But damn, she didn’t need to go and psychoanalyze that shit. The timing of her crawling into my headspace and setting up camp there is awful.
Thank God she’s not actually texting Wallace; thank God it was me on the receiving end.
“Heads up!” a voice shouts, and instinctively, I raise my glove toward the fly ball. It lands in the center of my mitt with a satisfying pop and immediately gets released again—to the first baseman.
“Nice,” Coach praises because I finally did something right this morning.
Somewhere near the dugout, when another member of the coaching staff announces a 15 minute break, gloves around the field start coming off. Bowing my head, I begin the leisurely stroll toward the locker rooms, a water bottle appearing out of nowhere from one of the assistants, placed in my waiting hand.
I squirt a steady stream into my mouth, wiping the dribble hitting my chin with the hem of my blue team t-shirt.
“Earth to Harding.” A hand gets waved in my face while I chug, not realizing until now how thirsty I was. Am. “Yo, Baseman.”
My eyes snap up; three of my teammates are watching me inquisitively, and it’s then I realize I’m not walking toward the locker rooms at all—I’m walking toward the opposing team’s dugout.
Jeez. Get your head on straight, Harding.
“What’s your problem, bro? You’ve been acting weird all day.” Jose Espinoza, a teammate who happened to be at Rent with us Saturday, follows me until we reach the locker room, follows me all the way to my locker. He wants information and he’s not alone.
They all fucking followed me like a bunch of teenage girls wanting to gossip! The actual fuck?
I make a show of retying my shoe then yanking a towel from the rack above the open hooks. Drape it over my shoulders and drag it through my perspiring hair, wanting to cover my entire damn head. Then I wouldn’t have to stare into their annoying faces.
“I’m just a little distracted—since when is that a crime?”
“Since someone could get hurt, because gee, I don’t know—balls are flying toward our faces and dicks at 90 miles an hour?”
“Oh good point, Wallace.” Jose raises a dark eyebrow. “Does your bitchy attitude have anything to do with that groupie hanging all over you the other night?”
I raise my eyes. “What groupie?”
I don’t remember speaking to a single gold digger, cleat chaser, or Steam groupie at the club.
“The one we saw rubbing her tits all over you—how fucking weird was that?”
Rubbing her tits all over me?
Are they talking about Miranda hugging me?
“Wait—are you saying you thought a groupie was molesting me and you did nothing to stop her? Fuck you very much, assholes.”
“We’re not babysitters, you prick,” someone shouts.
Espinoza laughs. “We didn’t have to—you peeled her off and fled the scene, as per fucking usual.”
Is that what they thought? I had to peel her off and escape? This just gets worse.
“That was Miranda. We’re acquainted.”
“Acquainted? Is that the term kids are using these days for ‘casually fucking’?”
“No, Jesus. I bought some stuff from her and when she saw me out at the club, she came to say hi. You literally met her—what the fuck? Wallace introduced her.”
“Barely.”
Bam Blackburn removes the towel from my head and scratches his balls, propping a leg up on the locker room bench. So glad he’s not naked. “Wait…I might have been drinking, but I distinctly remember her calling him Noah.” He looks between Buzz Wallace and me, confused. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Buzz is at his locker reapplying deodorant, turning toward the conversation. “Baseman, you gonna explain?”
No.
Except, I’m going to have to, because someone else chimes in with a curious “So what’s the deal with that?”
“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
