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.
Jesus, an audience. Just what I need.
“Harding, bro.”
I turn to face Espinoza, who is indeed full of wisdom, young as he is.
“Eh?”
“Go do the deed yourself, man. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
Thing is, more often than not, ripping off a Band-Aid hurts like hell.
* * *
Miranda: So, I’ve been doing some thinking about that card. I hate to say this, but I’m ready to sell another one.
Me: Not the whole shebang?
Miranda: No, not yet—sorry. Every time we bump into each other, it’s a shitshow.
Me: I’ll take what I can get. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Me: So which card?
Miranda: Does Leroy Jenkins work for you?
Me: NICE!!!! I want it. How much?
Miranda: Five less.
Me: 20 large? Done. Same time, same place?
Miranda: No, I have to be downtown. I’m meeting the property manager of this office I want to rent. I was hoping you and I could meet first, so I could run to the bank, deposit your cash, and then cut him a check for the security deposit.
Me: That’s really fucking exciting, owning your own business.
Miranda: Scary too! I want to pee my pants.
Me: Better than shitting them.
Miranda: Well what a pair we make.
Me: Are you flirting with me?
Miranda: GOD NO!!!! **gags**
Me: Tell me how you really feel…
Miranda: I will. And I’ll tell you TO YOUR FACE.
Me: Dang, you’re in a mood today, eh?
Miranda: I guess so. I’m just so nervous. I’ve never done this before, CLEARLY. Someone should talk me out of it.
Me: No one should talk you out of it, and if they do, they’re a terrible friend.
Miranda: Aww, aren’t you sweet.
Me: I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.
Miranda: So. Um…
Me: ?
Miranda: Not to be weird, but how is your friend? Is he feeling better?
Me: My friend from the other night? The one you were hugging?
Miranda: The one who ran away?
Me: Did he though?
Miranda: Yes and I’m so embarrassed. I feel like such an idiot for making him uncomfortable.
Me: That’s… He’s dealing with a lot. It was nothing you did.
Miranda: That’s kind of you to say.
Me: I’m not a kind person.
Miranda: Yeah, that seems like it’s probably true. You do seem like a giant asshole.
Me: WTF!
Miranda: Okay, I have to go. Wednesday at 2?
Me: That’s a bit early for me because I have to work, but I’ll make it happen. Where at?
Miranda: Coffee shop on Dysart and Lisbon?
Me: Blended Buds?
Miranda: LOL
Me: What’s so funny?
Miranda: You saying Blended Buds. It sounds so cheesy now.
Me: Yeah, well…it is LOL.
Miranda: See you Wednesday Noah.
Me: See you Wednesday.
8
Miranda
Noah is late.
I wonder if he drinks coffee as I stand in line, tapping the toe of my heeled pump. I check my phone again for the time and sigh, grateful there are at least three customers in front of me.
I’m smartly dressed for my first business meeting since incorporating. The black pressed pants are a sophisticated contrast to the jeans I wore to the club and my hot pink blazer announces my love of bold colors. Gold hoops, hair down, hot pink lips.
I’m pursing those lips with displeasure with every second that passes, anxiety chipping away at the confidence I felt striding through the door of the coffee shop—only to find Noah isn’t here.
My finger rubs along my top row of teeth, paranoia that there’s something smeared there making me
