FlyGirl 2.0

Chapter 7 - Jason

AFTER MAKING IT through three boxes of financial disclosures, Donnelly grabbed his jacket and called it a day. There was a night game at Wrigley. He needed a beer, a brat, and mind-numbing conversation with the group of Iowa State alumni he hung out with to decompress from his job.

It was also a good way to forget about a certain redhead.

He made a pit-stop home first, so he could change and put away the firearm. Shoulder holsters were uncomfortable enough; it was worse to wear one while sitting on metal bleachers. It also meant he couldn't take off the jacket. Too hot to do that.

On his way home, his mother texted him. Jason? This is your Mother. Are you coming home this weekend? Love, Mom.

It didn't matter how many times he told her she didn't have to write texts like letters, she always did. Every single time. Now, he'd worry if she didn't.

Hello, mother. This is Jason, he texted back. I do not know. Work is busy. I will let you know on Thursday. Love, Jason.

Jason? This is your Mother. Are you taking the Saw Palmetto I sent you? Prostate health is so important. Love, Mother.

Hello, mother. This is Jason. I am not taking the Saw Palmetto you sent me for my prostate because I am only 29 years old. Love, Jason.

Jason? This is your Mother. Prostate cancer can affect young men as well as old...

He turned off his phone and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

Once he got home, he showered and changed into a pair of blue linen shorts and a red t-shirt advertising Harvester International on it, then wolfed down a Hot Pocket before heading out to Wrigley Field.

He ended up being late, which sucked, but what didn't suck was the fact he missed the crowds.

When he got to his section, his group was there, and judging by their smiles, already moderately buzzed. Well, it was the third inning. Even the slower drinkers would be on their third beer.

"Donnelly! Dude. Thought you were blowing us off!" Greg Nielander, his freshman roommate and best friend, slapped him on the back as he climbed to his seat. Greg worked at the Merc, in the pits, and basically was an adrenaline junkie. "Jase, I found it. How's this sound. You. Me. Alaska. Helicopters—" he paused dramatically "— wait for it... skiing!"

Donnelly flagged down a beer vendor. "Is this a game? Because you're using words that don't go together, Greg." He signaled one beer and passed down a $20. He got one beer and $5 change in return. Expensive? Sure. But beers tasted better at Wrigley.

"I'm saying, I found this group that goes up to Alaska, and you ski glaciers by jumping out of a helicopter!" Greg wrapped an arm around his neck and gave him a nookie, nearly making him spill his beer. The girl sitting in front him him squealed indignantly. "Sorry, Patty," Greg charmed her with a shit-eating grin. She blushed and turned back around. "So, what do you say, Jace? Interested?"

"No. No, I'm not."

Greg looked confused. "Why?"

"Because you want me to going skiing in Alaska by jumping out of helicopter." Jason took a drink of beer. "Tonight, when you go home, I want you to think about what that entails, and then, I want you to diagram it using pencil and paper."

Greg laughed. "What it entails is memories, and experience, and man versus wild."

Donnelly scanned the diamond. Playing had stopped. Something was going on by home plate, but it was too far away to tell. Their seats sucked, but only Greg could afford better ones.