“There is no deal.”
“Dude, would you just…” Wallace won’t let himself throw me under the bus, but he sure does want me to spill my guts out to the team.
No one moves. They’re all too invested in what I might have to say, particularly given the fact that I usually say nothing at all.
I turn my back to the guys, digging through my duffle bag to kill time. Stand straight and sigh heavily, knowing I’ll have to give in sooner or later—Wallace will never let this go.
“I found a baseball card online and the girl at Rent hugging me was the woman who sold it to me.”
“But she doesn’t know it’s him,” Buzz snitches, to the delight of the room. A few of them have settled on the edge of the benches, leaning forward like they’re watching a live action play or show—all they need is popcorn.
Like fucking girls at a slumber party, these bitches want details.
“What do you mean she doesn’t know it was you—she was hugging you, man. She had her tits all over you.”
Yeah, no—that’s not at all what she was doing. “She said I was grumpy and that I needed a hug.”
That sounds so dumb.
“You are grumpy.” Espinoza states it as a fact. “And you probably did need a hug.”
“A hug, a fuck—same thing.” Jerry Johnston laughs, removing the athletic wrap from his wrist and tightening it.
“Except he isn’t fucking them either—hugs only.”
I wish they’d all shut up and leave me alone; this is none of their business!
“When’s the last time you got laid Harding? On your last birthday?”
Not even close. It’s been two years since I had sex, that night turning into my worst nightmare. The girl was a mean, snotty bitch, and it was a lousy lay, one I wish I’d forget, but it’s burned into my goddamn memory.
“Okay, so you bought a baseball card from this girl. Suddenly she’s rubbing her tits on you and that’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“She thinks I’m him,” Wallace kindly informs them, fount of knowledge that he is, the authority on everything and boastfully in the know.
Everyone glances from him to me to him.
Johnston screws up his face. “If she thinks he’s you, then who did she think you were?”
Good question. “I don’t know. I didn’t stay to find out.”
Ricky Thompson blinks. “But then why wasn’t she rubbing her tits on him?”
“Dude, I don’t know!” I’m not shouting—you are.
“Jeez, Baseman—did it occur to you for one second that she might have liked you?” Jose Espinoza asks after a long stretch of awkward silence.
No.
It didn’t occur to me that Miranda might like me.
She has no idea who I am, so how would it be possible?
“Listen to Espinoza, man. He knows women—he has six sisters,” one of the guys reminds me, ripping into a protein bar he’s pulled out of his bag.
“Get this.” Wallace reappears to ruin my day a little fucking more. “He’s buying another card from her and wants me to meet her. Again.”
“Stop with this. You’re the one who fucked it up,” I shoot back.
He disagrees. “I shouldn’t have done it in the first place and you should know I hit on anything with a pulse.” Pause. “Wait, that is not what I meant.”
I point at him accusingly, ire rising up, glaring the same way Coach was glaring at me out on the ball field. “I said you need to make it right—this doesn’t have to be complicated!”
Wide sets of eyes fly back and forth, back and forth between Wallace and me, the volleying banter better than a tennis match at Wimbledon.
“This is a you problem!” Wallace throws down the duffle bag he got his deodorant from with a scowl. “Not a me problem, so figure it out yourself.”
“I’m not the one who complicated everything! All you had to do was not be a douche and you couldn’t even do that.”
He’s right, obviously—this is not and has never been, his problem—and it really isn’t a problem, is it? Nope.
It’s drama.
Drama I created by being an antisocial, paranoid pussy.
And you know what? I hate drama. If the tables were turned, I would have told him to find someone else to be his errand boy. Would have said I wasn’t agreeing to meet anyone for him.
He’s just as famous as I am, if not more.
Am I a better ballplayer? Yes.
Do I get paid more? Yes.
Does he have a prettier face? Yes.
None of that stopped him from helping me out, yet I blamed him for the way things worked out.
“Uh oh, guys—I see the wheels turning,” Espinoza cautiously pokes. “What’s goin’ through that head of yours, Baseman?”
“Guys,” Johnston says, “it looks like his brain is about to explode.”
“Nah,” Wallace says. “That’s cum built up inside his body.”
Every last one of them laughs, even a few of the assistant coaches. Even the batboy who likes to linger, who occasionally shows up for practices if he doesn’t have class, just to socialize with us.