pregnancies. Also, she’s barely recognizable after all the surgery she’s had on her body and face.
That woman costs him hundreds of thousands of dollars a year—and I’m not in the market for my own Keely Stevens.
Me: That’s awesome!
Seriously, it is, but now I’m stumped on what else to say.
Miranda Baseball Cards: The whole thought of taking this giant risk makes me want to throw up, ya know? But if I don’t do it, I’ll hate myself. I would make THE WORST employee!
I remember the first time I stepped onto the baseball field at Field Park Stadium, surrounded by all the seats, bleachers, and box suites. The lights. The scoreboard. It was like nothing I’d ever seen and I threw up on home plate in front of my new coach and the team owner.
80 million dollars and he pukes on the plate.
“Good job, kid,” Coach said, slapping me on the back and walking away. He left me to my own devices and the custodian arrived to clean up my mess. Asked for an autograph.
I know all about nerves and being scared; I’ve lived it. I live it every time I step onto that field and the sensation of being on it never gets old, whether I’m playing or practicing.
Me: How so?
Miranda Baseball Cards: I would definitely be fired for insubordination and not following the rules by the end of day one. Day three if I’m lucky, ha ha.
Me: I’ll have to take your word for it.
“Hey dipshit, are you making love to that phone or what? Grimm just texted me—he and Dexter are on their way over.”
Me: We’ll talk more this week about the cards and plan for Wednesday?
Miranda Baseball Cards: That sounds great. Thanks again—you’re going to love this card, it really is in GREAT shape. My grandpa never took it out of its case.
They rarely did.
Which is good news for me.
Me: Sweet.
I set the phone down, ignoring it when it pings again with a new notification, knowing it’s Miranda. If I don’t stop messaging her, Wallace will ride my ass about it because he isn’t getting enough attention.
That dude is an attention and fame whore.
I think that’s one of the reasons he likes hanging out with me; I let him have the spotlight when we’re out in public, shying away from it for myself when I can. Although, the two of us being out together creates more unwanted attention than not. Christ, can’t a guy just eat dinner without it becoming a big fucking deal?
I can skate by unnoticed if I’m alone: baseball cap down low, sunglasses, baggy sweats, and layers.
When I’m with him?
Jesus, he’s like a walking, talking billboard for douchebaggery that cannot be ignored. By anyone. Paparazzi, fans. Women, men. Teenagers who are fans of the sport or the team. Dude cannot get e-damn-nough.
He’s right though; our friends start to arrive, filling my kitchen and living room, flopping onto furniture. Feet up. Beers poured.
A few of them stand at the kitchen counter with me, shooting the shit, talking about their kids and families, women they’re dating or sleeping with.
Fucking is more like it, but still, it’s more action than I see.
“Wallace was telling us you have a hard on for some baseball card,” Kurt Kleinman is saying, snapping a celery stick in half and dipping it in dill. “Which one is it?”
“Hank Archer,” I say, popping a few veggies into my own mouth. “It’s mint.”
“You ain’t seen it—how the hell you know it’s mint?”
Kleinman is from the Deep South and his grammar drives me insane.
“I’ve seen pictures.”
“Are you fucking serious? Boy, haven’t you heard of Photoshop? Shit, half the women I meet look nothin’ like their pictures online. It’s all fake.”
Fake, fake—that’s what Wallace was saying.
I swallow hard, shrugging. “Guess I’ll find out on Wednesday.”
Well, Wallace will when he meets Miranda and gets the card for me; he just doesn’t know it yet. Shouldn’t be tough to convince him—he rarely needs much encouragement when there’s the chance to meet a chick.
“Who’s selling you this card, some old fart who needs a fat paycheck?”
“Nah. It’s some young entrepreneur. She inherited them from her grandpa when he died.”
Kleinman snorts. “See, that’s fucked up—people will do anything for a fast buck. Ain’t she heard of family heirlooms? Or legacies?”
The good old boys are far more sentimental than I give them credit for.
“What is a girl going to do with a box full of old baseball cards? They aren’t doing her any good in the closet.”
“What if her son wants ’em?