The Problem with Sports - M.E. Clayton Page 0,4

department, but he still hated that Monroe had moved on with a younger guy, no matter that it had been Thomas who had divorced Monroe. We didn’t like the man on principle, and until Sayer said differently, that wasn’t going to change.

The only problem with Sayer marrying Monroe was that it had put ideas in Mom’s head. She had stink-eyed me and Gideon damn near throughout their entire wedding. Luckily, it had been a small and tasteful wedding, so Mom’s crazy behavior hadn’t ended up as an internet clip. But one thing was for sure; if I ever get married, Jake, Sayer’s friend and fellow firefighter, was definitely planning my wedding.

And back to retirement being the right call, I knew I was fortunate to have retired when I did. No matter the sport, injury was a motherfucker. And if you were never outright injured, the wear and tear on your body was no joke. We got paid a shitload of money for what we did, but fans only got to see the excitement of the game. They weren’t privy to the after-game moments where players were limping off the field, or in the locker rooms, icing down their knees or shoulders. They weren’t privy to the pre-game physical exams, where players were being shot full of cortisone injections or having their ribs taped up like goddamn mummies, just to be able to play. Yeah, we were the ones who chose a career in sports, but that didn’t mean we didn’t earn our money.

I retired because I wanted to enjoy the rest of my life. I didn’t want my golden years plagued with aches and pains beyond the normal ones that came with age. I didn’t want to undergo a million surgeries for my shoulder because I hadn’t been smart enough not to stop when I should have had. And being the shortstop for the California Condors for the past ten years, my body had seriously started to feel those self-inflicted aches and pains.

As for women, I had fallen into that paranoid trap of not knowing if a woman liked me for me, or for my wallet. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve enjoyed my fair share of females throughout my career, but the obvious gold-diggers and team sluts had left a bad taste in my mouth. I hadn’t been a saint by any means, but witnessing the relentlessness of some of the fairer sex and watching fellow athletes cheat on their wives or get trapped by an unwanted pregnancy had gone a long way to making sure I paid special attention to where I stuck my dick.

And never without a condom.

Never.

My thoughts were cut short when my phone rang. Still appreciating the view my penthouse afforded me, I pulled it from my back pocket. Looking down, I grinned at the name flashing across the screen. “What’s up?” I answered.

“I was going to text you, but I thought this warranted a phone call,” Sayer replied, foregoing any sort of greeting.

“And why’s that?”

“Leta’s history class is covering political reporting, and they have to do a project where they pretend to be investigative journalist,” he explained. “I’m calling to warn you that Leta’s going to call you and interview you for all the R-rated shit that goes down on the road with professional sports teams.”

“What does playing sports have to do with investigative journalism for history?” No fucking way was I going to tell my niece the shit that goes on once the lights go off in the stadium.

“The students were able to choose their specific topic in history, and Leta chose sports and is doing a project on how sports have shaped history and how history has shaped sports,” he replied. “I think Monroe may have influenced her choice.” Sayer’s wife was a sports freak. She didn’t need to get fitted for a straitjacket just yet, but the woman loved her sports.

The traitor has also proclaimed the Dodgers as her favorite baseball team.

“And what’s that got to do with threesomes after a game win?”

Sayer chuckled. “She’s fifteen. She knows sex sells.”

Fucking Reality T.V.

“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” I told him. “I’ll be sure to make sure she keeps things G-rated.”

“Thanks, man,” he said. “Shit. I gotta go. They’re looking for me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m hiding in the closet. Bye.”

I stared at my phone and wondered how it came to be that my brother-my oldest brother-was scared of a fifteen-year-old girl.

My phone rang in my hand again, and this time it was Gideon. “What’s