by Sara Ney
I would be jealous, though, if she were gushing all over him. Or if, God forbid, she’d taken him up on his offer to go out—or, in this case, to go down on him. Fucking Buzz. Where the hell was he raised? In a barn? Didn’t his mother teach him any manners?
Wallace is exactly the kind of dude who gives student athletes a bad name. Spoiled. Good-looking. Cocky. We didn’t go to the same college—he went to Florida State and I was on the East Coast—but we’d play a few games against each other each year, both entered the draft at the same time, both signed similar contracts.
My contract earns me more than his—10 million bucks more, to be exact—and I smirk, spine a bit straighter.
The weird thing is, Wallace isn’t competitive when it comes to his friends. Shocking, I know, but he isn’t bothered by the fact that his agent didn’t get him more money. Isn’t bothered by the fact that I have a bigger house. Doesn’t hassle me about my truck.
He just wants to hang out.
It’s fucking strange, a guy with his ego not trying to one-up everyone.
One bonus point for him.
My phone pings while I stand here overthinking things.
Miranda: Hey, you still there? Are you calling or no? It’s cool if you can’t—I have work stuff to go do.
My palms are sweaty and I wipe them off, almost nervously. Swipe a hand through my shaggy hair as if I’m about to take a video call.
I click through her contact until it begins ringing, chest thumping. Crap, I don’t remember the last time I called a woman if you don’t include my mom—and I don’t.
Don’t pick up, don’t pick up, don’t pick up.
She picks up.
“Hello?” The salutation is hesitant at best, despite the fact that she knew I was calling. “This is Miranda.”
So businessy and professional.
“Hey. It’s Noah.” Even to my own ears, I sound unsure and insecure, and I groan.
“Noah?” Miranda hesitates again, baffled. “Noah who?”
Dammit, that’s right—she thinks my name is Buzz, because that’s what I told her to call me.
I roll my eyes at the absurdity of this entire situation: the texts, me sending someone else to get the card, him pretending to be me, her thinking he’s scum, me apprehensively calling her to confess.
And I will.
Eventually…
“Uh, the guy who just bought your Hank Archer card?” Why do I sound so bloody nervous? I do press conferences in front of entire press corps, for Christ’s sake—I can handle a phone call with a cute girl.
You don’t know she’s cute, dipshit—you’re just assuming she is because Wallace wouldn’t hit on her if she wasn’t, regardless of whether or not she was his type. I’ve seen him in action, and I’ve seen him make plenty of passes at women who weren’t attractive. He’s never hit on anyone who wasn’t, so Miranda must be pretty.
“Your name is Noah?”
“Yes.” I’m smiling stupidly, now standing at my kitchen counter, clicking a solid gold fountain pen cap nervously. It has my initials engraved on it, a gift from my agent when I signed my contract.
Click.
Click, click.
Stop it, Noah—you’re fidgeting.
“Noah,” she says again. “So much nicer than Buzz, or Baseman, even though it’s weird that you have more than one nickname.” She laughs, amused and delighted by this new information and I realize Buzz must have used my nickname instead of his. The list of his screwups just keeps getting longer and longer. “Aww, I love your name, Noah. Why do you introduce yourself with a nickname? Buzz and Baseman don’t exactly roll off the tongue.”
It doesn’t, but Noah sure does roll off hers nice and pretty-sounding; I want to hear her say it again.
Why did Wallace have to go and tell her my nickname? Makes me look like a damn idiot. This is the last time I send him to do my errands, I swear.
“How did you get the name Baseman? It’s odd.” Her voice is soft and pleasant, exactly how I would have thought she’d sound. “Wait, don’t tell me—it’s because you go all the way on a first date?” She giggles before continuing. “You look like the type who has sex after knowing someone three minutes.”
Just tell her that wasn’t you.
Do it.
Tell her.
“I…uh.” I clear my throat. “In high school I played baseball.” And in college. Oh, and by the way, I play for the Chicago Steam and am beloved by the entire nation. “They call me Baseman because I could run the bases even if I hadn’t hit a home run, I was that fast.”
“Ahh, I see. That makes sense now. And here I thought it was because you were a total douche.”
A douche.
Ouch.
She thinks I’m a douche because clearly Wallace was acting like one, but dang—for her to come right out and say it? I’m not sure how to respond to her sarcasm, to the disdain lacing her statement.
Take a chill pill, bro. Her disdain isn’t for you—it’s for Buzz. She has no idea who you are.
Because you’re lying to her.
But—I’ve been down this road before. The road where baseball groupies find out who you are, where you live, and pretend to be someone they’re not so you’ll give them the time of day, so you’ll sleep with them. Maybe, if they’re lucky, they get knocked up and pregnant with your kid so you owe them fifteen grand a month or more and they never have to work again.
I connected with Miranda because of baseball cards; it’s not wrong for me to be overly cautious, even throwing my underly cautious buddy to the wolves.
In my mind, though? I have my reasons.
The last thing I need is some groupie meeting up with me, recognizing me, and posting about the encounter on the internet or selling the story to the tabloids: Ballplayer shells out thousands for a collector’s card! Or Bachelor Chicago Steam shortstop will spend dough on ball cards but not on dates!
The media has speculated on my sexuality since I signed with the Steam. I don’t need them knowing my spending habits too. Ironically, Miranda didn’t recognize Wallace on Wednesday, though he’s one of the most photographed athletes of our time.
Which means she must know absolutely nothing about sports because Wallace is as popular as an international celebrity. Teams want to sign him, men want to be him, women want to sink their claws into him.
“Noah? Are you there?”
“Sorry,” I finally say. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
Miranda laughs. “I called you a douche.” She laughs again, amused with herself, confidence radiating.
“Careful—you might hurt my feelings a little.”
Another laugh, the sound musical and sweet, but not at all playful. “No offense, but I doubt anyone could hurt your feelings. In fact, I have a feeling it would take more than little old me calling you a douche to bruise that giant, inflated ego of yours.”
She’s bashing Wallace again, holding nothing back—apparently not afraid to lose the sale of her baseball cards.
Cheeky shit.
“What makes you say I have an inflated ego?”
I dread anything she’s about to tell me.
This time when Miranda laughs, it’s not soft and sweet. This laugh is entirely different, sardonic almost, borderline manic. “Are you being serious right now? Are you trying to pretend you’re not the biggest narcissist in the Northern Hemisphere?”
I listen as that laugh turns back into a giggle then a snort. It takes a good solid minute before she’s composed enough to say, “Listen, Noah—I’m sure you’re a really nice guy.” She does not for one second think Buzz is a really nice guy. “And I won’t lie and say I didn’t enjoy texting you before we met—because I did. I have, but today was just… It actually felt like you were two different people.”
“Two different people?”
“Yes. You’re so nice right now, being kind of cute, and you’re fun to chat with, but man—I don’t know what that was today. It just made me rethink t
he whole card collection. I know beggars can’t be choosers and there’s a chance someone else won’t buy the entirety, but I don’t know if my next buyer should be you.”
“Was I that bad?” I mean, come on.
Miranda inhales and lets out a frustrated breath. “I just thought it was rude how you offered to let me have my way with you, or give you a blowie—whatever you were pretending not to say like boys did in middle school. Come on—does that shit work on a grown woman?” She snorts again. “Because if we hadn’t been in the parking lot of the police station, I would have felt violated.”
“I’m sorry—could you repeat that?” Did she just say I offered to let her have her way with me? Did she say blowie? Goddammit, I’m so confused right now.
“You don’t remember?”
“I…”
Yes—I don’t remember! NO—I DIDN’T ACTUALLY EXPERIENCE IT. BECAUSE THAT WAS NOT ME.
“I—uh…” I fumble for a lie. “Forgot to take my meds.”
Anddd I just made it worse. I roll my eyes heavenward, each word leaving my mouth compounding the problem, making it a thousand times worse.
“You asked what I was doing later then asked if I wanted beer, wine—or a blowie. Or not, because then you denied it. Juvenile and immature.”
I’m officially embarrassed on Wallace’s behalf. I might not know shit about women, but I know enough not to say shit like that.
“I said what?” I shout it loud enough that the neighbors probably heard. “Jeez, he really actually did hit on you…” I mutter.
“Huh?” She pauses. “You’re not making any sense. Are you high? What medications are you on?”
None. Well, some, mostly for joint swelling, anti-inflammatories—those kinds of meds.
I groan into the phone, raking my fingers through the mop on my head, wishing I had a ball cap on. “Never mind. Let’s just talk about the rest of your cards.”
Miranda is quiet for a second. “You know what? Why don’t I just text you when I know what I want to do, okay? Plus, it’ll all be in writing. Yeah?”
This whole call has become a shitshow, leaving me no choice but to agree. “Sure.”
I don’t want to hear any more about her run-in with my friend. The pit in my stomach can’t get any tighter; the bile in my throat can’t get any more bitter.
“Great. Then I guess for now, just…you know. Wait to hear from me, ’kay?”
No, it’s not okay, but what the hell can I do about it? Nothing. “Sure, that works.”
“Super. Well…” Miranda clears her throat. “Have fun with the Hank Archer card. And again, I really, really appreciate the cash. Really.”
I am really, really going to kill. Buzz. Wallace.
Really.
4
Noah
I’m waiting in the kitchen when Wallace returns from his romp around my neighborhood, no doubt collecting phone numbers from all the desperate housewives. Some are married to professional athletes themselves, but they’re bored and lonely and looking for uncomplicated sex. And attention.
I would know because during one of the few times I’ve jogged through the subdivision with Wallace beside me, I watched Carole Dubois—wife of linebacker Karl—coyly commandeer his phone and enter her number. Another time, I watched Suzanne Draper pat his ass and bite her lip—in front of her teenage daughter while they were walking, while I was standing right there.
Unfuckingbelievable.
The audacity.
It’s one thing at a bar; it’s another in broad daylight on a residential street.
I’m fuming when he walks in, my hands braced on the marble countertop, expression so contorted he stops in his tracks when he sees me, immediately pulling the headphones off his head.
“Dude, what’s wrong?”
“You tell me.”
He looks around, at a disadvantage. “Help me out, bro—did something happen?”
“I just talked to Miranda—the girl you met today? For the card? Fuck you very much, Wallace—she doesn’t want to sell me another one.” Well, she might, just maybe not the entire collection. Have to wait and see.
“What? Why?”
“Because, dude! You freaked her out! She hates me now.” Sure, I’m being a little overdramatic, but dramatic is how I’m feeling with no desire to rein it in. My friend might have my back when it counts, but he sure did shit in my cereal bowl today. Took a big dump in it and didn’t bother cleaning it up.
“Wait—are you saying she’s butthurt because I put the moves on her?” His brows are raised, as if he’s genuinely perplexed by the notion that a woman might possibly react in an adverse way.
Stereotypical spoiled jock.
“Put the moves on her?” I move, jerking open the fridge and staring inside. I’m not confrontational, but I want to punch him in his arrogant face, so instead, I stare at the glowing shelves of my Sub-Zero, seething. “Sounded more like you propositioned a hooker at a truck stop.”
“Huh?” He has no idea what I’m talking about.
I slam the fridge shut, stalking back over to the counter, a caged tiger with nowhere to go.
“She told me you implied she could suck your cock.”
Wallace doesn’t even blink. “I might have made a joke about blowing, but it was just a joke.”
“Who the fuck makes jokes about that to a stranger?” Oh, that’s right—he does. “Well newsflash, fucker, she doesn’t want to sell me the rest of her card collection because you creeped her out. She has morals, apparently, and doesn’t want her grandfather’s legacy belonging to a total pervert.”
“Morals.” He considers this, thinking hard. “Oh, you mean her moral compass won’t let her sell you the cards based on principle, not because she doesn’t still need the money.”
What kind of idiot savant am I dealing with here? Christ almighty, this guy. While all other concepts seem foreign to him, he latches onto this one immediately.
“I get it. And I’m sorry—my bad.” Funny thing is, he does genuinely look apologetic. “What are you going to do?”
“Uh, excuse me? What am I going to do?” My eyes bore holes into his skull. “Don’t you mean what are you going to do? You got me into this mess—you get me out of it.”
“Hey man, I was doing you a favor—you’re the one who didn’t want to go, which makes no fucking sense. If you want something done right, do it yourself. I’m not your errand boy.”
He doesn’t get it. He’s a fucking god among mere mortals; they all fall at his feet. Everyone else disappears when Buzz Wallace waltzes into the room, myself included.
“Please. If I can arrange it, will you just help me out one more time? If I can smooth it over and get her to sell me another card?”
I have the card I want, but now it’s a matter of principle—just like he said before—and I won’t let this rest until the entire collection is mine. Even if I have to beg. Even if…
“Fine, but then that’s it. Fight your own battles and stop being a pussy about it.” Buzz cocks his head and considers me. “Why didn’t you want to meet her to get the card, anyway? What’s the big deal?”
I’m not explaining it to him—he wouldn’t get it. I also don’t want to listen to him riding my ass or making fun of me, which he absolutely would do if I told him I didn’t want to meet Miranda because I was developing a weird, anonymous crush on her. I didn’t want to meet her because I didn’t want to feel the crushing blow of rejection.
All this over someone I haven’t met.
And now it’s likely I never will, because Wallace has to go finish the job he screwed up.
“It’s not a big deal, but she’s already met you and then I don’t have to explain.”
“Real mature, Harding. Women love being lied to.” He pauses. “Not.”
“Right. They just love being molested in parking lots instead.”
His hands go up defensively. “Hey, I didn’t touch her! It was just words—no harm, no foul.”
“The p
olice station parking lot isn’t a nightclub, dipshit.”
He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on my counter, bites, and chews. “Speaking of nightclubs, we’re going out on Saturday.”
“No we’re not.”
“Yeah we are. Davis from the Blues invested in that club downtown and he wants us to come see it, so we’re going.” He begins walking to the mudroom, exiting stage left.
Grant Davis is a linebacker for the Chicago Blues football team and a friend of ours. Young, hungry, and a great goddamn guy, he wouldn’t understand why I wasn’t at his club, especially if they’re all there celebrating.
Baseman couldn’t come—he’s at home, jerking off alone is what I imagine my other buddies would tell him.
Shit. Looks like I’m going out Saturday.
Me: I know you said you would contact me, but I cannot stop thinking about this situation and feel fucking terrible about it. I’m sorry I crossed a boundary.
Miranda: Apology accepted, I guess.
Miranda: Is this you trying to weasel your way back into my good graces so I don’t sell the cards out from under you?
Me: Um. No? I’m not like that.
Miranda: SURE you’re not.
Me: I’m being sincere. I really feel like a dick about Wednesday, but I can’t do it over—all I can do is tell you it won’t happen again.
Miranda: Won’t happen again? So what you’re saying is, we’re going to meet and it will be nothing but business, the way it should have been to begin with?
Me: If you would reconsider selling me your collection, yes—I would be on my best behavior. You should even bring a friend.
Miranda: I don’t need a bodyguard, but thanks.
Me: Please consider it. I’ll give you whatever you want.
Miranda: I’m going to be honest here—I really do not want to sell them all to you, but maybe we could start with another one, JUST ONE MORE, and see how that goes. I need the money, but not to the point where I’m willing to sell my soul.
Me: I understand.
Miranda: Alright then. We have a deal to negotiate for one more card. Just. One.