His name is Owen Rossi, and he’s Year of the Tiger,” Bennett explains, listing off the key points from my date’s profile. I try on a blue hat in the souvenir shop at Dodger Stadium, where I’ll apparently be meeting my perfect match named Owen. The store is filled with zealous fans eager to spend hard-earned money on overpriced tees and hats to prove their loyalty to their favorite team and players.
I give Bennett an impressed look. “A compatible sign,” I say. “Interesting. Worried that your incompatible theory wasn’t going to pan out?”
Bennett lifts the hat off my head and drops a pink one in its place. He looks at my reflection in the mirror and shakes his head, pulling the pink cap off.
“We do both,” he says.
“Did you really need to buy a ticket to be here? I can handle this on my own.”
“Mine’s a nosebleed seat. I need to make sure you do this the honest way. At least I’m candid about being here,” Bennett says. “You’re meeting Owen at the seats. You’ll be behind home plate.”
I whistle in a low tune. “These tickets must have cost a fortune. I thought you haven’t raised money yet?”
Bennett flips through the replica player jerseys on hangers looking for a specific size and turns his head toward me. “Normally, users pay for dates, but because of our arrangement, ZodiaCupid treated you two to this. Our hope is that users aren’t going on a lot of dates, and that the ones they do go on are enjoyable.”
I rummage through key chains in a basket. “I’m not complaining. I haven’t been to a game in years. I used to come here with my dad all the time. He loves baseball.”
Bennett holds a jersey out in front of him and then drapes it against himself, looking down at it and then back up at me. “How does this look?”
It’s a simple, casual question that forces me to look at him. No. Not look. Observe. To evaluate how the width of the shirt aligns with his shoulders. Perfectly. To follow the buttons down his torso to ensure the length works for him. It does. The polyester top falls against his chest flatteringly, the shallow V-neck drawing my attention to places that are wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.
Suddenly my neck is warm, and my entire body tightens in response. I grip one of the key chains tighter between my fists. It feels too intimate viewing Bennett in this way and helping him decide what to wear.
I tilt my head, not committing to a decision either way. “It’s sporty,” I say vaguely. Now, if Owen wants an opinion on how to clothe himself, I might be willing to give it. Because Owen is my date. Bennett is not.
“So your dad loves baseball?” Bennett asks, following up from before.
I avert my eyes from the top that’s still pressed against his body. “What? Oh. Yeah. He writes low-budget horror flicks. Some of his past films are The Green Monster and Field of Nightmares. Have you heard of those? He’s still trying to write a movie that will earn a cult following.”
Bennett looks amused. “I sadly haven’t, but they’re now on my list.”
One of the sleeves has fallen across his chest, and in this brief moment of not being put together, he looks so boyishly handsome that I almost can’t handle how adorable it is. “You going to buy that or something?” I ask, probably coming off more flustered than I intend to.
Bennett slings the jersey over his arm. “I think so. I don’t know who this player is, but it feels right to blend in.”
I feel the corners of my mouth turn upward. “That’s the team spirit,” I say playfully.
“You want one, too? We can match.”
I hold up a hand. “I’m good. Baseball was an astute choice,” I say, considering its environment for first dates. “It’s a fairly quiet game that allows for small talk, it has the best stadium food, and there’s a good view from most seats. I’ll admit I’m impressed.” I look up at Bennett with an approving smile.
Bennett’s lips form a straight line. “Actually, Owen chose this.”
“Well done, Owen.” I push down on the head of a bobblehead and nod along with it. “Or was it because of the profile matching? At least he read what I wrote. Let’s hope that’s a good sign.”
Bennett plucks the bobblehead out of my hands and replaces it with my ticket. “It’s time for you to get to your seat. And remember, keep an open mind.”
I march down the steps toward my seat and find a man already seated. My heart pounds nervously when I see him. The idea of meeting him was easier as a concept, but a real person in front of me makes this uncomfortably real. I make eye contact with who I think is Owen and say his name in a question form. He nods and stands. He’s maybe four or five inches taller than me. We’re luckily on the outside of the row so I can make a quick escape if need be. I extend my hand for a shake, and he mimics my movement.
“Is that seat good for you? I’m happy to switch,” Owen says as I secure my spot on the aisle. I tilt my head to get a better look at him. He has bright blue eyes, sandy blond hair, and fair skin covered in pale freckles.
“I’m fine here, thanks,” I say, noting his manners. I enjoy the expansive view from the seats. Two scoreboards stand tall across the field with the crisp mountains illuminated by the lowering sun behind them. Fans carrying food and drinks slowly occupy the multicolored pastel seats while music blasts around us.
I tap my knee self-consciously. Talking to strangers isn’t usually such a challenge for me. I could pretend I’m on a Singles Scouting. Nope. No. I’m here to give this an honest shot. Don’t think about business right now.
“So, what number date am I?” I finally ask, not being able to help myself.
Owen looks over, appearing confused. “Excuse me?”
“On ZodiaCupid. How many dates have you been on?”
“Oh! I’ve only been on a few. Everyone I’ve met through the app has actually been lovely. I just haven’t hit it off with anyone in the way that I’m looking for,” Owen says in a way that sounds rehearsed. He must be nervous.
“Sure, sure,” I say, dipping my head. “And you like the app?”
Owen narrows his baby blues at me. “You don’t work for ZodiaCupid, do you?” he asks suspiciously.
I successfully avoid letting out a laugh. “Definitely not!”
“What do you do then?”
“Right, you only know what’s on my profile,” I say. I consider lying again but instead try the truth. What have I got to lose? “I work in my family’s business. I’m actually the new owner of our matchmaking company that matches people based on their Chinese zodiac animal signs, too.”
Owen gestures in understanding. “Sleeping with the enemy. Nice.”
“What? No!” I recoil back into my seat. “I’m just testing out what’s available now. Why limit yourself, right?”
“That’s what they say,” Owen agrees.
I shake my head. “That’s what who says exactly?” I tease.
“Just people,” he answers frankly.
“Oh. Okay.” I scan over the crowd, looking for good people-watching opportunities. “Did you want anything to eat or drink?” I ask after a particularly long stretch of silence.
“I can get it,” Owen says, starting to stand.
“No! I’ll do it. One of my favorite things to do as a kid was contemplate my food options. Who am I kidding? That’s my favorite thing to do now,” I say with a tongue-tied laugh.
“Okay, then, I’d love a beer, please,” Owen says. “It was a long Wednesday. And I had a big lunch so I’ll skip the food.”
“You sure?” I ask. “They have Dodger Dogs here! Where else can you get that?”
“That’s basically just a branded hot dog,” he says, clearly not sharing the same enthusiasm over baseball food.
I sigh. “You’re probably right.”
“Please, let me treat.” He pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet, reconsiders, and then adds two more twenties to the pile. “I remember stadium food being expensive.”
“It’s one of the tastiest scams,” I say. We share our first laugh, and suddenly I’m caught off guard. ZodiaCupid matched me not only with someone compatible, but with someone I’m not completely miserable being around. Awkward, but not miserable. It’s still early.
With a stack of money in hand, I scurry up the stairs and find Bennett in his new jersey waiting at the top.
I clutch the sixty dollars to my chest in surprise. “Can you stop doing that? It scares me every time.”
Bennett leans against a pole with his arms crossed. “I’m just standing here.”
I jerk my thumb toward the field. “Shouldn’t you be out there? Your teammates are depending on you.”
He smooths out his jersey. “I’m doing my daily autograph round,” Bennett says with a smile.
“You’re making me nervous! Do you need to be creepily watching from the top of our row?”
“Just making sure you’re okay,” he says.
“From the guy…you matched me with?” I ask. “Oh, right, you don’t do background checks on your users, so for all we know, I could be rubbing shoulders with someone who burgles or texts while driving!”
Bennett’s shoulders shake when he laughs. “That’s the worst you can think of?”
“I’m the one who has to mingle with the shoplifter for the next nine innings,” I say. “I’m not letting my mind go to darker places.”
“What’s he like?” Bennett asks.
“What’s he like?” I repeat. “You don’t know anything about who I’m on a date with right now, do you?”
Bennett makes a face. “Our app is the matchmaker, not us.”
Chanting starts below us as music plays, stops, plays, stops. The food level is packed with eager fans elbowing each other out of the way, rushing to stand in line for greasy, starchy concessions. Children sprint around with packs of candy and trays of fries in hand. I step to the side to dodge a man balancing three cups of beers when a little girl with strawberry ice cream crashes into me cone first. I feel Bennett steadying me with both hands, his firm grip around my shoulders sending shivers down my arms.
“Are you okay?” I ask the girl, who stands looking stunned, her scoop of ice cream now decorating the front of my white tee. With wide eyes brimming with tears, she nods slowly.
Bennett pulls his wallet from his jeans and takes out a five-dollar bill. He kneels down and uses his thigh as a flat surface to quickly fold the bill into the shape of an ice cream cone. The little girl watches on, amazed. When he holds the ice cream bill up in front of her, she breaks into a wide toothless smile, no tears in sight.
“It looks like you gave her a giant pink belly button,” Bennett says to the girl, holding back a laugh. “Looks kinda cool, huh? Go get yourself another ice cream. And stay close to your parents.” The little girl takes the ice cream bill and runs back to a little boy at the ice cream kiosk.
“That was sweet of you,” I say quietly.
“That’s literally the only thing I know how to make with money,” Bennett says, “so it’s a good thing she didn’t run into you with a soft pretzel. Are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Pink is all the rage nowadays, didn’t you know? I actually told her to do that,” I say with a smile. Bennett laughs before running over to the nearest food stand to grab a wad of napkins as I wipe chunks of strawberry off my jeans with my hands. Bennett returns and hands me a small cup of water. He steps closer, lifting my right arm and gently wiping the cold pink ice cream off with the rough napkins.
“I can do that,” I start.
“I got you,” Bennett says in a low voice. Being this close to him requires tilting my head back further. He dips the napkin into the water and cleans off the stickiness that the melted ice cream left behind.
Bennett releases his grip, sliding his hand down my arms. His touch is disorienting. Then he unbuttons the jersey and takes it off, looking like his usual self again in a simple navy tee. He wraps the jersey around my shoulders, and I lift my arms to tuck them into the short sleeves. I look like I’ve been swallowed whole by a white Dodgers jersey.
“Thanks,” I say distractedly, elongating my neck to see what his hazel eyes look like from this distance. Still soulful.
Bennett brings the collar together at the base of my neck and fiddles with the top button. I can sense the presence of his hands, every nerve in my body tingling. It drives me absolutely wild. He pulls his hands back for me to finish the buttoning.
“You smell like a hot dog,” I say, regaining my awareness. My fingers fumble around the buttons, a new nervousness overtaking my motor skills.
“Is that a good thing?” he asks. “I ate a Dodger Dog earlier. You can only get them here.”
“Right!” I nod. “You get it!” I take the remaining napkins and wipe up the now-absorbed dessert from my jeans.
“You should be talking with Owen, not up here waiting in lines,” he says somewhat begrudgingly.
“The food’s up here, and the game’s down there. Unless you have suggestions?” I say, holding out the money toward him.
Bennett takes the money. “Fine. What do you want?”
“Ooh,” I say, tucking a hand under my chin while I think. “What sounds good? Let’s start with a soft pretzel with extra salt, a chili dog with extra cheese, curly fries, and one of those long red licorice things. And a beer for Owen. Thanks!” I turn back toward my seat.
“Be back here in ten minutes!” he shouts behind me.
There’s a wave moving around the packed stadium that reaches us just as I make it back to my seat.
“Nice jersey!” Owen says as he flings his arms up. “Where’s the food?”
“It’s being prepared,” I say, raising my arms in response to the crowd. “I’ll grab it in a few. What’d I miss?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you,” he says. “I don’t know any of the players’ names or anything that they’re doing. Baseball’s fun to watch, but I just can’t get into it the way others can.”
“Baseball shows us who we are, whether we know the plays or not,” I say dramatically, rattling off a line from one of my dad’s most popular movies.
“Isn’t that from Homer, Run?” Owen asks. “I love that movie.”
I eagerly turn toward him in my seat. “You know that one?”
“It’s a classic. I’m a bit of a horror film buff.”
“Cool,” I say, realizing I haven’t actually had a chance to look at his profile myself. “What is it you do, Owen?”
“I work in my family’s business, too,” he says. “We run a winery in Malibu.”
My ears perk up at this information. “Tell me more!”
“I’m the fourth generation of California farmers,” Owen explains. “I manage the operations of the vineyard, and my sister runs the tasting room. There’s a lot more people involved, but we’re starting to take over more of the responsibility.”
Owen shares more about his family’s winery and his desire to execute new ideas while maintaining the history and reasons why customers have remained loyal. It’s nice to be able to chat about similar business struggles and hear about someone else’s worries for a change.
“Think that food is ready?” Owen says after describing how the wine-bottling process works.
“Oops! Let me go find out,” I say. I check the time on my phone and see a few texts from Bennett. It’s been thirty minutes.
I climb the stairs two at a time and find Bennett waiting at the top.
“Food’s cold, beer’s warm. Here’s a foam finger,” Bennett says. I hold my arm out, and he slides the foam finger over my hand, balancing the tray of food on top. “Did you get lost or something?”
“Owen and I were talking,” I say. “I can see why you picked him.”
Bennett’s posture stiffens. “Oh, great. So it’s going well?”
“Surprisingly,” I say, tossing a curly fry into my mouth.
“You think you’ll see him again?” Bennett asks, his eyebrows furrowed.
“We’re only in the”—I say, looking back toward the field—“third inning. We’re just talking. If we take off to elope, I’ll send you a courtesy text.”
Bennett scrunches his mouth into a smile. “Well, uh, good. I’m glad it’s going well.”
“Okay. Good. So then why do you look concerned?”
Bennett puts his hands up on his hips. “Who, me? This is what I look like when I’m right. Because of ZodiaCupid. You’re hitting it off with someone you met on my app. Maybe we know what we’re doing after all, huh?”
I rip off a piece of cold soft pretzel and dip it in the cup of mustard. “I see why you picked him. He’s cute, though you couldn’t have known that, so you got lucky on that one. He’s also excited by the challenge of running his family’s business. I can respect a legacy. From what he shared with me, it sounds like he makes good instinctive decisions. It’s clear he cares about both his work and family.” I pop the mustardy pretzel into my mouth.
“You were easier to crack than I thought.” Bennett looks perplexed as he shifts his footing.
“Don’t get too excited.” I wrinkle my nose. “This is me having an open mind. This is good! You want some?”
“Did you know that, in the seventeenth century, soft pretzels were incorporated into weddings? The bride and groom would make a wish, break the pretzel, then eat it. Kind of like a big, soft, loopy wishbone.” Bennett yanks a chunk of pretzel off, dips it in mustard, and then crams it into his mouth. “Good,” he says between a full bite.
I laugh out loud at his goofiness. “You have mustard on your lip,” I say, tentatively reaching forward. “May I?”
“Oh, this? I want that there,” he says, angling his head back.
With my foam finger–free hand, I tuck my thumb into a napkin and delicately wipe the yellow smudge off his face. The backs of my fingers rest against his cheek as I press against the edge of his lips.
“There,” I say, my fingers grazing his jawline. Heat shoots through the center of my body, and I quickly inhale a breath of air.
“Thanks,” he says quietly. A smile disrupts Bennett’s serious face.
I follow his laugh lines over to his gold-flecked eyes and down to his rosy lips. They’re slightly parted, as though something important to say is on the tip of his tongue. The shouting of “Sweet Caroline” in the stadium grows louder, pulling me out of my daze.
“I know our animal sign traits match well together, but compatibility is, well, it’s complex,” I say, picking up where I think we left off. I crumple the mustard-stained napkin in my hand. “Like I said, we’re only in the third inning. Don’t start thinking of podcast talking points yet.”
Bennett eyes me up. “It’s complex, or you make it complex?”
I look down at the tray of cold food. “Hey, next time I come back here, think you can bring one of those small plastic Dodgers caps with nachos in it?” I ask, ignoring his question completely.
“What? Oh, yeah, sure,” Bennett says, looking distracted. He leans over the railing in the direction of where Owen and I are sitting.
“Also, good news. Harper said she’s open to another date,” I add. “This Friday work for you?”
Bennett refocuses on me. “I promised you I’d be open to it, so I’ll be there.”
“Fantastic. I knew you two would hit it off,” I say. “Okay, I should probably go down to my seat. Don’t forget the nachos hat.”
“Do you want dessert? I can buy you dessert after you eat your nachos,” he asks.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix nachos and ice cream.”
“What about a churro?” he offers.
I shake my head. “That might be too much greasy food for one game.”
“That could be true,” he says, seemingly disappointed.
I carry the food down to Owen, who’s in the middle of a phone call talking about grapes and corks.
“Take these,” I whisper. “I’ll be right back. I forgot something.”
I race up the stairs, foam finger slicing through the air as I run.
“Bennett! Bennett!” I yell.
He turns around, looking surprised.
“I almost forgot to tell you,” I pant. “It’s very important.”
“What is it?” he asks.
“Don’t forget the jalapenos!” I say.
A look of amusement flashes across his face.
“Got it. Jalapenos,” he says. “Anything else, my Queen?”
I tap the foam finger against my chin as I think. “Cheese. Don’t forget the cheese.”
“I get it. You want nachos. They’re pretty straightforward. Cheese, tomatoes, beans, some kind of meat. Preferably a pickled jalapeno or a red pepper. Maybe even some sour cream. Understood.”
I wiggle my giant blue finger in front of his face. “No sour cream.” I boop the tip of his nose. “I want ice cream, too.”
Bennett shrugs. “I can make this faster and mix it all together.”
“No, go to the nacho stand first, then have the ice cream guy top it all off.”
Bennett chuckles at this, and I join him. The laughter is contagious, our shoulders rippling in sync.
“Okay. Get going. I don’t want to keep you from your date,” Bennett finally says, his eyes still watery from laughter.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s down there fermenting.” I burst out in another fit of laughter.
Bennett smiles but doesn’t seem to understand the reference. “He’s what?”
I side-eye him. “You don’t get it because you don’t know anything about him! He’s in the wine business,” I explain.
“Ah, so he only gets better with age,” he says with a smirk.
Once again, I’m giddy with laughter. I head back to my seat with a stupid grin on my face.
By the top of the fourth inning, Owen and I have exhausted our small talk and have formed an understanding. We’ll leave at the top of the eighth so we can get out of the parking lot before everyone else. I say I’ll visit his winery’s tasting room, and he vows to look up Lunar Love if ZodiaCupid doesn’t work out.
A text from Alisha buzzes in my lap. Have you seen the social media numbers lately?
I pull up the Twitter app on my phone and tap the notifications bubble. 80 retweets? 200 likes? I respond.
Your moon song pairings with zodiac signs is by far the most popular strategy so far. A few people have reached out to learn about what we do, she messages.
Feeling rude, I glance up at Owen, who’s luckily busy managing his own messages. I can at least appreciate the man’s work ethic.
That’s amazing. Let’s keep going with that. See if we can double that number. If we’re attracting potential clients, it’s worth pursuing. These numbers give us a direction to move toward, I write.
Oh no. I’m starting to sound like Bennett.
I stare out over the field, mindlessly eating my licorice rope and watching the sun disappear behind the stadium lights. The fact that my first date through ZodiaCupid was not a total nightmare is slightly worrying.
But the biggest curveball of today—and perhaps the most distressing realization—is that for the rest of the inning, all I can think about is Bennett O’Brien and when I’ll get to see him next.