𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 | 𝚓𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝

𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡 | 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷/𝟹

[photo: jschlatt adjusting his Yankees hat on his episode of the Rajjchelor at 1:36:29 | wc: 1,679]

The early September wind had crept up the eastern seaboard, laying a slight frost on the trees that was gone by noon. From under a baggy jacket and behind a scarf, you could feel your ears, fingers, and toes slowly succumbing to the cold. Your breath rose in puffs from your lips and disappeared behind you.

"Okay, talk to me," you gestured vaguely at your surroundings, "Where are we?"

He smiled at the sky, taking the reminder that you weren't from around here, "This is near where I grew up. I lived a little ways upstate from here, but my dad would drive me and my brother down here to see Yankees games all the time."

He absentmindedly intertwined his fingers with yours as you stated, "You're the first person I've met that likes the Yankees, you know."

You earned a chuckle from him, "You ask people about baseball often?"

"Not on purpose," you admit with a laugh, noticing the pink hue that tinted his nose and cheeks, "but just from what I've heard, nobody likes them."

"Yeah," he shrugs, "That's no surprise. But people only hate them because they're so good. Well that and because they buy their way to first, but, I mean, that's just a good business move."

"So they're good and they have money. That's it?" You couldn't believe that was the only reason, but he was unwilling to budge and your lack of baseball knowledge prevented you from arguing.

"Scouts honor," he quipped before continuing his response to your initial question, "So, right now we're in the Bronx—one of the five boroughs."

"I know that much, Mr. Tour Guide," you cut him off jokingly, "I've been paying attention when you tell me stuff."

Since you began dating, he had slowly opened up to you about his childhood and past experiences, starting with the basics about the area he was from. Because he was such a private person, you were honored to catch glimpses of the little details in his tales and ecstatic that he trusted you enough to share his memories and to create new ones. Regardless of what he was sharing, you were always captivated by his stories and praised him for his story telling abilities. That didn't mean you weren't invested in what he was saying, though, and you always took his words to heart—something you were grateful you did as he began to quiz you.

"Okay, smart guy—name the other four," he prompted, rubbing his thumb in circles around the back of your hand.

"Easy," you concluded, "There's Queens, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and..." you trailed off, losing your confidence.

"And?" He guided you towards the stadium by turning around a corner, the large circular structure now clearly in view.

"And..." you racked your brain for the answer, and repeated once what you had already said, before exclaiming, "Staten Island! Yes!"

He couldn't help but smile at your excitement, "You're so cute."

"And smart," you added, proud of yourself for getting the answer correct.

"Now, don't get too full of yourself," the grin that had crept onto his face seemed plastered there. You hadn't seen him this helplessly happy in a long time and it was absolutely contagious.

You leaned against him and he moved his hand to wrap around your shoulders, sharing the warmth that emanated from his torso, "What section are we in? For the game."

"126, row 14. They're good seats, nothing super special," he adjusted his hat with his free hand, pulling it down more tightly onto his head, "But we've had these same season tickets as long as I can remember. My dad always raced down here to get them."