"How much longer? We're gonna be late!" she yelled for the twelfth time from the doorway to their bedroom.
"Almost ready," her husband's reply echoed from the bathroom.
"I swear he's more girly than I am," she muttered as she crossed the living room space to check once more—for the last time, she hoped—that she had everything.
Tickets? Check. All three.
Mitt? Check. One for her. Rick couldn't catch a beach ball, let alone a baseball crushed off a bat. She'd protect him from stray missiles.
Cash, ID, cell phone, etc? Check, check and check. She'd been ready for a quarter of an hour; why on earth Rick needed forty five minutes more than her just to go to a game was a mystery she hadn't yet solved in their year of marriage.
Glancing at her dad's watch again, she saw they were in real danger of being more than fashionably late meeting Jim at the restaurant. Her stomach gave a lurch, both from hunger and anxiety. She hated being late for any meeting, but especially for her dad. He'd always stressed the courtesy of punctuality to her when she was growing up. A courtesy that had not apparently been a priority in the raising of one Richard Rodgers.
Just as she opened her mouth to demand that Rick get his ass in gear now, her phone rang. Seeing her Dad's face on the caller ID twisted her gut just a bit more. He was probably wondering where they were; the prospect of confessing to him that they hadn't even left the loft yet sent her heart rate sky rocketing.
"Hey."
"Katie? I hope you guys aren't at the restaurant already." His voice was a bit tense, uneasy. The excitement she'd anticipated hearing in his voice was noticeably absent.
"No, not exactly, Dad. What's wrong?"
"Oh, Katie. I'm so sorry. The case I've been working on is just wrapping up. I'm running pretty late. I can't make dinner, but I should be able to get to the stadium on time."
Despite the fact that she and Rick were late, she still had to press her lips tight to hold in the deep sigh. This was supposed to be a special night for them: the last home game of the 2015 season, and against their archrivals the Red Sox at that. Dinner with her dad before heading to the Bronx together was a tradition dating back to her childhood.
"That's ok, Dad. I understand. We'll just meet you outside the gate." Her voice only wavered a little, but it was enough that her dad caught it.
"I'm sorry, Katie. I'll grab something on the way, and maybe we could have dinner on Sunday, when they finish the season up in Baltimore. I'll even bring the pizza."
"Sure, Dad. Sounds good," she managed. It wouldn't be quite the same, but she recognized that things didn't always work out the way you planned them.
Little did she know that this would become a mantra for the next few hours.
Hanging up with her father, she collapsed into a chair. Rick could take his sweet time now that they weren't meeting Jim for dinner.
Of course he strolled out of their room right at that moment.
"Ready to go, Kate?" He was wearing the Yankees jersey she'd bought him for his first game. One with very short sleeves, showing off his incredible biceps. The jersey combined with his well-fit jeans never failed to make her breath hitch. He sometimes wore the jersey even when they weren't going to a game.
A few very, very special times he had worn only the jersey.
She was fortunate that she hadn't had to replace it yet. It fit him far too well to just rip it off his chest, but they'd had a few near misses.
Mouth watering at the sight of her hunky husband, she almost missed the next words out of his mouth as he paused by the door. Almost.
"Whatcha doing just sitting there? I thought we were in a rush? Let's go."
The eye roll in response to his unwitting demand was truly impressive.
She stood, stalking her prey slowly as she explained that their plans had changed.
He was within a mere foot of her—well within striking range—when he finally sensed his danger.
"What are we going to do in the meantime, then? We won't have to meet him for another hour or so…" His voice trailed off as he noted the hungry look in her eye.
"Oh, I don't know, Rick," she whispered, voice husky. "I'm feeling hungry. Starved, in fact."
He was hypnotized by her piercing stare, which was how she was able to make her final approach to her objective.
Those arms, ummm. She latched on, stroking the hard biceps that threatened to burst the hem of his sleeves.
"What exactly is on your dinner menu, Kate?" he teased, eyes dilating as he watched her tongue peek through her lips while she stroked his arms.
"Just you, babe," she confessed. She reached up with both arms and pulled his head down for a long, demanding kiss. Perhaps missing dinner with her dad wasn't the worst thing that could happen.
Perhaps it was time for a new tradition.
Things heated up rapidly, and she was about to push him into their room and peel that jersey off—carefully—when she felt him pull away.
"Wha…" was the most intelligent response she could manage. He was still standing in front of her, but they were separated by a good foot of space.
How strange.
As her dazed mind slowly cleared of the drugging kisses they'd been exchanging, she perceived he was talking on his phone.
Baffling.
"Ok, ok. I'll be right there." He punched it off and turned back to her, a pinched expression on his face.
"I'm so sorry, Kate. That was Black Pawn. I have to run down to the office and sign something."
She just stared at him, certain she'd heard him wrong.
"It shouldn't take long. I'll just take my ticket with me, in case something happens. Ok?"
Unbelievable.
"You have to go tonight?" she finally burst out. "It can't wait until morning?"
"No, it can't wait. But it won't be long, promise. I'll leave right now and that way I should be able to get to the game before it starts."
"You're leaving now?" This was turning out to be a nightmare.
He rubbed her shoulders in a placating manner. "So I can get back to you as soon as possible, sweetie," he murmured.
Pushing his hands away, she turned, snapping, "Fine. Go."
"I'm sorry, Kate. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
She stayed silent and morose as he went to the counter. She couldn't bear to watch as he grabbed his ticket and abandoned her, so she collapsed back into her chair again. Some special night this was turning out to be.
"I can't wait until you see the seats. My friend said they were very unique," he called from the foyer, shrugging into his coat.
She remained silent.
"Oh, and uh….Kate?"
"What?"
"Um, well…if you remember we were going to take my car service to the restaurant. But now that we can't go together…well, it's a bit of an issue. One car and all. You don't mind if I take it, do you? After all, you can just take the 4 train to the stadium. Black Pawn is blocks and blocks from a station."
Apparently interpreting her silence for assent, he chirpily wished her a goodbye and was out the door before the pillow she hurled at him from the couch reached its target.
It would have nailed him, too.
Thirty minutes later, she was rocketing underground up the east side of Manhattan.
The subway wasn't packed, though there were plenty of passengers the further north they went. There was even a brave soul who finally sat in the adjoining seat, despite the crossed arms and glares that had sent everyone else past her.
She'd worked some of her anger off as she'd stomped her way to the Spring Street station. By the time she changed from the 6 train to the 4 at Grand Central, she'd recovered most of her equanimity.
It wasn't Rick or Jim's fault that their initial plans had fallen through, after all. Just a matter of bad timing and bad luck. This was the last home game before the playoffs, it was against the hated Red Sox, and she was being treated to some fabulous lower level seats with her two favorite men as (eventual) company. Besides, what more could go wrong?
She couldn't hear the cosmic chortle that erupted at that thought.
Emptying out with the mob of other fans at Yankee station in the Bronx, Kate bounced a bit on her toes. Everyone was dressed in the classic blue and white pinstripes, and the bright chatter about the Yanks chances this postseason was a balm to her injured feelings.
It was time to find her dad, waltz down to the ritzy seats that Rick had secured for them, and watch her Bombers crush the Sox like a bug as they steamed towards yet another championship.
Jim was waiting just where he'd said he'd be. A sigh of relief puffed out. Finally things were going right for her.
"Ready to see the Sox go home as losers?" she sang out to her dad, hugging him quickly.
"Absolutely. Rick has been bragging about these seats for weeks. I've never sat in the lower tier before."
"I haven't either, Dad. I wonder if we can get some autographs while they're doing batting practice," she gushed. "And I'm dying for a hotdog."
Jim smiled. "I already ate, but I'll be ready for some peanuts by the seventh inning." He followed her to the gate specified on the tickets. They were early enough that the lines were still short.
Handing their tickets to the taker for the scan, Kate was ready to move to the security line and required pat down when her attention was snapped back to the taker.
"These are your tickets, ma'am? Your only tickets?"
"Yes," she replied, puzzled. "Is there a problem?"
"I'll say. These are counterfeit."
"What!?"
"They're fake. Real tickets have a hologram embedded here," the taker pointed to one side. "And there should be a bar code here, not here. Where did you get these?"
"My—my—my husband bought them. He said he had a friend…"
"Ah, well, it's a common enough scam. He probably thought he got some great deal on these seats. These are selling for well over $3,000 tonight, on the Ticket Exchange. Did you know that?"
Kate felt faint. Faint and angry. She was going to kill Rick when she saw him again.
"Are there any tickets left?" Jim inquired. "We were really looking forward to this."
The taker chuckled, though it trailed off into an awkward silence when he saw the anguished look on Kate's face.
"Listen, everyone wants to be here tonight. But, I happen to know there are still a couple seats left. Though you might not want them."
"We'll take anything," Jim answered, taking out his wallet.
"Ok, but they're in section 239. The bleachers in the high section. And they're obstructed view. Just warning you."
"At least we'll be here," Jim replied, handing the man some cash.
Kate was still too shocked from learning the tickets she'd had were counterfeit to notice anything unusual with the transaction. Later, she'd realize how odd it was that the ticket taker just so happened to have a set of tickets on him to sell.
Especially since tickets were only sold at the box office window.
Her face and neck felt like they were on fire as they made their way through the gate and into the concourse. She couldn't bring herself to even look at her dad.
Her husband was in so much trouble. He 'knew' a guy. Granted, his 'guys' usually opened up a lot of doors for him, but this was beyond the pale. Counterfeit! What the hell had happened? Oh, she was going to have so very much to say to one Rick Castle when she…
Her reverie was stopped short when her father suddenly grabbed her arm and shook her gently. "Katie!"
"Yes, Dad?"
"I was talking to you, but you aren't paying any attention."
"I'm so sorry, Dad. So, so sorry. I had no idea they were counterfeit, obviously. I can't believe Rick got scammed like that. This whole night has just been one disaster after another." She wiped the tears from her eyes as the events of the last few hours rose up, trying to overwhelm her. Her father's comforting arms brought her in for a quick hug.
"Hey, it's ok, Katie. We're here, together, and that's what matters. Right?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
"Now, I was trying to tell you earlier to go ahead and go scope out our seats. I need to run to the restroom, and I'll bring you a drink and some nachos. OK?"
"I could wait for you, it's no problem, Dad."
"No, no, you go on. You look like you need to sit and regroup before Rick gets here."
The mention of her in-the-doghouse husband made her realize Jim was right. She needed some time to calm down.
"Ok, I'll head to the seats. I want a coke and extra jalapeños, please."
She sure as hell wasn't planning on kissing her worthless husband for the rest of the night.
He'd be lucky if she kissed him anytime in the next week.
A new wave of despair washed over her when she finally arrived at their new seats. They were in row 24, and nearly all of right field was blocked by the looming concrete wall of the Mohegan Sun bar. The contrast of reality from what she'd been anticipating (section 16 behind the Yankees dugout, Kate! They're going to be awesome, Kate!) could not have been harsher. The last row of the section, it was completely devoid of others; no one else had deigned to buy the terrible seats.
Fighting off a new wave of tears, she sat on the cold metal bleacher. The unyielding surface was a far cry from the comfortable, padded Legend Suite seat she'd been expecting.
She needed to call Rick: to give him a piece of her mind, plus tell him about the new seats, but she wasn't ready to speak to him quite yet.
Wrapped in her misery as she rehashed the day trying to figure out just where it all went wrong (getting up at all, she decided), she perked up when she heard a booming voice approaching.
"Hot dogs. Getchur hot dogs here! Hot dogs!"
A burst of saliva wet her mouth. She was nearly faint with hunger, having skipped lunch knowing they'd be eating a big dinner with her dad.
Waving down the young man tromping through the bleachers, she reached for her wallet. The aroma from the box strapped to his chest brought a surge of memories from games past that she'd attended with her parents. A delicious hot dog in her tummy would make everything better.
"That'll be three dollars, miss."
Kate didn't hear him. In fact, she couldn't hear anything beyond her own pounding pulse, as she stared into her wallet.
Her empty wallet.
The wallet that had contained just over sixty dollars before she'd left the loft.
Which she knew for a fact, as she'd checked the damn thing three times while waiting for her dawdling husband.
She'd not been robbed; a life-long New Yorker, as well as a cop, she knew how to carry her wallet in her bag in a manner that eluded pick pockets. Besides, how could anyone open her bag, get the wallet, extract the cash (but not credit cards) then return said wallet to where they'd grabbed it?
It was impossible.
Which left only one explanation.
Only one possible culprit.
"I'm so sorry," she stammered to the waiting vendor, face aflame once more. "My husband seems to have emptied my wallet. You don't take credit cards, do you?"
His sympathetic shake of the head was almost as bad as the stabbing pain in her stomach as she watched a man four rows down buy what was supposed to be her dinner.
Richard Castle was a dead man.
She couldn't ask Ryan or Espo to help; they were bribable. While they had her back at work, she couldn't trust that they'd help her kill her husband. Ryan was liable to spill the beans, and all it took for Espo to switch sides was the dangle of a Ferrari key.
No, the boys were out.
Lanie would help. She had no doubt of that.
Maybe Gates?
As she fantasized about exactly how she would kill her no-good husband, she missed the men approaching her lonely little row.
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
Looking up, she was startled to see three men dressed in security uniforms towering over her.
"Yes?"
"We were told that you tried to pass off some counterfeit tickets earlier."
The nervous laugh escaped before she could suppress it. "Well, my husband bought them. I had no idea they were fake. It was all just a misunderstanding."
"You're gonna need to come with us, please."
"Wait, what? Why? Look I'm meeting my husband here, I just need to call him," she explained while pulling out her cell phone.
They stood, staring at her with implacable eyes as she rang Rick's cell.
He didn't answer.
The security guards' patience ran out on the third unanswered call.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you need to come with us."
She followed blindly as they walked out of the outfield section and descended into the non-public area.
"I'm a detective with the NYPD," she offered at one point.
Their silence implied they didn't care.
"I'm sure this is all just a big mistake. Once I get in touch with my husband, he'll explain it all."
He'd better explain a whole lot. At this point, the man would be lucky if she kissed him again this year.
It was too bad Sophia was living in her old apartment.
Perhaps she could buy a literal doghouse for him: they could put it in the roof garden. She'd let him have an old blanket.
Maybe some straw.
After walking for what seemed like forever, and fretting over her dad missing her ("We'll have the usher let him know you're in our custody, ma'am." Great, just great.), she was hustled into a plain room occupied only with an unadorned table and chairs.
Sinking down onto a chair, she hardly noticed that they'd left her alone until the door swung open again, revealing a perky blond holding a bag.
"Hi, you must be Kate Beckett. I'm Katherine. Isn't it funny that our names are almost the same? Anyway, I need you to change into these clothes for me real quick. Joe is waiting to meet you, and I have the photographer ready as well."
Kate's blank look and lack of movement agitated the other woman.
"We don't have a lot of time, Kate. Oh, and I almost forgot, there's a message from your husband here, too."
"A message? From Rick?"
"Yep, right here," chirped the blond, sliding what looked to be a card towards Kate. "Now, I'll step out for a few minutes, but we're on the clock here, ok?"
Trembling fingers picked up the card as Katherine exited without her noticing. She withdrew the bright card from its envelope, her mind racing. Trying, unsuccessfully, to figure out exactly what had been happening to her since she'd left the loft.
The card just added to her addled state. Staring at an exuberant 'Happy Birthday' spelled out on the front, she remained frozen for a second.
It wasn't her birthday. It was October first. Forty seven days from her birthday, to be exact.
It was all so…inexplicable.
Finally, she opened the card. Her husband hadn't left much of a message. Certainly not anything that really explained just what the hell was going on.
"Put the clothes on, Kate. There's not much time. And happy early birthday to my beautiful wife. I love you, and I just know you're going to treasure this experience."
Fumbling with the bag, Kate found she couldn't even think anymore. She wasn't dreaming; pinching herself confirmed that fact. It was if she'd fallen out of her well-ordered world and ended up in some bizarro world where nothing followed a logical path anymore.
She gasped in shock when she finally got the bag opened. It held a Yankees jersey with her name on the back above the number 5.
Number five, exactly like Joltin' Joe had worn: her favorite player ever. But not just any jersey—she owned several already. No, this jersey was of much finer quality than anything she'd bought. It was…it seemed…authentic.
In a daze, she slipped out of her Yankees sweatshirt and put on the new jersey. It fit like it was made for her…which, given her name on the back, she supposed it had been.
Katherine popped back in as she was still smoothing her hands over the soft double knit polyester, laughing out loud as an image of George Costanza railing about the benefits of cotton flitted through her head.
"Kate, are you ready? C'mon, you get to meet Joe then we'll head out to the field."
Kate followed, bemused. She still had no idea what was happening, or just who this Joe was. It couldn't be DiMaggio: he'd died in 1999, just about two months after her mother. Yet, in this strange universe she seemed to be stuck in, who knew?
"Kate?" A deep voice called her name as she trailed Katherine through a maze of hallways. "Nice to see you again."
Mouth hanging open, she stuttered just as much as she had the first time she'd met this incredible man.
"Jo—Jo—Joe Torre. You're Joe Torre!"
He just flashed a grin, then pulled her into a hug. She was hugging Joe freaking Torre!
Standing back once more, he smiled widely at her. "Happy early birthday. I was thrilled when Rick contacted me to see if I'd be at this game. My new job as Executive Vice President of Baseball Operations with the league keeps me travelling quite a bit. Yet, it's always nice to come back to this stadium. And to meet with such a special fan. I've got nothing but respect for all that you do, Detective."
Kate didn't even notice the flash of the camera as the photographer assigned to follower her recorded the moment. She just nodded dumbly, still not entirely certain what was happening to her.
"Speaking of Rick, I see him waiting for you. I'll let you go now. Good luck with the pitch."
The pitch? What pitch? Rick was here? Turning, she saw her husband grinning at her from the far side of the hallway. He bounced up to her as soon as she saw him.
"What is going on, Rick? What are we doing here?"
"I'll explain everything after you're done. No time now." He nodded over at Katherine, who was tapping her watch expectantly.
"I don't understand," Kate protested, as he grabbed her arm and started for a door on the far end of the hall.
"I know, but you will when I explain. Right now, you have to go throw out the first pitch."
Kate's feet stopped moving. "I what now?"
Rick's smile lit her heart aflame. She loved when he looked at her like that.
"I arranged for you to throw out the first pitch. Now go out there and show them what a kick ass cop looks like."
Kate had no idea how she arrived on the pitcher's mound, but five minutes later she was standing on it, ball in hand, as the public announcer introduced her to the capacity crowd of nearly 50,000 people. When they heard she was an NYPD detective and the inspiration for Nikki Heat, the cheers were deafening.
Given the signal to throw the ball, she mentally thanked her dad for insisting the weekend before that they toss around the ball in the park (just like old times, Katie).
It took less than a nanosecond to realize Jim had been a part of the conspiracy as well.
Rearing back, she hurled the baseball in a beautiful strike to the catcher's mitt waiting sixty feet away.
In her head.
In reality, the catcher had to run a few steps to his right to scoop up the ball that had bounced off the dirt a good twenty feet in front of him. Still, it was a pretty good throw for a woman who spent her life tossing killers behind bars, not tiny white balls for sport.
The crowd roared its approval, and she waved back, savoring the moment. The twinkle of thousands of flashes; the vibration of the crowd's sound shaking the ground. The smell of the freshly mown grass, mixing with the rich smell of the earth of the pitching mound.
She would never forget this experience, as long as she lived.
Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to home plate, where she was soon nearly overwhelmed by a veritable sea of Yankees. She shook hands with Brian McCann, the catcher, first, followed by a blur of faces that included A-Rod (!), Beltran, Teixeira, Sabathia and finally Joe Girardi and Tony Peña.
By the time she stumbled her way back to her husband, she'd already concluded she was never washing her hand again. And that this was one of the greatest days of her life, no matter how miserable she'd been not long ago.
"How was it?" Rick asked, as he followed Katherine out of the bowels of the stadium, guiding Kate who was still lost in the memory of all that had happened to her since she'd donned that magical jersey.
"Amazing," she sighed. She barely noticed Katherine leaving them in front of a gleaming elevator.
"I'm glad you liked it, Mrs. Castle," he murmured, gathering her in his strong arms. "Happy birthday, my love," he whispered, kissing her cheek and hair as he held her.
Those confusing words brought her back to reality just as the elevator dinged its arrival. Rick motioned for her to get on. She paid no attention to where they were going; all she wanted now were some answers.
"It's not my birthday, Rick. Everyone keeps saying that. What is going on?"
He smirked, setting her teeth on edge. "I know it's not your birthday, but that's what made this even better. You had no idea, did you?"
"No idea about what? Did you know those tickets were counterfeit? I was mortified."
"Are you hungry?" The elevator dinged, and she followed him off without paying any attention to where they were.
"What?" she sputtered. "Yes, I'm hungry. I haven't eaten anything for hours. Speaking of which, you took all my money from my wallet. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I didn't want you to eat without me, so I made sure you didn't have any money."
"You what?" Her anger was growing, fuelled in part by her hunger, no doubt. Suddenly, she just felt tired. Tired of being confused, tired of arguing with Rick. "We need to find my dad."
Looking around for the first time, she saw they were in a quiet, carpeted hallway with frosted glass doors opening off of it. "Where are we?" she squawked.
Rick paused by a door, hand ready to open it. Taking her chin in his other hand, thumb caressing her cheek, he captured her eyes in an intense stare. "I love you, Katherine Houghton Beckett Castle. So, so much. And I spent weeks if not months trying to figure out a fitting way to give you a true surprise, just like you gave me for my birthday before we got married. I hope you'll forgive me for all the little bumps along the way. I just wanted you to be really, really shocked when you figured it all out. Happy early birthday, Kate."
A roar of "Surprise!" hit her as he threw the door open.
"Are you kidding me now?" she wondered, looking around the luxury suite filled with her family and friends. There was her dad, Martha, Alexis, Lanie, the boys, Jenny and Sarah Grace. The captain and her family; even Aunt Theresa was there, mixing easily with some of the others from the 12th.
The suite was full of birthday decorations; food and drink covered the granite countertops. Rick fixed a plate for her as she dazedly hugged each of her guests.
Though it was definitely an unforgettable night, it was just a bit sweeter when her Bronx Bombers snatched a victory away from the hated Red Sox in the ninth inning.
In the years to come, her children would often beg to look through the bound book of photos that Rick gave her a week after the game. The cover featured her waving to the crowd on the pitcher's mound, but there were photos inside of her with all the players, Joe Torre, and of course all the family and friends in the suite.
There was even a close up of one of Rick's arms at the very end. For many years, her kids couldn't figure out why mommy blushed every time they came to that particular picture.
In the end she forgave him for the tribulations he'd put her through that night. He claimed they were all necessary so she wouldn't suspect anything. However, Kate knew part of it was payback for when she'd had him doubting what he was seeing in the apartment across from him.
A truce was drawn up afterwards: no more trying to one-up each other on the birthday front. Besides, nothing could top the day he gave her on October 1, 2015.
It was the best non-birthday birthday ever made.
From prompt #18, written by tshlw: "Castle finally gets Kate back for her birthday murder surprise."
Filled as a gift to Katherine ( Klff_) for a generous contribution to YoungStoryTellers dot com slash ThankYouTerri. See all the prompts and fills at ThankYouTerri dot tumblr dot com.
Please note I am not a baseball fan, and I especially dislike the Yankees. I researched all that is written here, but there are likely some mistakes, for which I apologize. According to the Yankees schedule for 2015, their last home game really is October 1, against the Red Sox. Making it 47 days until Kate's birthday. I guess this fic was meant to be written.
Thank you to Garrae (as always) for the beta.