Dreaming of You Tonight

"NO. Nope. No sir, we are not doin’ this. No cornball Shakespeare shit tonight, Cornette."

The locker room chaos was long behind her. The crowd's roar had faded into memory, leaving only the faint hum of the motel ice machine down the hall and the soft tick of the bedside clock.

Alexandra sat cross-legged on the floral-print bedspread, hair loose from its usual pigtails, still wearing one of her oversized "Yokozuna Rules" t-shirts that Jim had mockingly tossed at her months earlier -- and which, secretly, she'd come to adore. It smelled faintly like pyro smoke and bubblegum.

On the cheap motel nightstand sat her bulky black stereo. The pink-labeled cassette mixtape she'd been playing all week was halfway through Side B. She pressed her fingers together, waiting.

And then... there it was.

"Late at night when all the world is sleeping..."

Selena's voice poured into the room like moonlight through the blinds. Soft. Shimmering. Lonely.

Alexandra closed her eyes. Her fingers curled into the blanket beneath her. She didn't even need to look at the lyrics. She knew every word. Every note.

"I stay up and think of you..."

Her lips trembled into a wistful smile.

Jim.

She could still see him from earlier -- tennis racket tucked under his arm, pacing back and forth in the hallway outside catering, absolutely fuming about "some idiot putting Miracle Whip on the damn turkey sandwiches."

He was ridiculous.

He was loud.

He was hers.

Well... not technically. Not yet. But the way he looked at her sometimes -- like he was seeing her, really seeing her -- made her wonder.

"And I wish on a star,

That somewhere you are

Thinking of me too..."

Her heart ached in the sweetest way.

Maybe he was.

Maybe right now, across town in some other crappy motel room, he was thinking of her. Maybe he was lying there in a red polyester bedspread, holding his dumb racket like it was a shield, wishing he could just say it.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

She wiped it away quickly -- not because she was embarrassed, but because she'd never let Jim see her like this. Never let him know how much she wanted him. Not just his presence, but his comfort. His warmth. His love.

"Cause I'm dreaming of you tonight,

'till tomorrow,

I'll be holding you tight..."

She clutched the pillow to her chest and whispered into the silence:

"Goodnight, Jimmy."

No one heard her.

Except maybe the stars.

And maybe... him.

——

The TV was on mute.

Not that it mattered. Jim hadn’t looked at it in an hour. “Designing Women” reruns played in grayscale silence while the manager of The Heavenly Bodies paced the length of his motel room like a caged tiger in a three-piece suit.

Tennis racket in one hand.

Ice bucket untouched.

Tie slung over the lampshade.

Thoughts? Absolutely unmanageable.

He ran a hand through his hair with a dramatic groan.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. “This is real stupid.”

His voice echoed off the cheap wallpaper — the kind that looked like it’d seen more bar fights than cleaning. He stopped in front of the window and yanked the curtain back like it’d personally offended him.

Outside? Just the dim glow of a gas station and the occasional truck rolling by.

He sighed.

Then turned away. Then turned back. Then groaned again and dropped the racket onto the bed like it had betrayed him.

He sat down heavily and stared at the ceiling.

“She’s a Hart, Jimmy,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t go around gettin’ sweet on Stu Hart’s baby girl like some — some goddamn schoolboy.”

But the image wouldn’t go away.

Alexandra.

All soft voice and big eyes and that quiet little laugh when he said something ridiculous backstage.

Earlier, she’d passed him a bottled water and touched his hand by accident — and that was it. The earth might as well have stopped spinning.

“She probably thinks I’m crazy,” he groaned, flopping onto his back with all the grace of a Southern Shakespearean tragedy. “Which, fair, but still.”

He tilted his head to the side, staring at his tennis racket laying next to him on the bed.

“You ever get the feelin’ someone’s in your blood, but you don’t know how they got there?” he asked it aloud.

The racket, wisely, didn’t answer.

He sat up suddenly, running a hand through his hair again.

“This ain’t love. This is — this is hormones. This is — this is proximity. This is her walking around in those little shorts and bein’ all sweet to everybody but just a little sweeter to me and —”

He trailed off, cheeks flushed in the glow of the motel bedside lamp.

“Goddamn it, I’m in love.”

He froze.

Then blinked.

Then stood up so fast he nearly tipped over.

“NO. Nope. No sir, we are not doin’ this. No cornball Shakespeare shit tonight, Cornette.”

He walked to the mini fridge. Opened it. Closed it. Opened it again like maybe a Diet Sprite would have the answers.

It didn’t.

He exhaled.

Sat back down.

Stared at the muted TV.

Finally said, a little quieter:

“…But if she is thinkin’ about me, just a little… I hope she knows I’m thinkin’ about her too.”