park.”
“And it’s still a surprise,” Russo insists.
Brenner adds, “It’s the Tigers preseason kickoff game.”
“It’s no longer a surprise,” Russo officially declares.
My jaw drops. “We’re going?”
Brenner opens his mouth to answer, but Russo steals his thunder. “Four of the best VIP seats in the house, front row over the dugout. Brenner set it all up through his connections with the stadium security team.”
Front row! I feel my heart trying to leap out of my throat. I’ve been to Tigers games before, but always from the cheapest nosebleed seats, or, one time, from the outfield scoreboard, after I snuck in the night before and climbed the scaffolding. I once saw half a game as a cotton candy vendor, before getting fired for charging double the price to fans of the opposing team.
The only words I can get out are the same as before. “We’re going?”
“Hell yes, we’re going,” Brenner says.
“Four tickets.” I bump Russo with my hip. “A double date, Russo? Got a little spark of your own?”
He throws his hands up. “That depends. Do you know any Amy’s?”
As Brenner pulls into a space in the Comerica parking garage, I experience one of those thrilling, transcendent moments in which you suddenly realize your life has leveled up—you’ve arrived at a new phase; you’ve “joined the club.” It happens when I pull the visor down to straighten my Tigers hat in the mirror. I look myself in the eyes, and all at once, a series of thoughts hits me. Here I am, having date night with the man of my dreams, after a full day’s hard work. We each have a steady paycheck. We pay bills on a house. Our plans for the future involve each other…
Ohmigosh, I’m an adult.
It only took twenty-seven years, a handful of months at the FUA, and one Jay Brenner.
He holds my hand for the walk to the stadium. While his eyes take in the sights—the street entertainer break dancing to a human beat box; the statues of ferocious Tigers prowling the roof above the main gates—my eyes take in the glances of people passing by. I feel like their gazes linger on us. Look at the happy couple, they must be thinking. Young, good-looking, together. I catch a few women checking Brenner out. He’s dressed down in chunky sneakers, gray jeans, and a tight-fitting raglan shirt that shows off his athletic build. The golden stubble on his jaw is just long enough to look soft, begging to be touched.
The stadium is packed, thrumming with the clamor of forty thousand Tigers fans—my people. It’s my favorite time of day, when the lowering sun casts gold across the glittering undersides of storm clouds. Even though there’s still an hour of dusk left, the stadium lights are on, creating an otherworldly glow on the field. Walking down to our seats is surreal. I’ve never been this close to the field. I can practically reach out and touch the players as they do their warm-up stretches. By the time we get to our seats, I’m absolutely giddy.
“There they are!” Russo bellows at us. From the looks of it, he’s been here a while. The beer in his hand is nearly empty, and all the people around our seats are turned toward him, as though he’s the center of tonight’s entertainment. I’m not surprised. Wherever he goes, it only takes .02 seconds for Russo to completely own a crowd of perfect strangers. “Look at these two. Doesn’t it make you sick? I love it.” Murmurs of assent from his crowd.
Hanging from Russo’s arm is a petite blonde wearing a trendy Tigers jersey. She smiles and waves. “Oh, I love your red hair. I so wish I could get that color. You must be Shayne.”
“And you must be Amy,” I say.
Russo nearly spits out his beer with a laugh. “Noooo, not an Amy. Definitely a Kirsten. Kirsten, this is Shayne, and you know Brenner, of course.”
Kirsten gasps. “Yes, but wow. I had to look twice. I hardly recognize him without a tie on. Oh Shayne, honey, you look good on him.”
“You work at the station?” I ask.
“No, I’m a waitress. I know all the guys on the force. And their lunch orders.” She pokes Russo in the stomach. “Steak and eggs, extra steak, extra eggs, with a side of my phone number.” That gets a chuckle from the audience. Kirsten grabs my hand. “Sit with me; let’s talk.” She’s about to seat us both in the middle two seats, but I pull back, letting Brenner take the middle seat, while Russo edges past Kirsten to take the other middle seat next to him. They immediately launch into a conversation about work. “Oh,” she says, confused.
I take my seat on the outside of Brenner. “Yeah, it’s better if you just let them be together, trust me.”
She recovers quickly, sitting on the other side of Russo and hugging his arm. “So cute,” she calls across them to me. “Like little boys.”
The crowd cheers when the Jumbotron screen flashes with the Kiss Cam logo. The stadium cameras zoom in on couples from the crowd, and we all applaud when they kiss on the giant screen. Russo says something to Kirsten about practicing, in case they get on-screen. As she plants a loud, exaggerated smooch on his lips, I make eyes at Brenner, silently expressing my appreciation for his more subdued persona. He may never command the attention of large crowds, but those few of us who get to be close to him know how strong his presence can be. He gives my hand a squeeze.
“How’d you score these seats?” I ask him. “They’re incredible.”
“I know a guy who knows a guy.”
Russo butts in. “High people in high places. Law enforcement is the ultimate network. Everybody owes favors to everybody else. Your boy Brenner must have cashed in big for this one.”
Brenner deflects. “Nah. It’s a preseason promotional game, not the Super Bowl.”
A vague uneasiness flickers like a red flag in my mind. Why is Brenner so quick to downplay this? And why doesn’t his own partner know who Brenner hit up for these tickets? Feels cagey.
I have to admit, I’m a teensy bit paranoid about Brenner keeping things from me. C’mon, he was undercover for years, so he’s a trained professional at keeping to himself, playing both sides with a hidden agenda. And let’s not forget those couple of months when he secretly met with Agent Hillerman and Oliver Harrington to work the revenants case behind my back. Look, I’m not worried that he’s not who he says he is. I’m worried that because he is who he is, Brenner might jump into something without me there to help. The boy better know by now that he doesn’t have to go it alone anymore.
A buzz fills the stadium when several celebrities run out onto the field. This game not only kicks off the Tigers’ training season, but also raises money for charity. Most ticket holders are here to see famous TV stars who can’t throw a baseball to save their lives. The stadium announcer’s voice introduces various B and D-list celebrities, from a reality show contestant to a daytime soap opera star to a local news anchor. When an intro is made for the host of a totally fake ghost hunter show, Russo sits forward in his seat and exclaims, “Now that guy, I’d love to have a sit-down with. A true believer. Ghouls and ghosts, werewolves and vampires, the supernatural realm. All of it’s real.”