What does that mean?
“Shit.” Wallace pauses, hands stuffed in the pockets of his team issued athletic pants, company logo of our sponsor emblazoned on the side. He takes them out and claps them, as if trying to psych himself up. “Okay, I’m just going to say it—like tearing off a Band-Aid.”
I wait for him to fill in the blanks.
“You’re in the news—you and Miranda. And the headlines are…” He dips his head, staring down at his shoes. “They’re embarrassing.”
“We were at dinner.” How could that be considered embarrassing?
Buzz begins a slow pace to home plate, to where the catcher usually squats, then back to me. His arms rise and his giant, sweaty palms clamp down on my shoulders, squeezing firmly. “Look dude, you’re my best friend…”
Oh shit.
“…but this is going to fuck you up.”
I scoff with a loud, “Pfft. We had dinner—nothing indecent happened. A few people took pictures, but that was it. We weren’t at a strip club, I didn’t get a lap dance, no one was drunk, we went to a nice place.”
Side by side, we begin our walk toward the dugout, and I can feel Wallace thinking beside me; he’s that deep in thought, brows furrowed into angry slashes.
“Hey pretty boy,” one of the guys says as we get closer.
“Shut your fucking mouth, Gomez,” Wallace snaps and it’s then that I take his words seriously.
“Wallace, what the fuck is going on?”
We don’t make it to the dugout before he takes my arm and pulls back, leading me toward the tunnel for the locker rooms. Stops, shifting me to face him. “Bro. You know I think you’re fucking awesome. You know how the paps can be dicks and reporters are fucking worse—”
I yank his hands off me, pissed. Frustrated. “Dude, spit it out!”
“Shit.” Is Wallace hanging his head? “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Promise you won’t get mad.”
Too late. “I’m already mad.”
He inhales a deep breath and lets it all go with a stream of words. “Your picture with Miranda is out there and the press is calling you both ugly … there I said it.”
Exhale.
He physically sags against the cement wall behind him, the dark hall leading to the offices and locker rooms hollow and cold.
Colder now that I’ve been dealt this blow, except I’m still not sure what it means.
“What picture?”
“The two of you eating.”
Fuck that fucking guy who took our goddamn picture.
“But it’s not the pictures, Baseman—it’s the headlines.”
I lean against the wall next to him, running a hand through my hair after removing my ball cap. My hair is sweaty and wet and I slick it back away from my eyes.
“What headlines?” What could they possibly say that has Buzz Wallace—the least sympathetic guy I’ve ever met—suddenly so goddamn sympathetic?
My buddy tips his neck back, gazing up toward the ceiling, squinting. “The ones that say, ‘He might be a brownbagger, but I’d fuck anyone with even half his net worth.’”
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
I can’t stop the obscenities from pouring out of my mouth. Can’t stop myself from kicking the ground beneath my feet, from wanting to punch the hard wall behind me.
“Are you going to go see Phil?” Wallace wants to know.
“What the hell is Phil going to do about it? Tell me to stay home?” Fuck Phil. Fuck the paparazzi. Fuck phones with cameras.
“You have to call Miranda—she’s probably flipping her shit.”
No doubt.
After we had such a great night. For once I had gotten out of my own head at her apartment and it was amazing. She was amazing. Now how will I face her. I know me-I won’t.
“Harding. You have to call her.”
I give a barely perceptible shake of my head. I can’t.
“Dude, you cannot ignore her. I bet she’s called you a million times.”
And I wouldn’t blame her, but I can’t talk to her right now. I need to think.
I don’t want to be near Wallace.
I don’t want to be near anyone.
Pushing away from the wall, I head into the tunnel and away from Wallace, the sorry bastard who had to deliver the bad news. Into the dark, where the temperature matches my mood.
“Harding! Bro, I’m sorry!”
Not as sorry as I am for going on that date to begin with.
I should have known better.
14
Miranda
Noah didn’t sneak out of my place this morning, but he left wicked early—long before the sun came up, like a vampire might—kissing me on the forehead and covering me with the blankets I keep at the foot of my bed.
Eventually, I manage to drag myself up, throw on a cute outfit, and get out the door at a reasonable hour with plenty of day left to accomplish some tasks.
Ten o’clock.
Not the best, but not the worst.
I push through the door to my new offices letting the bright light cheer me up. The walls aren’t the shade I want them to be, but in time, they will be.
My leopard print tennis shoes pad across the hardwood floors and I pull my wireless speaker from my tote, set it on the folding card table doubling as my makeshift desk until I can get my actual desk delivered.
First comes paint.
Then comes furniture.
Humming, I swipe through my phone, pairing the device to my speaker, and set that down too, happy and tapping my feet to the first song that comes on, a playlist I call “Throwback” amping me up to be productive.
Jeans. Cute t-shirt. Printed sneaks. Hair in a pony.
Two orgasms last night.
I am feeling good.
Nothing can bring me down.
I twirl, walking to the window and staring down at the street, marveling at the location I managed to score for my business. Midtown. Up and coming. Tons of foot traffic. Lots of clients living nearby with oodles of connections for more work.
Busy, busy, busy is what I hope to be.
Cars pass by. A woman walking a terrier, face buried in her phone—I admire her chic little polka dot rain boots and red coat with a smile. Cute.
So cute.
Blech, Miranda. Orgasms have addled your brain!
“Time to get to
