Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Like we’re just having fun.
But fun isn’t what I’m after. “It will be when you walk into the losing clubhouse tonight,” I mutter.
“Don't count on that.” Chris laughs—a rumbly, sexy kind. “But don’t worry. I’ll be gentle on y’all when I slide home. Unless . . .”
He smirks at the unstated question, but it rings in my head anyway. I look away as our pitcher readies himself for the next pitch.
“But I bet you don’t want me to be gentle,” Chris adds.
Dude can read my mind, and I’m about to tell him to fuck off when there’s an ear-splitting whack, the ball smoked off the Gothams hitter’s bat and deep into the outfield. Chris barrels toward third, but not without a final streaked “told you so” in his wake.
That guy.
When he crosses home plate several seconds later, he punches the air, then spins around, and . . . points.
My. Way.
And I swear the asshole winks too.
Then struts into the dugout.
And I’m livid.
To think I was this close to saying yes to his offer last month.
But by the seventh inning, I’m upset. By the eighth, I’m nauseous. By the ninth, I’m wiping my hands across my blurred vision and telling myself I’m wiping away sweat. And then, the inevitable happens.
We lose. There’s no way around it. And Chris, fucking good guy Chris, scores what turns out to be the winning run.
Figures.
After, we retreat to our dugout as the Gothams celebrate on the field. They’re stripping off their jerseys, pulling on T-shirts that declare themselves the champions of the entire baseball world, chomping cigars, embracing.
Our clubhouse feels like walking into a mausoleum. Plastic sheeting hangs above each player’s stall. Protection against champagne we’ll never get to spray. Some guys are on the phone with their families, voices low, sad. Our shortstop, a rookie who’s barely old enough to drink, cries.
But I’m not sad anymore. Whatever tears I had have dried themselves. Now I’m furious because they beat us dirty. Thanks to a guy I can’t stop thinking about.
This is the kind of anger that survives a shower, the kind that carries into the post-game press conference. Reporters stick microphones and recording devices in my face. All their questions collapse into one: How does it feel to lose a World Series?
Pretty fucking shitty.
“How about that slide Garnett laid down in the sixth?” a reporter asks.
He’s the last guy I want to talk about, so I try to call up the script for how this is supposed to go, so I can be a gracious loser. Except my ankle hurts. My ego hurts. Whatever nice thing I’m supposed to summon about nice Chris, who plays the game right, stalls between my lungs and my throat.
“Well, the call went his way, so it must have been the right one,” I say, playing mostly by the PR rulebook. Except, an image of Chris flashes before me, him wanting to grab a beer just for fun. Then one of him taunting I told you so that makes it clear who he is. Screw the script. “But I don’t think there’s a place for that kind of play in the game anymore, especially from a guy like Garnett.”
The reporters all draw inward, brought closer by the rarity of an honest answer. One bobs a mic near my face as a request to elaborate.
Adjectives for Chris pop into my head: Arrogant. Hot-headed. Just plain hot. Then, I move beyond adjectives as I picture that golden-brown hair. Those cool eyes. That square jawline. None of which I say. I’m not in the closet. That’s not the issue. I’m just not going to broadcast to the whole country that I fantasize about the guy who just cost me my dream. “He’s supposed to be a role model, right?”
The question hangs there. My implication is clear. Maybe that’ll put at least a little tarnish on their trophy.
I’m stopped or saved by our media relations person who shoots an arched eyebrow and a scram look at the reporters. “Let’s let these guys get cleaned up,” Maritza says, despite the fact that my hair is still dripping from the shower.
The reporters leave eventually. It’s silent in their wake. Noise from a celebration in the visiting team’s clubhouse drifts into ours. It’s a celebration that will last all through the night and probably through the off-season.
Chris is probably leading the party. He’s probably covered in champagne. All over his chest. Great, now I’m annoyed and turned on—a lethal combo.
My jaw is set hard, and I don’t say a word, so the guys give me a wide berth. Except for Zach Glasser, our catcher, who settles in the chair next to mine.
He’s kind of a quiet guy normally. Even now, it takes him a while to say whatever it is he’s gearing up to.
“Slide looked clean,” he says finally.