Hard. Pass.
Embarrassed and humiliated by those two words, I never breathed a word about it to anybody, not even my good buddies back home.
Admittedly, they hate this lifestyle for me. The groupies who stand outside the chain-link fence of the stadium, at the entrance to the parking lot, hoping to catch a player’s eye. The groupies at the bars and clubs. The social climbers who want to befriend me for their own gain, tagging me in photographs, pretending we spent the night together, just to impress people.
Hard. Pass.
I shake my head to get the image of that night out of my damn mind, failing when insecurity rears its ugly head.
Ugly. Ha!
I’ve never been in love.
I thought I was once, in high school, with a beautiful girl named Kimora Westinghouse. Dark skin and brown eyes, she was my teenage dream. Outgoing. Popular. Always with a kind word for everyone, that girl was as sweet as the day was long, and I harbored a secret crush on her for years—but was unconfident and too shy to do anything about it.
That didn’t stop me from jerking off to the thought of her though—basically every morning and every night once I realized stroking my dick felt almost as good as hitting a home run.
Almost.
Irritated by this stroll down memory lane, I almost forget the baseball card resting on the bookshelf behind me. I gingerly pick it up, cradling it in my hand. It’s dwarfed compared to the size of my palm, and I gaze down at it, heart racing.
I cannot wait to show this to the guys—not my teammates, the guys back home. They’ll shit themselves when they see this, a national treasure.
And I own it.
Who would have fucking thought.
Gratitude flows through my veins, so I pick up my phone, pounding out a quick text to the woman who sold it to me.
Me: Hey Miranda, I just want to thank you again for this card—it’s incredible. I assumed it would be in good shape, but this… Has it even been touched? I’m impressed. So thank you.
Miranda: You are so welcome. Told you it was mint **wink**
People say lots of things, but we all know a lot of it is smoke and mirrors. Just bullshit. I get jerked around by assholes trying to take advantage of me every single day—my manager included, who’s only in it for the paycheck. Oh, he does a great job pretending to be my buddy, but we both know it’s horseshit. He’ll drop me like a bad habit once I stop making him boatloads of cash.
If Miranda naively believes a person is as good as their word—should be taken at their word—she needs a wake-up call.
Me: I keep staring at this card and I’m fucking obsessed with it.
Me: Shit, pardon my French. I’m just so damn excited—it’s better than I thought it would be.
Miranda: Strange, ’cause you didn’t seem concerned about it—or its condition—when we met. You didn’t even look at the card to check before you bought it! Who does that?
I didn’t?
I didn’t?
Did I not specifically tell Wallace to fucking check it over? Make sure it wasn’t bent, stained or ripped? Is Miranda implying that he just handed over the cash without inspecting the goods first? Goddamn him, making me look like an idiot.
If you want something done right, do it yourself.
My mom’s words ring in my ear as I scowl down at the messages on the glowing screen of my phone.
The pisser about this situation is I can’t ask Miranda if I inspected the card because she doesn’t know the man who showed up at the cop shop WAS NOT ME. As far as she’s concerned, I am Buzz Wallace, heartthrob of the Chicago Steam—when in reality, I’m Noah Harding, shortstop and recluse.
The guy known for avoiding the limelight, always taking the back door out of the restaurant, interviewing only when it’s contractual. I’m not here for the fame; I’m here for the game.
Miranda: Anyway, I was organizing the other cards earlier and I think I’m ready to negotiate.
Me: With just me, right?
I have to make sure she isn’t going to sell them out from under me, even though we kind of had a deal.
Me: They’re all in mint condition, too?
Miranda: Well, before you go and get ahead of yourself, I’ve been giving this some thought after our meeting today…
The hair stands up on the back of my neck, instincts kicking in.
Is she having second thoughts? Because there is no need to negotiate with me, as I’m tempted to tell her. If my agent knew those thoughts were going through my head, he’d have a fucking stroke. Still, I don’t tell her that; nothing would prevent her from doubling her price, my balls in a sling.
Whatever it is she’s not sure about, I have to get her to throw out a number. I try to get her back on track.