throwing game strong, perspiration dripping from my hair to my forehead.
I remove my hat and wipe with the back of my hand then reach for the hand towel hanging from my belt loop. It’s not summer, but working out has me sweating as if it were sweltering outside or maybe it’s just nerves.
Nothing prepares you for being out in front of crowds and it’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, no matter how long I’m a professional.
I wish it had been you.
Miranda’s words repeat when I’m under the shower spray in the locker room, head tipped back, hot water sluicing over my entire body, dirt and grime disappearing down the drain at my feet. My eyes open to stare at the tiled ceiling of the shower room then close and I turn my back to wash the shampoo from my hair.
Women. I will never understand what they want from me especially when they don’t seem to want my money. Buying a card from Miranda is one thing; I get it—she has something I want. Being used because I’m famous is entirely different.
I shut the water off and reach for the towel on a nearby hook, wipe it down my legs, arms, and torso then wrap it around my waist. Stroll to my locker and root through my duffle for a clean t-shirt.
Sniff it.
It might be clean, but it smells like gym bag, so it looks like I’ll be going straight home and not to the grocery store; I cannot go out in public reeking of moist, dirty socks.
Down on the bench in front of my locker, my cell screen lights up, catching my eye, and I glance down at it while I pull on a pair of mesh shorts.
Miranda. And the text preview reads: Yes. I think that would…
Huh?
Yes she thinks that would what?
I snatch the phone and tap in the password to unlock it, quickly tapping the messages open.
Miranda: Yes. I think that would be fun.
My eyes wander, tracking farther up into the conversation, then damn near bug out of my sockets.
Apparently, five minutes ago, I texted her and asked her on an actual date.
And she said yes, in an exchange that went like this:
Me: This is gonna sound super rando, but I was wondering if I could take you out?
Miranda: Take me out?
Me: Yeah like on a date or something.
Miranda: Or something? Ha ha.
Me: I’ll be cool, no worries.
Miranda: Well if you’re going to be cool, how could I say no?
Me: So you’re saying what exactly?
Miranda: Yes. I think that would be fun.
Horrifying words and grammar stick out at me: Super rando? I’ll be cool? Or something?
What.
The.
Fuck.
Who talks like that!
God I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Please God, just do it—I cannot talk to her again or look her in the eyes knowing she thinks I would say stupid shit like this.
Fucking embarrassing.
I hold up my phone and thrust it out toward the rest of the locker room, daring someone to take ownership of the texting conversation with Miranda. “Who the fuck went into my phone and…” I swallow, unable to finish the sentence.
Wallace raises his hand. “Yeah, that was me. I did it while you were in the shower.” His tone is bored.
“What the actual fuck!”
“It was just sitting here.” He’s tying his shoes, one leg up on the bench, casually ignoring the anger in my voice.
“This is password protected!”
“Yeah, well, find a new password—your old one sucks donkey balls.” He raises his arm and gives Espinoza a high five. “I guessed it on the first try. Boom goes the dynamite!”
He makes his fist explode.
Remember all those nice things I said earlier about him having my back? I retract all of it because this feels as if he’s just stuck a knife in and twisted it.
“How the hell did you know my password?”
“Are you being serious?” He sighs, exhausted by me. “You’re not supposed to use house numbers as a password, dipshit. Everyone knows that.”
You’re not?
They do?
Shit. “That’s not the point dude. You can’t just break into a person’s phone and…and…” I can’t even talk I’m so pissed.
“And what? Do you a favor?”
Yes!
“You asked out a girl for me—one I had no intention of asking out!”
“You’re welcome!” He glances over now, standing, brows raised.
“That was not me thanking you!”
The entire team looks amused, watching and smirking dressing while Wallace and I bicker like an old married couple.
“What did she say, Baseman?” someone asks from the other side of the