I click through her contact until it begins ringing, chest thumping. Crap, I don’t remember the last time I called a woman if you don’t include my mom—and I don’t.
Don’t pick up, don’t pick up, don’t pick up.
She picks up.
“Hello?” The salutation is hesitant at best, despite the fact that she knew I was calling. “This is Miranda.”
So businessy and professional.
“Hey. It’s Noah.” Even to my own ears, I sound unsure and insecure, and I groan.
“Noah?” Miranda hesitates again, baffled. “Noah who?”
Dammit, that’s right—she thinks my name is Buzz, because that’s what I told her to call me.
I roll my eyes at the absurdity of this entire situation: the texts, me sending someone else to get the card, him pretending to be me, her thinking he’s scum, me apprehensively calling her to confess.
And I will.
Eventually…
“Uh, the guy who just bought your Hank Archer card?” Why do I sound so bloody nervous? I do press conferences in front of entire press corps, for Christ’s sake—I can handle a phone call with a cute girl.
You don’t know she’s cute, dipshit—you’re just assuming she is because Wallace wouldn’t hit on her if she wasn’t, regardless of whether or not she was his type. I’ve seen him in action, and I’ve seen him make plenty of passes at women who weren’t attractive. He’s never hit on anyone who wasn’t, so Miranda must be pretty.
“Your name is Noah?”
“Yes.” I’m smiling stupidly, now standing at my kitchen counter, clicking a solid gold fountain pen cap nervously. It has my initials engraved on it, a gift from my agent when I signed my contract.
Click.
Click, click.
Stop it, Noah—you’re fidgeting.
“Noah,” she says again. “So much nicer than Buzz, or Baseman, even though it’s weird that you have more than one nickname.” She laughs, amused and delighted by this new information and I realize Buzz must have used my nickname instead of his. The list of his screwups just keeps getting longer and longer. “Aww, I love your name, Noah. Why do you introduce yourself with a nickname? Buzz and Baseman don’t exactly roll off the tongue.”
It doesn’t, but Noah sure does roll off hers nice and pretty-sounding; I want to hear her say it again.
Why did Wallace have to go and tell her my nickname? Makes me look like a damn idiot. This is the last time I send him to do my errands, I swear.
“How did you get the name Baseman? It’s odd.” Her voice is soft and pleasant, exactly how I would have thought she’d sound. “Wait, don’t tell me—it’s because you go all the way on a first date?” She giggles before continuing. “You look like the type who has sex after knowing someone three minutes.”
Just tell her that wasn’t you.
Do it.
Tell her.
“I…uh.” I clear my throat. “In high school I played baseball.” And in college. Oh, and by the way, I play for the Chicago Steam and am beloved by the entire nation. “They call me Baseman because I could run the bases even if I hadn’t hit a home run, I was that fast.”
“Ahh, I see. That makes sense now. And here I thought it was because you were a total douche.”
A douche.
Ouch.
She thinks I’m a douche because clearly Wallace was acting like one, but dang—for her to come right out and say it? I’m not sure how to respond to her sarcasm, to the disdain lacing her statement.
Take a chill pill, bro. Her disdain isn’t for you—it’s for Buzz. She has no idea who you are.
Because you’re lying to her.
But—I’ve been down this road before. The road where baseball groupies find out who you are, where you live, and pretend to be someone they’re not so you’ll give them the time of day, so you’ll sleep with them. Maybe, if they’re lucky, they get knocked up and pregnant with your kid so you owe them fifteen grand a month or more and they never have to work again.
I connected with Miranda because of baseball cards; it’s not wrong for me to be overly cautious, even throwing my underly cautious buddy to the wolves.
In my mind, though? I have my reasons.
The last thing I need is some groupie meeting up with me, recognizing me, and posting about the encounter on the internet or selling the story to the tabloids: Ballplayer shells out thousands for a collector’s card! Or Bachelor Chicago Steam shortstop will spend dough on ball cards but not on dates!
The media has speculated on my sexuality since I signed with the Steam. I don’t need them knowing my spending habits too. Ironically, Miranda didn’t recognize Wallace on Wednesday, though he’s one of the most photographed athletes of our time.
Which means she must know absolutely nothing about sports because Wallace is as popular as an international celebrity. Teams want to sign him, men want to be him, women want to sink their claws into him.
“Noah? Are you there?”
“Sorry,” I finally say. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
Miranda laughs. “I called you a douche.” She laughs again, amused with herself, confidence radiating.
“Careful—you might hurt my feelings a little.”
Another laugh, the sound musical and sweet, but not at all playful. “No offense, but I doubt anyone could hurt your feelings. In fact, I have a feeling it would take more than little old me calling you a douche to bruise that giant, inflated ego of yours.”
She’s bashing Wallace again, holding nothing back—apparently not afraid to lose the sale of her baseball cards.
Cheeky shit.
“What makes you say I have an inflated ego?”
I dread anything she’s about to tell me.
This time when Miranda laughs, it’s not soft and sweet. This laugh is entirely different, sardonic almost, borderline manic. “Are you being serious right now? Are you trying to pretend you’re not the biggest narcissist in the Northern Hemisphere?”
I listen as that laugh turns back into a giggle then a snort. It takes a good solid minute before she’s composed enough to say, “Listen, Noah—I’m sure
